From Ashes To Flames

by A. M. Hargrove

  “Jordan, did you push English?”

  “No.”

  Someone is lying, and I need to find out.

  “Okay, one of you isn’t telling the truth. Who in this room saw what happened?”

  Melanie, a dark-haired shy girl, steps forward. “They both are.”

  So now I have the equivalent of a soap opera taking place.

  “Melanie, can you tell me what happened?”

  She bobs her head up and down. “He pushed her, and she said to stop. And then she said she could take all the boys in here down.”

  I look at English, and her lower lip sticks out. She wears the badge of guilt quite well.

  “So let this be a lesson. There will be no bullying in this classroom, or on the playground by either boys or girls. Does each of you understand me?”

  A chorus of “Yes, Miss Monroe,” comes back to me.

  “Good. So this time, no punishment will take place, but if this happens again, I’ll be forced to report it to the principal.” A sea of solemn faces greets me.

  The rest of the day passes without event, and at the end of the day, I walk my students to the exit. When I return to my desk, I check my phone and notice I never received a response from Mr. Bridges. So much for the caring father I had him pegged for.

  And that’s how my first day of school goes.

  Chapter Two

  Sheridan

  “So, how was your first day?” my roommate, Michelle, asks.

  “Ugh. They are fierce. You don’t ever get a break. I mean, I can’t leave the room to pee. And I mean it.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, I’m serious. And I have this one little girl, English, who is a … I’m not quite sure how to describe her. She told the boys she could take every one of them down.”

  Michelle spits out her wine. “No shit!”

  “Yes, shit. And what do you say to that? Booyah? I wanted to die laughing, but I couldn’t.”

  “That’s epic.”

  I rub my eyes because my contacts are stinging like fire. “I hope I don’t let these kids down.” The memory of what my teachers did for me, and the quest for constant discovery of new ideas they instilled in me makes me want to be the very best at what I do. Suddenly, I have giant doubts over my abilities.

  “What’s that look for?” Michelle knows me too well.

  “Nothing.”

  She points a finger at me. “Nothing my rear end. I know you better than you know yourself.”

  “It’s just I never want to let my students down.”

  “You won’t. And do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are the most caring person I know. That’s why. Now stop worrying.”

  It’s easy to care about others when you don’t have anyone who cares about you. Well, almost anyone. Michelle cares. A boatload. Unless she has a new boyfriend, and then she gets boy obsessed.

  “Now what are you thinking about?”

  I look her square in the eye and speak the truth. “How nice it would be to tell my mom and dad about my first day as a teacher.”

  “Yeah, and they would be so proud of you, Sheridan. You have to know that, right?”

  She’s right. I do know that. But the fact remains that they’re gone, and they’re no longer here to talk to or to tell things to anymore. Or to bounce ideas off of or to ask them for advice. Or to run home to when I just plain and simple need a hug. It’s not easy being alone. Not that I want to complain, because honestly, it doesn’t do any good, and it sure as hell won’t bring either of them back.

  “Don’t be sad, Sher. This is what you’ve worked so hard for. And you’re going to be the teacher that every kid remembers and every parent praises.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The next morning, my little army of ants marches in. Once they’re seated, I ask for their homework from the day before. For the most part, with the exception of a few minor squabbles, the day is going remarkably well. I even hand out my treats from the previous day, since everyone is behaving so admirably. Our mid-morning snack time arrives and time for the brief rest period. Soon it’s lunchtime, and I breathe a sigh, desperate for a break. The cafeteria monitors take over, and since I’m not a monitor this week, I head to the teachers’ lounge to eat.

  “How’s it going, Sheridan?” I look over my shoulder to see Susan, the principal, behind me.

  “Whew, those little buggers can wear you out, can’t they?”

  She laughs and says, “You bet. They are relentless. Any problems so far?”

  “None. They seem to be a bright bunch.”

  “Yeah, their test scores indicated that. I think you’ll have a challenging year, though, because of it.”

  “As long as they love to learn, I’m good with that.”

  “Sheridan, the trick is getting that love to stick with them.”

  “I know. And that’s my goal. Make learning fun and interesting.”

  The room fills as other teachers trickle in, and someone pulls Susan away. She’s been wonderful so far, and I hope she continues to be the kind of principal who will support my classroom decisions. Right now, I get great vibes from her. Let’s hope it continues that way.

