Land of Make-Believe

Mondays at Christ Church Day Care are bad. Latisha boards my bus in a Big Bird T-shirt and miniskirt. It's the middle of winter and my kids are half-dressed. Mr. T is dressed like Mr. T. George's high waters ride his bare ankles. Savatree's got a vest on over pajama tops. "You forgot your sleeves," I say, and she smiles her crooked smile. Not a single one wears boots. There are three mittens between them. Every Christmas some agency sends us cartons of used clothes, and still Felicia has to dip into the slush fund to buy loaners. Unless it's underwear, we ask for it back. It's wishful thinking, but it doesn't hurt to try. I keep a plastic milk crate of sweatshirts behind my seat for days like these.

"How's everybody doing back there?" I say to the mirror. My morning run is easy. It's still dark and most of the kids go back to sleep. The ones that stay awake stare out the window or play with their fingers until Rowena gets on the bus. Climbing the steps with a Pop Tart in each hand, Rowena looks like a midget sumo wrestler getting into the ring. She sits up front and sings a song to the Pop Tart she's not eating. The rest of the kids stretch their necks to watch.

"Are we gonna get snack?" Mr. T says.

"Rowena, please," I tell the mirror. Usually, I give out tiny boxes of raisins to keep them entertained. The money for little extras comes out of my pocket, and last week my hot water heater went. "Everybody sit tight," I say. "Carmie's got breakfast waiting." I hop on Suicide 7, the quickest route back to the Center every morning except this morning.

Traffic on the arterial is bumper to bumper. Up ahead, red-and-blue lights slice through the fog. The accident's in the eastbound lane, where the flyover crosses 890. One of the kids starts kicking his seat. "My feet's cold," Latisha says. I'm sweating in my parka, but I turn up the heat, and then distract them with a song about ants marching in the rain.

By the fourth chorus, the bottleneck breaks. On the other side of the divider, there's a string of cop cars, and a TV news van, but no accident. A blond reporter is drinking coffee with her camera crew. A half dozen cops are on the shoulder, pointing over the guardrail.

When I pull into the church lot, the second bus is unloaded. I see Carmie with her orange afro and leather bomber hiding behind Pastor Lowell's gray Aries, sneaking a smoke.

The kids rub their eyes and stagger across the lot like zombies. "Gail, you old slowpoke," Carmie says. She hides the hand with the cigarette behind her back and opens the door with the other. "You get held up with that accident?" she says.

"What happened?" I say.

"Some idiot went through the guardrail." She shakes her head like you do when something bad happens that can't be helped and flips her hand to show that the car landed on its roof.

Inside, my kids are tearing up the TV room. Mr. McFeely is giving a tour of a post office, but no one's watching. These kids don't go for Mr. Rogers and his Neighborhood of Make-Believe. They want all-out war. Good against evil. Transformers. He-man. Thundercats. It's all the same and it's all off-limits. They get enough of that junk at home. George's mother thinks nothing of letting him watch R-rated movies on HBO. I know because George, who can't remember that M comes before N, can recite entire scenes from the movie 48 Hours.

There are twelve kids in my class, but four of them come late. Gennifer, Adonis, and Darnell go to Head Start and don't get in until eleven. Marcus usually strolls in around nine, fed and rested, strapped into a backpack of books. Marcus' father is a college professor who drives a Volvo and thinks that sending his son to our day care proves he's a down-to-earth liberal. He's mistaken. Marcus is a bright kid. He needs to be challenged. We're a good center for a non-profit. Clean. Safe. Well-staffed. The entire program is run by women dedicated to a fault. We have to be. No man in his right mind would work for what we make. I'm good at what I do, but I don't have time to cater to Marcus. I've got kids starting kindergarten next fall who can't piece together a simple jigsaw puzzle.

The kids with coats shove them in the cubbies and line up at the sink. I'm wondering where my aide is when Felicia hobbles in. Felicia's my age, but walks with a limp when her gout acts up. The weather brings it on. I won't be surprised if it snows.

"Jessica called in sick again," she says.

"Great," I say. "What's wrong now?"

"She's got that crud going around. I gave Grandma Estelle a ring. She's coming early. Carmie'll get her after breakfast."

The grandmas are the best thing that's happened to this center in years. Three days a week, a white van delivers our volunteers—one for each class. Some of the grandmas do it for the free meals, but not Grandma Estelle. When I'm in a pinch, she's a bigger help than Jessica.

Breakfast should be easy—cold cereal and sliced bananas—but Larry has forgotten how to work a spoon. He's stabbing his Cheerios with the handle, splashing milk all over. "Spider lets me do it this way," he says. Spider is Larry's mother's boyfriend. Felicia says Spider is in and out of jail as often as some folks change their underwear. "That's not how we eat here," I say, and turn the spoon around the right way.

My Monday's are spent fighting bad habits the kids pick up at home. When my daughter, Lisa, was in preschool, it was the other way around. That was seventeen years ago and everything has changed. The neighborhood for one. I live on a street where every other house is boarded over with plywood, with IN CASE OF EMERGENCY stenciled on the door. Had I known that my neighbors would abandon their homes, I might've tried for a house in Woodlawn. Then again, had I known that a boy strung out on Roofies would shoot my daughter in the head for a night's take at a sub shop, I would've left the city completely.

