The Kingdom of Childhood by Rebecca Coleman

unsupervised?”
    He blew the dust from a board. “Technically, no.”
    I stepped inside and let the door close behind me. “Well, at least you’ve got your safety glasses on.”
    “I wear contacts. The sawdust would scratch my eyes up if I didn’t.” He pulled the glasses off and added, “You look wiped.”
    His observation surprised me. My experience with teenagers had taught me they possessed an almost aggressive skill for ignoring the emotional states of adults. It was the same way they handled pet messes or dirty dishes: you can’t be held responsible for what you fail to observe.
    “Dr. Beckett and I had a difference of opinion at a faculty meeting,” I explained, probably unwisely.
    His interest was immediate. “Oh, yeah? Over what?”
    I infused my weary voice with a bit of sardonic enthusiasm. “We’re going to have our very first class ring sale.”
    He snickered. “That’s lame.”
    “Do you think so?” Again I was surprised. Normally Waldorf students leaped at the opportunity to take part in the for bidden rituals of the ordinary public high school.
    “Of course. Steiner would not approve.”
    “I thought you and Steiner were butting heads.”
    He offered his abashed grin again, turning a piece of wood over in his hand. “Over me being a crime against nature, yes. Not over anything else.”
    “ Nothing else?”
    He shrugged. “I’ve liked my schools and all that. I’m happy. I’ve got no complaints.”
    I walked around to look at the playhouse. The pile of boards that had been laid out on the floor the day before were now assembled, the corners dovetailed together with smooth, perfect notches. I ran my fingers over the edges and admired the scalloped gingerbread trim laid out on the worktable. The project had all the marks of competence, which was far more than I had expected out of a high school junior. It was certainly better than anything Scott had done in his arts classes the year before.
    “It looks like the project’s coming along well,” I said. “When do you expect to have it done?”
    “A couple weeks. It needs to be finished by the end of the term so I can get a grade. I wanted to do a thatched roof, but Mr. Zigler said it would be a fire hazard.”
    “He has a good point.”
    “I suppose. I like fire, so for me that’s a selling point.”
    I chuckled. “Not if someone’s inside it, though.”
    “I guess not, yeah. But it would make a cool prop for a pillage scene in a play. I bet it would burn like a mother.”
    I indulged him with a wry smile. “So what are you going to do for the roof?”
    “Cover it with acorns. The kindergarten at my old school had one like that. It’ll look cool.”
    “Where are you going to find enough acorns to cover the whole roof?”
    He pointed to a box against the wall. Greg’s All Natural Potato Chips, read the ’60s-style bubble script printed on its side. Acorns filled it to the brim. I asked, “Where did you find all those?”
    “The woods. My mom actually let me take the car for once, so I could collect them. In the service of the higher good.”
    “You’ll have to show me. I could use some of those for a craft project, myself.” I peeked into the playhouse and examined its tight corners, giving it a slight shake to see how well it held. It hardly budged. “The joinery is beautiful. You’re very good with your hands.”
    His grin was lascivious. “That’s what they tell me.”
    Pointedly I ignored his remark. I asked, “How are you getting home?”
    “I told my mom I’d call her when I’m done.”
    “Do you have a cell phone?”
    “No, I’ll call from the front office.”
    I gestured to the windows that looked out on the empty parking lot. “Everybody’s gone.”
    He grimaced. “Well, that could be a problem.”
    “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
    “I guess I’d better take you up on that.”
    I helped him tidy up the room, stacking the playhouse pieces on a shelf and sweeping up the considerable pile of