  I finish up my lunch and make my way back to the classroom. On my way there, I stick my head inside the cafeteria to see how my students are acting. I see the usual of hands grabbing each other’s food, but everything seems fine.

  After lunch, we sail through our math and science exercises, and toward the end of the day, I decide to play a game.

  “How about we have some fun? Who wants to play a game?”

  They all get excited and jump out of their seats. In the corner of the room, I have a chair I use for story time, so I have them move there and I bring the big alphabet chart.

  “Let’s all say the ABC’s.” And they do. When they finish, we start the game. “Okay, who can name something that starts with an A?”

  Everything is great until we get to the letter V. That seems to be giving them trouble until English raises her hand and yells out, “I know, I know. Vagina!”

  Twenty-one sets of curious eyes laser in on her, and when she doodles around like everything is perfectly normal, they focus on me. But before I can speak, English blurts out, “You know,” and her thumb jabs down in the direction of said vagina. It’s like twenty-one heads watching a tennis match. They look at her, then me. I’ve become mute; all capability to speak has been stripped away. I was told to expect the unexpected, but this takes it to a completely new level.

  And then … English adds the cake topper. “You know, it’s where the penis goes.”

  For the love of everything, why me? It quickly rolls downhill from there. Robert shoves his hands into his pockets and stares right at English’s crotch. I know exactly what he’s thinking, and I know I need a quick change of topic, but as soon as I open my mouth, Millicent shouts out, “My little brother has a penis. He had an operation on it when he was born, and my mom had to clean it every day.” And then she giggles. “When he pee-pees, it shoots up in the air if Mommy forgets to put a diaper on it.”

  English adds, “I don’t have a baby brother. Only my daddy. I’m sure his penis is big, though, because my daddy is big.”

  “Okay, everyone, who can think of something that starts with the letter W?”

  “Miss Monroe, why is your face so red?”

  Because we’re talking about penises and vaginas, for the love of God. “Hmm, I guess it’s a bit warm in here. So, who wants to take a try at the letter W?”

  I could barely pay attention due to the debacle that occurred. I pray none of the kids go home and recount what happened. Oh my God. What if they do? Susan will kill me. I vaguely hear one of them say the word whale.

  “Miss Monroe? Do whales have penises?” Now even the boys want to know.

  “Okay, great. Whale is a good word. Now what about X? That’s a tough one,” I say enthusiastically.


  “X-rated,” English screams, jumps up and down, and claps her hands. What kind of house does this child live in? I don’t even know what to say to this.

  “That’s not quite a word, English. Can we choose another?”

  Miguel hollers, “X-ray!”

  Whew. “Very good, Miguel.”

  I can see I’ve hurt English’s feelings, but I’m not sure what to do. Maybe she’ll get the final letter. “And anyone for the letter Z?”

  About five students yell, “Zebra!” Most of the kids are laughing, but not English. Her blond curls dangle as her chin touches her chest.

  “Very good, class, and just for being such excellent participants, I have a surprise for all of you.” I hand out some homemade chocolate chip cookies to each student.

  When I get to English, she mutters, “No, thank you.”

  “Why don’t you take it home then, and maybe you can have it later?” It sits on her desk, and she looks terribly forlorn. My tone must’ve been harsher than I thought. I’ll have to take care with her. She must be really sensitive.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and the kids all line up to make the march down the hall. Susan runs a tight ship, which is a good thing. I watch the students as they run to their respective cars or buses, but English seems so sad. I can’t stop thinking about her. And it lasts all night.

  Chapter Three

  Sheridan

  It takes about three weeks to hit my stride. I’ve memorized each of the student’s names, their favorite subjects, and something special they love. Now I’m running with it all. It’s true what they say. Make learning like a game or a movie, and kids will soak it up like a girl getting rays on the beach. They are insatiable when it comes to understanding things.

  But English takes it to a higher level. Her favorite word is why. Some days I pray for extra patience because she wears me down with all her questions. Her quirky outfits make me laugh. I never know if she’s going to be dressed in checks and polka dots or red and pink. Her love for leggings is apparent because she wears them every day. Patterns, plain bright colors or black, it’s what her choice of clothing is. But she loves color. And her father must let her have free rein. Admittedly, I love it. She’s like looking at an artist’s paint palette every day.

  It’s her mood swings that worry me. One day she’s happy-go-lucky, and then next, she’s downcast and depressed. I’ve even tried to check her arms for bruises because it worries me a bit she may be hiding abuse. I can’t show any preference or favoritism, but it’s hard because I sense she needs a hug at times. And I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I need one, too.