Winter's tough. At least when it's summer, I can take them to the park or let them swim in the plastic turtle pools out back. The kids get buggy when they're stuck indoors. And sick, too. All winter they keep trading the same cold back and forth. They never stay home. Never. Ear infections. Stomach viruses. Pink eye. You name it, they bring it to day care.

By nine-fifteen, half the class is in time-out. I call everybody to the middle of the gym for a game of Duck, Duck, Goose. "C'mon Rowena," I say. "Don't you want to play?"

Rowena grabs her throat like someone who's been poisoned. "My asthma," she says. Rowena doesn't have asthma. I try to keep her active, but she keeps getting bigger and bigger. Felicia's talked to Rowena's grandmother, but the grandmother's big, too, and doesn't see a problem.

After five minutes of Duck, Duck, Goose, I don't want to play either. Larry's running around slapping heads like they're game show buzzers. While I'm trying to remember who hasn't had a turn, Marcus and his father come in. I tag Mercedes and go and say hello.

"Where's Jessica?" Marcus says.

"She's home sick," I say.

Dr. Saeger unzips Marcus and hands me his coat. "Marcus has decided to eat only orange food today. Right, Marcus?"

Marcus ignores him.

"Carrots are orange and so are oranges," Dr. Saeger says. "What about macaroni and cheese? Is that orange enough for you?"

Marcus shrugs.

Dr. Saeger winks. "Maybe you can pull some strings in the kitchen."

I'm thinking I'd like to tell Dr. Saeger that we're not running a restaurant here—we get what we get from the food bank—when Latisha comes tearing across the gym, screaming her lungs out. Mercedes bit her. The rest of the kids have quit the game, and now everybody's running around, shoving and screaming.

While I'm examining Latisha's hand, Dr. Saeger tells Marcus that he'll see him at four and then rushes out before Marcus can cry. There's a perfect set of tooth imprints between Latisha's thumb and wrist. When I look up, Grandma Estelle, still in her coat, is leading Mercedes across the gym.

"This girl sink her teeth in you?" Grandma Estelle says. Latisha's nose is running down her chin. She sucks the bite and nods. Grandma Estelle wags her finger in Mercedes' face. "I'm not even gonna ask why you did it. There's no excuse for biting."

Grandma Estelle takes Latisha and Mercedes upstairs to Felicia. I march the rest of the kids back to our room, turn off the light, and make them sit at the tables with their heads down. Some days I wish I could leave them like that until four.

"My coat's in the gym," Marcus says. I tell him no talking. Marcus whines and kicks the table leg. I ignore him and get out the crayon buckets and coloring sheets. Marcus keeps kicking until I go over and pull him and his chair out from the table.

"No more," I say. "If you can't sit at the table right, you can go sit in the corner."

"I'm gonna tell my dad," he says.

"You do that," I say. Marcus curls his lip. He hates it when I say that. I'm sure he has a babysitter who caves under his threats. I've had five-year-olds tell me that their drug-dealing relatives are looking to beat me up. I don't scare easily.

When my Head Start kids get in, Adonis and Darnell go straight to the cubbies and put away the treats their teachers give them. They know the routine. Gennifer knows, too, but she unwraps a chocolate Kiss and pops it in her mouth.

I reach for the sandwich bag in her fist. "Let's put the candy in your cubby."

She pulls her arm back like she means to hit me. The bag goes flying. "Fuck you," she says.

It's all about limits. Pushing them. Testing them. If I were any other adult in her life—her mother, her mother's boyfriends—Gennifer would be picking herself up off the floor. I lead her to time-out and explain why we don't use language like that at day care, or anywhere else for that matter.

I'd like to be able to say that my job is rewarding. I've seen those movies where a teacher turns a classroom of delinquents into productive students and wonder what I'm doing wrong. I used to be optimistic until I started reading about my former students in the arrests section of the paper. I hadn't heard from those kids in fifteen years, but their failure still hurt.

Had Marcus gotten up this morning wanting tan food, he'd have been in luck. Lunch is chicken tenders, Tater Tots, and canned pears with pineapple bits thrown in for color. Marcus takes one look at his plate and throws a fit. It's Dr. Saeger's fault for letting Marcus believe that he can always get his way. We had the exact same meal on Friday, but I can't complain or Carmie'll serve spaghetti tomorrow out of spite.

"Who had an accident?" I say, sniffing around the tables. They all look guilty but no one comes forward. I ask Darnell why he doesn't want to use his chair. "My butt hurts," he says.

"What happened?" I say.

Darnell shrugs. I lead him into the bathroom and check his drawers. No load, but no welts, either. He probably fell, but I have to report it. Felicia will make a note in his file to be safe.

One by one, I pull each kid into the bathroom, searching for the culprit. When it's Omar's turn, he starts crying. "Don't get upset," I say. "We'll get you cleaned up." I reach for his hand, but he slaps me away. In the upstairs bathroom, I hand him a plastic shopping bag for his jeans and underwear and the roll of Bounty we keep on hand for accidents. They're expensive, but they're softer than the industrial paper towels in the dispensers. In the supply closet, I search through the cartons of used clothes. There's an atrocious pair of plaid pants that will have to do. I hear Omar crying at the end of the hall and take another look. At the bottom of the bin I find a pair of Superman Underoos.

Downstairs, Marcus is on his knees, pounding his legs with his fists.

"What is it, Marcus?"

He pulls his eyebrows together and frowns. "I'm hungry."

