50.
Parent reading was done outside in the playground. Today Jane was in Turtle Corner, named because of the giant concrete turtle sitting in the middle of a sandy play area. There was room for an adult and a child to sit comfortably together on the turtle’s neck, and Miss Barnes had provided two cushions and a blanket to put across their knees.
Jane loved listening to the children read: watching them frown as they sounded out a word, their triumphant expressions when they untangled the syllables, their sudden bursts of laughter over the story and their random, off-beat observations about the story. Sitting on a turtle with the sun on her face, the sand at her feet and the sea glittering on the horizon made her feel as if she were on holiday. Pirriwee Public was a magical little school, almost a dream school, and the thought of pulling Ziggy out and having to start again somewhere else without a Turtle Corner or a Miss Barnes filled her with regret and resentment.
“Beautiful reading, Max!” she said, double-checking as she did that it was indeed Max and not Josh who had just finished reading Monkey’s Birthday Surprise. Madeline had told her that the trick to differentiating Celeste’s boys was to look for the strawberry-shaped birthmark on Max’s forehead. “I think to myself, Marked Max,” said Madeline.
“You used great expression, Max,” said Jane, although she wasn’t sure that he had. The parents had been told to try to find something specific to compliment after each child read.
“Yep,” said Max coolly. He slid off the turtle’s neck and sat down cross-legged on the sand and began digging.
“Max,” said Jane.
Max sighed theatrically, sprang to his feet and suddenly ran back toward his classroom, his arms and legs pumping comically, like a cartoon character running for his life. The twins both ran faster than Jane would have thought possible for five-year-olds.
Jane checked his name off her list and looked up to see who Miss Barnes was sending out next. It was Amabella. Max nearly collided with her as she walked through the playground toward Jane, her curly head lowered, her book in her hand.
“Hi, Amabella!” Jane called out cheerily. Your mother and her friends are petitioning to have Ziggy suspended because they think he’s hurting you, honey! So do you think you could tell me what’s really going on?
She’d become fond of Amabella since she’d been doing the reading this year. She was a quiet little girl with a serious, angelic face, and it was impossible not to like her. She and Jane had had some interesting conversations about the books that they read together.
Of course she would not say a word to Amabella about what was going on with Ziggy. That would be inappropriate. That would be wrong.
Of course she wouldn’t.
Samantha: Don’t get me wrong, I love Miss Barnes, and anyone who spends her days wrangling five-year-olds deserves a medal, but I do think letting Amabella read to Jane that day might not have been the most sensible thing in the world.
Miss Barnes: That was a mistake. I’m human. I make mistakes. It’s called human error. These parents seem to think I’m a machine and they can demand a refund every time a teacher makes a mistake. And look, I don’t want to say anything bad about Jane—but she was in the wrong that day too.
Amabella was reading to Jane from a book about the solar system. It was the highest-level book for kindergarten children, and as usual Amabella read it fluently, with impeccable expression. The only way that Jane felt she could add any value for Amabella was by interrupting and asking her some questions raised by the book, but today Jane was finding it difficult to muster any interest in the solar system. All she could think about was Ziggy.
“What do you think it would be like to live on Mars?” she said finally.
Amabella lifted her head. “It would be impossible because you can’t breathe the atmosphere, there’s too much carbon dioxide and it’s too cold.”
“Right,” said Jane, although she’d actually have to Google it to be sure. It was possible that Amabella was already smarter than she was.
“Also, it would be lonely,” said Amabella after a moment.
Why would a smart little girl like Amabella not say the truth? If it was Ziggy, why wouldn’t she just say it? Why not tell on him? It was so strange. Children were normally such tattletales.
“Sweetheart, you know I’m Ziggy’s mum, right?” she asked.
Amabella nodded in a “duh” sort of a way.
“Has Ziggy been hurting you? Because if he has, I want to know about it, and I promise I will make sure he never ever does anything like that again.”
Amabella’s eyes filled with instant tears. Her bottom lip quivered. She dropped her head.
“Amabella,” said Jane. “Was it Ziggy?”
Amabella said something Jane didn’t catch.
“What’s that?” said Jane.
“It wasn’t . . .” began Amabella, but then her face crumpled. She began to cry in earnest.
“It wasn’t Ziggy?” said Jane, filled with desperate hope. She felt an urge to shake Amabella, to demand the child just say the truth. “Is that what you said, it wasn’t him?”
“Amabella! Amabella, sweetie!” Harper stood at the edge of the sandpit, holding a box of oranges for the canteen. She had a white scarf tied so tightly around her neck, it looked like she was being garroted, an effect enhanced by the fact that her long, droopy face was now purpling with rage. “Whatever is the matter?”
She dumped the box at her feet and walked across the sand to them.
“Amabella!” she said. “What’s going on?”
It was like Jane wasn’t there, or as though she were another child.
“Everything is fine, Harper,” said Jane coldly. She put her arm around Amabella and pointed behind Harper. “Your oranges are going everywhere.” Turtle Corner was at the top of a small slope, and Harper’s box had tipped on one side. A cascade of oranges slid down the playground toward where Stu was listening to another kindergarten child read near the Starfish Wall.
Harper’s eyes stayed fixed on Amabella, ignoring Jane in such a pointed, deliberate way, it was almost laughable, except for the fact that it was also breathtakingly rude.
“Come with me, Amabella.” Harper held out her hand.
Amabella sniffed. Her nose was running into her mouth in that heedless, disgusting way of five-year-olds.
“I am right here, Harper!” said Jane as she pulled a packet of tissues from her jacket pocket. This was infuriating. If she’d had just another minute with Amabella she might have been able to get some information out of her. She held the tissue over Amabella’s nose. “Blow, Amabella.”
Amabella obediently blew. Harper finally looked at Jane. “You have obviously been upsetting her! What have you been saying to her?”
“Nothing!” said Jane furiously, and her guilt over her desire to shake Amabella only made her angrier still. “Why don’t you go collect a few more signatures for your nasty little petition?”
Harper’s voice rose to a shout. “Oh yes, good idea, and leave you here to keep bullying a defenseless little girl! Like mother, like son!”
Jane stood up from the turtle and kicked at the sand with her boot, just barely managing to stop herself from kicking it in Harper’s face. “Don’t you dare talk about my son!”
“Don’t you kick me!” yelled Harper.
“I didn’t kick you!” yelled back Jane, surprising herself with the volume of her voice.
“What on earth . . . ?” It was Stu, dressed in his blue plumber’s overalls, his hands full of the oranges he was rescuing from the playground. The little boy who had been reading with him was standing next to him, an orange in each hand, his eyes saucer-like at the sight of two mothers yelling.
At that moment there was a high-pitched yelp as Carol Quigley, hurrying back from the music room with her spray-and-wipe bottle held aloft, slipped over a stray orange and fell slapstick-style on her bottom.
Carol: I had a very badly bruised tailbone, in fact.