Because I’d been wrong. I hadn’t met every type of man Idaho had to offer. And Joshua Avery was proof.
My gaze gravitated toward the half window in my classroom door more times than I cared to admit, straining to catch a glimpse of the sub across the hall. How did someone so outrageously opposite of Mrs. Walker—or Charlotte, as he’d so casually referred to her—land a teaching job in her fortress of a classroom? Had someone in the office rebelled against her wishes? Was Joshua Avery a prank sent by the school district?
Try as I might, I simply could not make sense of the situation. In this case, one plus one did not equal two. It equaled a grown man who ate staplers through his T-shirt for the amusement of children.
“Miss Bailey?” Noah Lawler’s fingers wiggled in the air like worms on the end of a fishing line. “Can I get the class book bag ready? It’s my turn today.”
My attention snapped from the window to the clock above the door. Three minutes until library.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Noah. All right, my little firsties,” I said, addressing the room with a double clap. “Please close your folders and line up next to your buddy against the wall. We’re headed to library time with Mrs. Dalton.”
One by one my students closed their writing booklets as Noah practically galloped to unhook our class book bag from the hanger. Tucked inside the bag were the books we’d read together last week in Red Rover’s Reading Corner. The job of bag carrier was a coveted one, which likely explained why little Caitlyn Parker’s expression had morphed into a cartoonish pout. I signaled Tabitha, our line leader, to lead us onward and tapped my finger to my lips.
After the majority of my students had snaked into the hall like a slow-moving train, I took up the caboose with Caitlyn and offered her my hand. It was amazing how quickly a sour mood on a child could turn around when given a little extra attention. And with Caitlyn’s mommy nearing the end of her third trimester with baby number four, extra attention was understandably more difficult for Caitlyn to come by at home these days.
I squeezed her hand after passing the computer lab and cafeteria. “So I was thinking I might need an extra helper to select a special book about Thanksgiving for our reading time this week. Would you mind checking one out for our classroom?”
Caitlyn’s watery blue eyes blinked up at me. “Really, can I?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll tell Noah you’ll be adding a book to the bag today.”
“Thanks, Miss B.” Her smile warmed the center of my chest as I moved to the front of the line to give another reminder to keep our lips still upon entering the library.
The instant I pulled the bulky door open, I saw him. Dinosaur man. Only this time he wasn’t crouching on top of a desk, he was reaching for a book at the top of a display shelf. He handed the nonfiction hardback with a basketball on the cover to a boy with a cast on his arm. “Here you go, champ.”
I blinked my attention back to my students as they filed into the large space, waving at their fellow first graders enthusiastically. The sub shot me a conversational smile and strode toward me as if we were old acquaintances who’d had longer than a three-minute interaction.
“Hello again, Miss Bailey.”
“Hello,” I replied, working to mask my face into something other than the stupefaction I’d worn during our first meeting.
“I’ve just heard a rumor about you. Though, technically, I don’t think it can still be called a rumor when I heard it from twenty-six highly reputable sources.” His grin intensified. “Do you really have balance boards and yoga balls in place of chairs in your classroom?” he asked in a voice that was in no way library-friendly.
My lips twitched. “Your sources are correct.”
“Incredible. I’ve heard of teachers shifting around their classrooms to promote better learning, but I haven’t met many in person. How has it been for your students?”
“Honestly, it’s been a total game-changer as far as their attention and focus goes, especially for my more sensory-seeking kids. I’m fortunate to work in a district that supports private donations and unconventional ideas.”
“Unconventional ideas are often the best ideas. If more teachers were willing to step out of the box and take creative liberties within their classroom, I believe today’s educational system could look vastly different.”
From the kindness in his tone, I knew his statement was meant to be complimentary, but the issue he addressed shouldn’t be so easily simplified. “Taking some creative liberties in the classroom definitely plays a part in bettering our educational system, but more often than not, a teacher’s limitations usually begin and end with the level of support they receive from their administrating staff. Brighton isn’t a wealthy school by any standard, but we’re blessed with some open minds who are willing to listen to the real needs of our students. In my opinion, that’s worth far more than a donation for an alternative seating method.”
“Wow.” The corner of his eyes crinkled appreciatively. “I can see why you were awarded a donation for your classroom. If I ever need to write a grant someday, I know who to come to.”
My face heated under his scrutiny, and I could only imagine the deepening shade of crimson that splotched my neck and cheeks. My classic Scandinavian skin left little to the imagination, like a permanent mood ring I couldn’t take off or even tan away. My father had never been one for handing out life advice when I was growing up, but he told me once that a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl with skin as fair as mine should stay clear from any vocations that made a profit by omitting truth. When I asked him why, he simply said, “Because lies don’t keep under skin as pale as yours.”
“Although,” the sub continued unabashedly, “take it from me, there are a few six-year-olds just across the hall from your classroom who could use some writing pointers, too.”
“What?” I asked, thoroughly confused by his abrupt change in topic.
“The get-well-soon cards for Charlotte. Great idea, but I had to censor a few of my reactions while they dictated their messages to me.”
I turned to face him fully. “Their messages to Mrs. Walker, you mean?”
“Oh yeah.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “One of them offered to loan Charlotte the rusty walker in her family’s garage—the one that didn’t sell in their annual yard sale. Another one asked if he could draw a robotic joint on her hip cast so she’d look more like a superhero. But my favorite one . . .” His pause focused my attention on his mouth. “Was regarding her undergarments.”
“What? No way!” Three of my students who were being helped by Mrs. Dalton, Brighton’s resident librarian of more than twenty years, spun to look at me from four aisles over. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Oops.
“Yes way,” he said teasingly. “One Miss Aurora Brown mentioned how her great-grandmother had to wear special underwear for old people, kind of like her baby brother’s pull-ups, but way bigger and way squishier.”
A burst of giggles slipped through my lips.
“Exactly,” he said through a full grin. “Now imagine if that same darling child drew a picture to match.”