"You had your chance. Lunch is over."

Marcus screeches. Grandma Estelle plugs her ears.

"Earth to Marcus." I snap my fingers. It's no use. I carry him kicking and screaming into the side room and put him down on a mat. "No story, Marcus. Do you hear? No story." Marcus throws a cardboard brick. I drag a stack of mats to the main room, get the blankets from the locker, and shut off the overheard light. When the kids settle down, I read them a book about a boy named Max who goes around making mischief in a wolf suit. I've read it so many times that the kids know it by heart. When Lisa was little, I used to read her Madeline. Every Monday, we'd go to the library and check out a new one until we'd read the whole series. Then we'd start all over again. Lisa was always a big reader. The night she got shot, she was twenty pages into the new Stephen King I'd bought her for Christmas.

Felicia comes down with a stack of paperwork. "Heard you've got your hands full," she says, pointing her thumb at the side room where Marcus is mumbling to himself.

Grandma Estelle smacks her lips. "Nothing a little crack on the hind end would cure." Felicia raises her eyebrows. Grandma Estelle raises her hands. "I'm just saying."

Upstairs I buy a can of Coke from the machine and unwrap a flattened sandwich. Grandma Estelle lowers the paper and shakes her head. "Don't I always fix you a plate on Mondays?" she says. I never told Grandma Estelle I stopped cooking, but she's observant. When I stopped bringing in leftovers, she started bringing me hers.

"Pork chop. Scalloped potatoes. Hardly any fat," she winks.

I thank her, rewrap the sandwich, and nuke the plate. Above the microwave is a bulletin board with a scalloped banner and WALL OF FAME in glitter. The Wall of Fame was Felicia's idea after I showed her an article about one of my kids, Reggie McKnight, who'd won a scholarship to study engineering at RPI. Reggie's is the only clipping up there. I know I can't take any credit in his success, but some days I like to think that I did something to set him on that path. On a bad day, though, all that empty space puts me to shame.

"Did you hear about that boy the police chased?" Grandma Estelle says. I tell her I passed the accident on my way in. "My landlord said he got caught stealing a snow blower," she says. She snaps the paper in disgust, but I'm not sure with whom, the boy or the police. "What would a seventeen-year-old want with a snow blower?" she says, like I might be able to offer some insight.

The rest of the day flies. After we finish the scavenger hunt, it's time for dinner. The kids, still full from lunch, pick at their food. Lucky for me it's mac and cheese. Marcus is in heaven. When his father picks him up at four, he's coloring a picture for his mother. That last hour everything runs so smoothly that I actually start to believe the day might end on a good note. Then George pukes in the crayon bucket. By the time I get him cleaned up, it's time to load the bus.

My evening run takes twice as long as my morning run. Not only do I have more kids, but I have to park and wait for each one to get safely inside. Savatree's babysitter usually meets her out on the stoop, and Rowena's grandmother is always out by the fire hydrant, but the rest of the kids let themselves in. Once in a while I'll get a sign—a hand waves through a curtain, a porch light goes on—letting me know everything's fine. The rest of the time I have no idea what my kids are going home to.

When I get back to the Center, Janice the secretary is playing Candy Land with a couple of Sally's kids in the TV room. There's a toddler in there, too, waddling around, chewing on a rubber Snufalupagus. Three kids aren't bad for a Monday. Fridays are worse. We've got a bunch parents who show up late every single week, smelling like happy hour.

Felicia's got a pot of coffee brewing in the break room. "My ankle is killing me," she says. She drops a heart-shaped box of chocolates on the table and pulls up a chair. "These are from Grandma Rose," she says, lifting the lid. "I think they're from last year."

I pour a cup of coffee and shut off the maker. "Felicia, I need you to check on one of my kids," I say. Usually, we avoid talking shop after hours, but she needs to know about Darnell. "Maybe I'm overreacting," I say.

"Better safe than sorry," she says, making a note on a napkin. "I'll give his mother a ring."

Felicia and I move to the TV room so Janice can go home. While we shoot the breeze, the kids show the toddler how to do the Hokey Pokey. One by one, the parents drift in with rehearsed excuses. When the last kid is gone, Felicia locks up and offers me a ride.

"No, thanks," I say. It's snowing, but I've got a hat in my tote bag, a knit cap that Lisa used to say makes me look like a longshoreman.

"Be careful," Felicia calls as I cut across the lot. I wave goodnight and head down Albany Street. Except for a couple of old-man bars, this section is still residential. The houses are all two-story flats covered in cheap aluminum-siding. I can tell from the blue glow that every house has a TV, but apparently no one owns a shovel.

On the other side of Brandywine, there's a Kentucky Fried Chicken knockoff on one corner and Star Liquor on the other. Across the street is the storefront where Lisa used to work. It was a lousy job she took to save for college, so she could start drama classes in the fall. After that night, the sub shop closed. Eventually it reopened as a Little Caesar's, but that didn't last long, either. Now it's a bright and busy Rent-A-Center.

Every night I come home sad and tired, hoping the next day will be better. I know it won't, but I can't imagine myself doing anything different. I turn on the TV and open my mail at the kitchen table. There's the bill for the hot water heater and a credit card application addressed to Lisa. I drop them in the basket at the end of the table and check the cupboard above the stove. I'm in the middle of opening a can of soup when my sister, Peggy, calls.

