of one more set of eyes, but that was it. I wet my lips, found the proper position of tongue against teeth, and gave an earsplitting whistle.
The kids talking to friends whipped around to face me. The kids already facing me put their feet flat on the floor and their hands in their laps. Even the loyal carpooling moms chatting in the back of the room sat up straight.
All fell silent.
I smiled at everyone. “Thank you. That’s much better.” Whistling girls and crowing hens may always come to some bad ends, but I’d found the judicious use of a loud whistle a valuable tool. “In a few minutes, Mrs. Judy will be here to take everyone to meet their story partners. Are you ready?”
Some kids shrugged, some nodded, some stared at me.
So, not ready. Using my finely tuned Mom Senses, I deduced that they were scared. Reasonable—this was a big new thing. Clearly, I had to take away some of that fear if this project was going to get a good start.
How, was the question. A nice rousing fight song would be excellent, but Tarver Elementary didn’t have a fight song. If I’d had a decent memory, I might have sung “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” but the only song I could reliably recall from beginning to end was the theme to
Gilligan’s Island
, and that wasn’t exactly a song of inspiration.
“Mrs. Kennedy?” Sydney, a girl with long dark blond hair, stuck up her hand. “What if, well, like, our story partner, um, falls asleep while we’re in there?”
I smiled at her, trying to ooze a contagious confidence. “You’ll have either a mother or a nurse’s aide with you. If your partner falls asleep, just ask in a quiet whisper what you should do.”
Sydney squirmed in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “But what . . . ?” She hunched down in her chair. “What if . . . well, you know.”
I had no idea what was bothering the girl. I glanced around at the other kids, and nearly all of them were wriggling as if every inch of their skin suddenly needed scratching. I looked at Oliver, but he was busy knocking his shoes together. What on earth . . .
Then, suddenly, I understood.
“None of your partners,” I said firmly, “is going to die any time soon.”
Sydney, whose long hair had come out from behind her ears to cover her face, looked at me between the loose strands. “They won’t?”
Suddenly all the children were giving me their full attention. Bingo! Three cheers for Beth, who was at last understanding the common fear uniting these kids.
“No,” I said to the children in front of me. “Each of your partners is perfectly healthy.”
Sydney’s intelligent face started taking on a questioning cast. She started raising her hand.
“They need help, sometimes,” I added hurriedly. “After all, they’re at Sunny Rest for a reason.” As in, duh. “But none are in danger of dying any time soon.” Or so I fervently hoped.
“That’s right.” The activities director, Judy Schultz, stood in the doorway, her stocky softball-player frame filling it nicely. She grinned at the kids. “No dying allowed for the next six months. It’s not on the schedule.”
Sydney nodded seriously. “Thank you.”
Problem number one solved. Onward and upward. I flapped the sheaf of papers. “Does everyone have their notebooks? Hold them up, please.” Twenty-four kids held up PTA-purchased spiral notebooks.
Oliver sat on his hands and looked glum. Poor Oliver. The school had decided that story project students shouldn’t be any younger than nine. At eight, Oliver hadn’t made the cut, but he’d wanted to come along, “Just to watch,” he’d pleaded. I’d let him, but twenty minutes in, I was questioning my decision.
I handed one paper, a list of questions to ask the residents, to each child. “Does everyone remember the name of their resident? Sienna?”
“Um, Mrs. Parker, I think.”
“That’s right. Sydney?”
“Mrs. Burgoff.”
I checked the names against my own list, ticking off each one.
The kids talking to friends whipped around to face me. The kids already facing me put their feet flat on the floor and their hands in their laps. Even the loyal carpooling moms chatting in the back of the room sat up straight.
All fell silent.
I smiled at everyone. “Thank you. That’s much better.” Whistling girls and crowing hens may always come to some bad ends, but I’d found the judicious use of a loud whistle a valuable tool. “In a few minutes, Mrs. Judy will be here to take everyone to meet their story partners. Are you ready?”
Some kids shrugged, some nodded, some stared at me.
So, not ready. Using my finely tuned Mom Senses, I deduced that they were scared. Reasonable—this was a big new thing. Clearly, I had to take away some of that fear if this project was going to get a good start.
How, was the question. A nice rousing fight song would be excellent, but Tarver Elementary didn’t have a fight song. If I’d had a decent memory, I might have sung “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” but the only song I could reliably recall from beginning to end was the theme to
Gilligan’s Island
, and that wasn’t exactly a song of inspiration.
“Mrs. Kennedy?” Sydney, a girl with long dark blond hair, stuck up her hand. “What if, well, like, our story partner, um, falls asleep while we’re in there?”
I smiled at her, trying to ooze a contagious confidence. “You’ll have either a mother or a nurse’s aide with you. If your partner falls asleep, just ask in a quiet whisper what you should do.”
Sydney squirmed in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “But what . . . ?” She hunched down in her chair. “What if . . . well, you know.”
I had no idea what was bothering the girl. I glanced around at the other kids, and nearly all of them were wriggling as if every inch of their skin suddenly needed scratching. I looked at Oliver, but he was busy knocking his shoes together. What on earth . . .
Then, suddenly, I understood.
“None of your partners,” I said firmly, “is going to die any time soon.”
Sydney, whose long hair had come out from behind her ears to cover her face, looked at me between the loose strands. “They won’t?”
Suddenly all the children were giving me their full attention. Bingo! Three cheers for Beth, who was at last understanding the common fear uniting these kids.
“No,” I said to the children in front of me. “Each of your partners is perfectly healthy.”
Sydney’s intelligent face started taking on a questioning cast. She started raising her hand.
“They need help, sometimes,” I added hurriedly. “After all, they’re at Sunny Rest for a reason.” As in, duh. “But none are in danger of dying any time soon.” Or so I fervently hoped.
“That’s right.” The activities director, Judy Schultz, stood in the doorway, her stocky softball-player frame filling it nicely. She grinned at the kids. “No dying allowed for the next six months. It’s not on the schedule.”
Sydney nodded seriously. “Thank you.”
Problem number one solved. Onward and upward. I flapped the sheaf of papers. “Does everyone have their notebooks? Hold them up, please.” Twenty-four kids held up PTA-purchased spiral notebooks.
Oliver sat on his hands and looked glum. Poor Oliver. The school had decided that story project students shouldn’t be any younger than nine. At eight, Oliver hadn’t made the cut, but he’d wanted to come along, “Just to watch,” he’d pleaded. I’d let him, but twenty minutes in, I was questioning my decision.
I handed one paper, a list of questions to ask the residents, to each child. “Does everyone remember the name of their resident? Sienna?”
“Um, Mrs. Parker, I think.”
“That’s right. Sydney?”
“Mrs. Burgoff.”
I checked the names against my own list, ticking off each one.
Similar Books