Peggy and Dale live in Florida, where Peggy makes triple what she made as a nurse at Albany Med. After Lisa died, Peggy tried to get me to move down there with her. A couple of years ago I might've gotten something for the house. Now I couldn't give it away.

As my sister tells me about her weekend, I imagine her drinking a Cape Cod on the deck, her foot in Dale's lap. I know it's winter there, too, and dark, but in my mind Peggy's always outside, watching the sun set beyond her pool. I'm sure that when she remembers Schenectady, it's always sunless and cold, with a foot of snow on the ground and another on the way.

"What are you up to tonight?" she says.

"Not much," I say. "Same old same-old."

"You need a hobby," she says. "Something to get you out of the house."

I stir the soup and shut off the burner. "I get out," I say. Every Friday, Felicia and I go for a drink at the Paramount unless she's got plans with one of her daughters. I play bingo with Sally at St. Luke's on Wednesdays, and my POMC support group meets at Immaculate Conception on Thursdays. For someone who doesn't have much use for religion, I spend a lot of time in church basements.

"Drinking coffee with parents that've lost their kids isn't getting out," she says. Peggy thinks support groups are good for short-term help, but after a while they lose their effectiveness. I'm not ready to move on yet, but I agree with her. We've got a father there whose son was murdered while Carter was in office.

In the background I hear Dale roughhousing with their dogs. I change the subject to Darnell. I want Peggy's opinion. Working in pediatrics, she's trained to spot abuse.

"He probably fell," she says. "But keep an eye on him. You might want to check his stool."

Tuesday, Jessica drags herself to work. I ask her how she's feeling as I round up my class. Everyone's present, including George, whose mother put him on the bus with a bucket.

"I'm here aren't I?" she says, shutting off the Smurfs. Jessica's the type of girl that looks healthy even when she's sick. She's dressed like she's going out for a jog—canvas sneakers, black leggings, an Esprit sweatshirt tied at the waist. With her ruddy good looks and shiny ponytail it's hard to feel sorry for her. It's not that I don't like Jessica. I don't understand her. Her father's an executive at GE. Her mother's on every charitable board in the city. Jessica was a sophomore at the University of Richmond before she dropped out and moved home. Why she left Richmond is a mystery. She had everything going for her—good grades; rich friends; a chance to study abroad her junior year. She says she needed to find herself—a convenient cop-out for kids whose parents are footing the bill.

I man the sink while Jessica gets the breakfast cart and sets the tables. "Just what this group needs," she says, waving a box of chocolate donuts. "More sugar."

I've thought the same thing a thousand times when I've served the kids Kool-Aid or Sugar Corn Pops, but coming from Jessica, it sounds like a moral indictment.

I wash what appears to be Cheetos dust from the folds in Mr. T's neck, and say, "It's better than nothing."

Jessica punches straws in a row of juice boxes. "I don't know about that."

I bite my tongue. Jessica's never had to want for anything. I know because the bookkeeper has had to remind her to cash her paychecks.

As much as I complain about Jessica, my class is utter chaos when I have to go it alone. The job is too big for one person. We take the kids to the gym and line them up for Red Rover. George and Rowena sit on the stage under the portrait of Pastor Lowell and watch Jessica cut food ads from magazines. Sometimes Jessica plays with the kids while I prep, but not often. After four months, the kids haven't warmed up to her. Or maybe it's that Jessica hasn't warmed up to the kids. They sense it in the way she stiffens when one of them goes for a hug or touches her shiny blond hair. Part of me can't blame her. My kids are filthy. Either way, when she's in charge, the kids are different. They treat her like a visitor until the novelty wears off, then go about their business like she's a post stuck in the middle of the room.

Marcus is the exception. When he arrives, he sheds his coat and makes a beeline for the stage. Dr. Saeger follows, dodging the kids in yellow tearing across the gym. I don't even merit a wave. Jessica hops off the stage and gives Marcus a hug. I've warned her about playing favorites. She thinks nothing of taking Marcus aside to quiz him on his spelling or show him how to tell time. I know it's good for him, but she's not his tutor.

While Jessica's talking to Dr. Saeger, Rowena licks the food cutouts. Next to her, George has fallen asleep sitting up. I go over and feel his forehead. He's burning.

"I'm gonna take him upstairs," I say. I put George over my shoulder. He doesn't even fight. He wraps his legs around my waist and buries his nose in my neck. Jessica has to touch his forehead so she can wear her indignant face. She doesn't say anything, but I know what she's thinking. She can't believe that a mother would send a child in George's condition to day care. It galls me too, but they're better off here than home.

I put George on a cot and take his temperature and then ask Felicia to call his mother. All we can do is wait for someone to get him. We're not allowed to give the kids medicine, not even aspirin. I push George's bangs out of his eyes. Felicia comes in with a juice box and George's coat. "Your mom's on her way," she says. George nods. "Not feeling so hot, are you buddy?" I say. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. I follow Felicia to her office.

"I tried calling Darnell's mother," she says. "Their phone is disconnected."

"Did you try her at work?"

"Her shift doesn't start till four," she says, and then offers to talk to Darnell's teacher at Head Start, find out if she's noticed anything strange.

I leave George with Felicia and head back. In the stairwell, I hear my kids screaming and laughing and wonder what's got into them. I walk in to find Omar standing on a chair, his pants around his ankles, showing off the Underoos from yesterday. My class is alone, completely unsupervised. My first thought is that Jessica has walked off the job. Then I hear her being sick in the girls' room.

"Show's over," I say. "Omar. Pull your pants up."

Jessica comes running out of the bathroom, apologizing. "I couldn't help it," she says. Her eyes are bloodshot. She's been crying.

"Do you want to go home?" I say. I try to feel her forehead, but she pulls away like I'm one of the kids going for her earrings.

"No. I'm fine," she says.

I tell her to go upstairs and make some tea, get Carmie to fix her some toast. I put on my daughter's old billy goats gruff record and debate whether or not to tell Felicia what has happened. The number one rule of day care is to never leave the kids unattended. She could've called over the partition for Sally's help. She could've gone into the side room and used a grocery bag.

Grandma Estelle hangs her coat in the side room and drags a chair over to the circle behind Latisha. She's got a giant plastic pick and a jar of pomade. She clamps Latisha's head between her knees and rakes her scalp. "What's your aide doing upstairs?" she says. Mercedes begs to be next. Savatree wants hers done, too. "I'll make you all beautiful," she says. "Get in line."

"She's still sick," I say.

Grandma Estelle winks. "It'll pass."

Jessica comes back and helps get the Head Start kids settled down. Gennifer is having another rough day, but Darnell seems fine. He stows his coat and joins the other kids playing Hot Potato. I'm thankful we didn't jump the gun. We're required by law to report any signs of abuse, but sometimes kids really do fall down stairs or touch hot burners. It's always a tough call. When Lisa was little, her father accidentally dislocated her shoulder swinging her by her arms. The emergency room doctor popped it back in place and sent us home, no questions asked. Today an injury like that would set off alarms. My ex would have some explaining to do.

After lunch, Jessica offers to read the kids a story before nap. It's one of Marcus' favorites about a boy who changes his world with a purple crayon. Marcus has been well behaved, cleaning his plate at lunch and apologizing for cutting in line at the sink. Now he's sitting Indian-style on his mat, staring wide-eyed at Jessica like she's put him in a trance.

When the kids are asleep, I ask Grandma Estelle to stay with Jessica while I go to lunch. We always go together, but I don't want a repeat of this morning's incident. I buy a soda from the machine and search the paper for something about the boy who drove his car off Suicide 7. This morning, before I started my run, I took a detour down 890, past the site where the car had landed. I don't know why. I'm not in the habit of visiting accident scenes. There was nothing to see. The paper doesn't offer much either. There's a sidebar story describing the chase and its outcome. The boy, whose name I don't recognize, died of massive head injuries.

My sandwich from yesterday smells funny. I chuck it and go back to work. Any normal person would look forward to this time when the basement's so quiet I can hear Carmie humming in the kitchen. Not me. When the kids are awake, I wish they were asleep, but when they're asleep, I realize the small part I play in their lives. When Lisa was a baby, I used to stand over her crib and imagine the kind of woman she'd be. Except for Marcus, I can't do that with these kids. I try, but there's a difference between real hope and make-believe.

The kids wake up sweaty and cranky, their eyes gummy with sleep. I pray they're not coming down with whatever George and Jessica have. As the kids stumble over the blankets, I test their foreheads. I don't know what's come over them, and Jessica's in a foul mood, too. When I hand her a bottle of 409 to sanitize the mats, she huffs like it's beneath her.

I could pursue it. I'm in that kind of mood, but Grandma Estelle's got the kids seated for the afternoon activity. "When you're done here, I can use your help at the tables," I say. Jessica nods and sprays the first mat. "Whatever you say, boss."

My four-food-groups lesson is a flop. The kids are slapping cutouts in any old square. Jessica's no help. She's taking her sweet time cleaning the mats, leaving me and Grandma Estelle with eleven kids and a bottle of glue. On the back of a Fruit Roll-Up ad, Omar finds a picture of a Playtex bra and puts it in the group labeled DAIRY. Grandma Estelle snatches it from him. "Don't be nasty," she says.

When dinner's ready, I make Jessica watch the kids while I get the cart. In the kitchen, Carmie's leaning under the grease hood, sneaking a cigarette.

"I'm gonna choke my aide," I say.

"Call in sick," she says. "I'll make spaghetti." She's laughing, but I know she means it.

"Don't think I'm not tempted," I say, but I don't mean it. I haven't missed a day in two years, not since Lisa died. I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

Darnell and Mercedes are in time-out. The rest of the kids are at the tables waiting to eat.

"What happened?" I say.

Grandma Estelle points at Jessica leaning against the supply locker, massaging her temples like she's got a migraine.

"What's going on?"

"I found the two of them behind the playhouse," she says. "Darnell was on top of her. I don't mean sitting on her, either."

I was right about Darnell. I should've had Felicia call Child Protective.

"You can't give them time-out for that," I say. "Darnell. Mercedes. Go eat."

The two of them look at Jessica and make a break for it. Jessica gives me this face like I'm eroding her authority. Her eyes are shiny like she's getting ready to cry.

"They're children," I say. "They don't understand."

"They're not children. They're animals," she says.

Grandma Estelle looks up from the table, where she's punching holes in a can of Hi-C. "If that's how you think, you need to find another job."

Jessica puts her hand over her mouth like she can't believe what just came out of it.

I don't say anything.

That night, while I'm frosting cupcakes, Jessica calls and apologizes.

"I'm sorry to bother you at home," she says. She's never phoned before. I'm surprised she has my number. I don't have hers.

"Is that it?" I lick my fingers and toss the spatula in the sink.

She's quiet and I can hear a stereo playing in the background. I imagine Jessica on her stomach on her bed, twirling the cord on a princess phone. "I'm pregnant," she says.

When Lisa was in high school, those two words were my biggest fear. Her junior year, she started dating Vo-Tech Vince, a real sleaze who cut the arms off his sweatshirts and drove a GTO. When Lisa was out late, I'd wait up in the kitchen, wondering how I'd deal with that kind of news. Now it seems silly.
I ask Jessica if she knows who the father is and realize it's a stupid question. Girls like Jessica always know the father.

"His name's Neil. I don't know what to do."

I put the cupcakes in a foil-lined shirt box. "You're a big girl," I say. "I don't know what to tell you."

"I'm sorry I called," she says.

Wednesday, I expect to be on my own. It's Grandma Estelle's day off, and I'm sure Jessica will call in sick if she calls at all. When I finish my run, Jessica's in the TV room, sitting on her heels with a deck of flash cards. The TV's off, but the kids are staring at the screen like it might come back on. "Good morning, Gail," she says. "Felicia wants you in her office."

"Does she?" I say. "Is everything okay?"

Jessica shrugs.

I close Felicia's door and take a seat in front of the desk. My face is hot, and not because I'm wearing my coat. I don't trust Jessica. I try and think if I've done anything that could be construed as unprofessional. Other than failing to report her for leaving the kids unsupervised, there's nothing.

"We've got a problem," Felicia says.

"Don't we always?" I joke.

Felicia gives me a weary nod. Jessica probably gave her two weeks.

"DSS can't get a caseworker out to Darnell's until Friday. Monday at the latest. They need you to document everything from now until then."

I hate that I feel relieved because there's nothing to feel relieved about. If what I suspect is true, Darnell's case can't wait. The TV room is empty. Jessica's taken the kids downstairs without me. I take the cupcakes to the kitchen and wait for Carmie to load the breakfast cart.

"We're gonna get dumped on," she says, pointing to the radio on the stainless steel island. There's a winter storm moving up the coast. The weatherman is predicting three-to-four inches Thursday afternoon and another seven-to-ten by Friday. Tomorrow night, Carmie and I will have to start our runs early to get the kids home on time.

I fix a piece of dry toast for George and then butter a slice for Jessica. I want to know if she talked to her boyfriend last night, but I don't know how to ask.

"I ate already," she says. She's got the kids cleaned up and waiting at the tables. I don't know what's got into her, but I can't gripe. All through breakfast, she's cheerful and attentive, praising the kids for every little thing. During free play she sets up an obstacle course with pylons and scooters and guides the kids through to the finish line. If that weren't enough, she somehow convinces Rowena to give it a try.

"I'm impressed," I say.

Jessica frowns, like she thinks I'm being sarcastic, and gives Larry a high-five.

"I mean it," I say. "You're doing a great job." The true test comes when Marcus arrives. He runs straight for Jessica, who's showing Mr. T how to tie his sneaker, and begs for a piggyback ride. Jessica handles him like a pro. She stays firm even when he tugs on her arm and makes that frowny-face of his. Eventually, Marcus gives up and stomps around the gym by himself. The new Jessica lets him.

I leave her in charge and go to the room to decorate. Holidays, I like to do it up big. I've got red streamers and cupid cutouts to put up around the room and heart-shaped stickers for the kids. The morning is taken up with crafts—heart people with accordion legs; milk carton mailboxes. I make the mistake of letting them use glitter. I'm in the middle of cleaning up a spill when the Head Start kids arrive.

"Where's Darnell?" I say.

Gennifer shrugs and runs off. Adonis stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language.

"Was he on the bus?"

Adonis gazes up at the ceiling, waiting for the answer to materialize.

Darnell's never out. He's probably upstairs, wandering the halls. I check the boys' room first, and then check with Felicia. "Have you seen Darnell?" She hasn't, so she calls Head Start. They've got him down as absent.

While the kids are eating Salisbury steaks, I wonder what I'll do about dinner. Sally's got a date, so Bingo is off. On a whim, I invite Jessica to my place for coffee.

"I don't think so," she says. "Maybe another time." She squats next to Gennifer and asks her to take one bite of everything on her plate.

Gennifer pushes her peas around and wrinkles her nose. "I don't like it."

"Just one bite," Jessica says. "We're going to have a party later. You want to go to the party don't you?"

"Don't force her," I say. I take the plate away before it ends up on the floor. "Kids won't starve themselves. She'll eat when she's hungry."

Gennifer throws her fork at Jessica. "Yeah, dumb-ass."

Adonis makes a siren noise and laughs. Then everybody's laughing, including Marcus, who acts like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"Stop it," Jessica says. She sounds rattled, which makes the kids laugh harder.

"Cool it," I say, giving them my no-nonsense look. "Gennifer. We've talked about using words like that. Time-out."

Gennifer grits her teeth and storms off. Marcus clamps his over his mouth to stop laughing.
After we put the kids down, I set up for the party. Jessica's watching me from the rocking chair. She's got her Walkman on and her knees pulled up to her chin.

"You want to go on break?" I whisper.

She plucks a headphone from her ear.

"You want to go on break?"

She shrugs and goes back rocking.

Upstairs, I open a box of Care Bear valentine's, make one out for each of the kids, including Darnell, and then comb through the extras for the teacher valentine. That one is for Grandma Estelle from the kids. As a joke, I give Jessica Grumpy Bear—the blue one with storm clouds on his belly—and write, "Hang in there!"

But Jessica's day gets worse. During the party, she catches Marcus spitting in Larry's orange drink. She tries to put him in time-out, but he won't let go of his cupcake.

"I'm going to count to three," she says. "One."

Marcus ignores her and takes a big bite. Jessica pulls him and his chair out from the table and counts two. The cupcake lands on the floor. By three, she's got him standing, but he's swinging his fists, calling her a dumb-ass.

"That's enough," I say, and take hold of his arm. Marcus goes limp. I try to lift him, but he's dead weight. He punches my hand, but I won't let go. "Stand up," I say.

Marcus starts crying and gets up. "I'm gonna tell my father," he says.

Jessica kneels down and pushes his sleeve above his elbow. Marcus clutches his arm like it's broken. There's a red mark from my thumb.

"You hurt him," she says.

"I did not," I say. "You're okay, aren’t you, Marcus?"

Jessica's falling all over him, so he shakes his head.

"You're too hard on him," she says.

I'm not hard on him. I expect more from Marcus because I know he knows better. I don't say that. I tell Jessica that if she doesn't like how I run my class, she can quit.

"Can I have more drink?" Larry says. I get him a new Dixie cup and dump the one Marcus spit in. Marcus has forgotten about his arm. He's eating his cupcake off the floor.

"I don't need this job," Jessica says. "I'm going back to Richmond in the fall."

"Do they offer day care?" I say.

"I'm not going there to work." Jessica gives me a look. She knows what I mean.

She cups her hand below the table and sweeps up Mr. T's crumbs. "I think you should apologize to Marcus," she says.

"That's enough," I say.

Jessica drops it, but the last couple of hours are tense. I'm still fuming when I load the bus and start my run. Tomorrow I'll set things straight. I'm not the type to throw my weight around, but it's my classroom. I'm responsible for the kids, not Jessica. An aide is nothing more than a second set of hands.

After I let off Mr. T, I drive to Darnell's out of habit. The downstairs is dark. The couch on the front porch is piled with garbage bags and shirts on hangers. There's a yellow eviction notice on the door going upstairs.

"Who you want?" A kid in a Raiders jacket is smoking a cigar on the stoop next door. I catch a whiff. It smells like burning rope. Lisa used to come home with her jean jacket reeking of the stuff. I'd ground her, but it never did any good.

"Ain't nobody home," the kid says. I go back to my bus.

Everybody makes mistakes. I wanted to go to college, but I got pregnant right out of high school. Having Lisa wasn't a mistake; marrying my ex-husband was. If Jessica really means to go back to school, I wish her well. I know the decision she's made is not an easy one. If it was, I'd be out of a job.

Thursday's got to be better. And it is. Jessica's still got a bug up her butt, but Grandma Estelle's got good news—her number hit for fifty bucks. Better yet, we're playing freeze-tag when Felicia announces that Marcus won't be in. Dr. Saeger doesn't want to risk it with the snow.

After free play, I break out the finger paints. Jessica helps put the kids in smocks and then asks to take her half-hour. She's got some business to take care of. I tell her to take her time.

"Where's she going?" Grandma Estelle says.

I shrug and smile, glad to be rid of her until a half-hour turns into an hour. The Head Start kids come in minus Darnell. I'm not surprised. His mother probably got wind that DSS was looking into her and her boyfriend. I grab a mop and clean up the snow Gennifer and Adonis tracked through the hall. It's getting bad out. When Jessica gets back I ask her about the roads, but she doesn't answer. She's quiet all through lunch, hanging back by the cubbies, examining her nails. As soon as the kids go down for naps, the Walkman comes out.

Upstairs, Grandma Estelle asks what's going on. I fill her in on what she missed. The phone call Tuesday night. The argument yesterday. "I knew she was pregnant," she says. "You can't fool me." She's thumbing a K-Mart pullout, deciding how to spend her winnings, when Felicia asks to see me in her office. I grab my soda and follow her down the hall. She's limping badly, staggering almost. Felicia shuts the door and asks me to have a seat. She's got a pained look on her face. "Your leg?" I say.

She shakes her head and falls into her chair. "Jessica came to see me this morning. She's concerned about Marcus. She said there was a problem yesterday." She's quiet for a minute. I can hear Janice on the typewriter in the next room. "She said there was a mark."

"You can't be serious," I say.

"Was there?"

"I'd never hurt those kids. You know that."

"Gail, was there a mark on his arm or not?"

My eyes fill with water. I look at the ceiling.

"You realize what'll happen if she goes to Dr. Saeger?" she says.

I hear myself tell her it'll never happen again and realize that I sound like the parents. I mean it, but I'm sure they do, too.

"I'm going to have to ask you to resign."

"Felicia, please."

"As your friend, I'm asking you to resign. I know this isn't fair, but I have to think about my job, too. Please don't take it personally." She passes me a tissue from the box on her desk. "If it's any consolation," she says, "Jessica's not long for this job."

Before I leave, Felicia promises to write a letter of recommendation and see to it that I get my vacation pay. In exchange, I agree to finish out the day.

I stop in the bathroom to pull myself together and go downstairs. My classroom looks like a crime scene.The kids are still sleeping, but they've migrated. Half of them are off their mats, face down, their legs tangled in blankets. Jessica's gone. Felicia sent her to work with Linda and the two-year-olds. Carmie's sitting with Grandma Estelle. I can tell by the way they're looking at me that they already know.

"That girl's in for a rude awakening," Grandma Estelle says. She threatens to drop out of the grandmas' program, but it's just talk. I'd say the same thing if the situation was reversed. Carmie apologizes, then gives me a hug and goes back to the kitchen. I don't know what to say. I switch on the overhead light.

"Maybe I'll go on vacation," I say. "I haven't seen my sister in a while."

We skip the afternoon activity and get the kids fed and ready to go home. When it's bad like this, I can count on adding an hour to my run. I fill a box with books and records, some of them Lisa's, some of them picked up at rummage sales over the years. I don't want them, but I don't want Jessica to have them, either. I leave the box outside Sally's classroom and leave my kids in the TV room with Felicia.

The grandmas are in the break room, waiting for the van. When I walk in, they stop talking and study their coffee cups. Grandma Estelle's the only one not embarrassed to talk to me. "Everything'll right itself," she says. I take Reggie's clipping from the Wall of Fame and put it in my bag. I know how accusations stick. When Lisa was murdered, there were rumors that she knew the killer. The kid was a known drug dealer, and Lisa had a history. It wasn't true. The kid who did it was looking for some fast cash. Lisa was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I scrape the windshield and load the bus. Felicia follows me out. "When you get back, we'll go for a drink," she says. I tell her I'll have to see.

Winter here seems endless. I wish I'd moved to Florida when I'd had the chance. I could've been happy in an apartment with a pool. Everybody down there has a pool. My eyes should be on the road, but I keep checking the kids in the mirror. They're quiet back there. Adonis and Mr. T are flipping their eyelids inside out. The rest of them are staring out the windows at all the snow. The plows are out, but there's nowhere to put it. The streets are shrinking.

Larry lives on Summit, a couple of blocks over from where Reggie McKnight used to live. I drive by Reggie's old house, but it's a vacuum repair shop now. I used to believe that Lisa would've made something of her life, too—she was going to be an actress. Then I started going to those POMC meetings. Listening to the other parents, you'd think all our children had been destined for greatness.

"Where we going?" Larry says when we pass his street.

"Detour," I say, but Larry doesn't know what detour means. "We're taking the long way."

I drive by Darnell's to see if the lights are on. The house is dark, but Darnell's outside pushing a Big Wheel through the snow. I put the hazards on and park next to the bank blocking the drive. A guy hugging a television crosses in front of the bus.

Darnell waves when I open the door. "We missed you at school," I say. Darnell drops the Big Wheel and scales the bank. He looks back at his house and gets on board.

"Who wants to see where I live?" I say. Rowena claps, but the rest of them look at me like I'm crazy. It's the same face they make when I run into them at McDonald's or CVS. They think I live at the Center. They don't know anything about my life outside that classroom.

"That's my house," I say. I slow the bus and point to it like a tour guide. Next door, my neighbor's son is digging out his Malibu.

"Which room's yours?" George says. I start to tell him it's the top window, the one with the missing shutter, and realize what he means. George lives in a motel.

"All of them," I say.

"You got a man?" Mercedes says.

"No. But I've got a daughter. She's an actress." I turn the bus around in the Freihoffer's lot and get back on Albany Street.

"She on TV?" Mercedes asks.

"She is," I say. "You've probably seen her."

I don't know where I'm going. The snow ticks against the windshield. I turn the wipers on high and crank the defrost. On State Street, I drive by the day care center. Sometimes I forget I work in a church. From the front, you'd never know what goes on in there, what my kids in the basement go through everyday. When you think about it, my job's not all that different from Pastor Lowell's. I take a right onto Robinson and head for the park.

It's a nice park with a lake and ducks. I bring the kids here every summer. Jessica lives around here somewhere, in one of the estates overlooking the rose garden. I stick to the main roads and hope I don't get stuck. We pass the long garage where they store the train in winter and loop around the playground a couple of times. Darnell thinks the rocket slide looks like a Bomb Pop. Savatree wants to know who stole the water from the pool.

"I'm going on the swings," Omar says.

I tell him we're site-seeing. The playground is closed. I don't want to take them home, but I can't drive around the city forever. It's getting dark. The roads are starting to freeze. Omar goes back to drawing on the window. Darnell says he wants to watch Transformers.

I drive down Brandywine, past Star Liquor and the Rent-A-Center, and hop on Suicide 7. I know I can't save them all. I learned that a long time ago. I couldn't even save my own daughter. A few cars creep along, their hazards flashing pink in the snow. Another car sits stranded on the shoulder. I pass them all and move into the left lane. Everything's clear. The highway lights pulse on the windshield. In the mirror, the kids' faces brighten and darken, faster and faster. The back end fishtails. Someone starts crying. Gennifer, I think. We're coming up on the flyover, where yellow caution signs mark the broken guardrail. I hit the gas, aiming for the lighted horses.

"Everything's going to be all right." I watch the kids in the mirror, trying to read their faces.

© 2005, Barbara Stewart