  Next week are my parent-teacher conferences. They run after school from four to eight every day, which will make the week awful. I work my butt off so I can have everything prepared because I know the week will be packed.

  When Monday arrives, my eight appointments go by with ease. The parents rave about my teaching skills and praise me for my efforts with their children. Tuesday is much the same. On Wednesday, I only have two appointments, leaving my final two for Thursday. My last appointment, which is scheduled for five, is with Beckley Bridges, English’s father. Five o’clock comes and goes and no Mr. Bridges. I wait until six and nothing. It pisses me off because this is about his child, and if he can’t find the time to come and see how she’s progressing in school, that tells me a lot about him as a father.

  Chapter Four

  Beck

  Goddamn airlines. Always running behind and the Atlanta airport has to be the worst. I’ve checked my watch at least a dozen times, but I don’t know why. It’s not like that is going to make things move any faster. We finally get to the gate, and it takes them forever to open the damn door. I nearly mow down the flight attendant to get out, but I need to get to that parent-teacher conference. The last thing I want to do is miss it. English is the most important thing to me, and finding out about her progress in school is paramount.

  But once again, fate has other plans. My damn luggage is fucked. I can’t carry it on because it’s too big, but what happens? One flight. One goddamn flight with zero plane changes and they lose the fucker. My camera equipment is in that bag. And my favorite camera with the brand new lens. So now I’m in line at baggage claim, trying to locate my goddamn luggage with over twenty grand worth of photography gear in it. Thank God it’s insured. When I check my watch, I know there’s no way I’ll make that appointment on time.

  And, of course, traffic is a mother. Why wouldn’t it be? I’m trying to get somewhere, and I’m late. Fuck everything. Not to mention, Dad said I got another letter. Slamming my hands on the steering wheel, I let out a series of expletives. I’m glad English isn’t in the car with me.

  I should’ve checked my texts before I started driving, but too late now.

  Chapter Five

  Sheridan

  I’m still waiting for Mr. Bridges when I remember I have his number, so I shoot him a text, reminding him of his appointment with me. And I wait. Nothing. After another thirty minutes, I figure he considers his time more valuable than mine, so I pack my stuff up to leave. I’m backing out of my classroom, pulling the door shut to lock it behind me when I walk into someone. Turning my head to see who I accidentally bumped into, I look up, and up, and don’t stop until I hit the most arresting pair of blue-green eyes in existence. Even better are the slightly parted full pink lips that lie beneath those eyes. Holy motherfucker. He runs a hand through his blondish hair that’s thick and just slightly wavy, and all I want to do is bury my fingers in it.

  “Miss Monroe?” His voice is deep and raspy, almost sounding like he just woke up.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Beckley Bridges, English’s father. Sorry I’m late. I was out of town and just got back,” he offers a bit brusquely as an explanation.

  “Oh. Well, I was heading out, but in that case—”

  “Good,” he cuts me off. “This can’t take too long.”

  What? This is about your kid, for Christ’s sake.

  “Um, no, but …”

  “Fine.”

  He looks at me expectantly. I open the door, and we walk in. We both take seats, me at my desk and he in one of the chairs I have arranged next to it. I have to pull everything out of my bag, and it takes me a minute to find it, all while he sits and thrums his fingers on the desk in an annoying manner. As I’m pulling my folders out, one gets stuck on the side of the bag, and the entire contents go flying out of my hands. All the papers end up scattered across the floor, in complete disarray. I glance up, and he arches a brow as he leans forward, rests his elbows on his crossed leg, and steeples his fingers.

  Rat bastard. He’s trying to intimidate me or make fun of me. Or at least that’s the way I interpret it. I huff as I get down on my knees to retrieve the mess created. He doesn’t offer to help, but I can feel those remarkable eyes of his burning holes into my back. Dammit!

  When I have all the papers back in hand, I now have to make some sense out of them. Sitting down, I proceed to go through them in search of English’s.

  “Did you do this with each of the parents?” His snarky comment makes me grit my teeth.

  “Yes, Mr. Bridges, I purposely dropped my entire class’s folders on the floor, threw them about so I didn’t know what was up or down, and then had to put them back in order before each meeting.” I toss him a sickly sweet grin. And as an afterthought, I add, “Oh, and that was after I waited,” I check my watch, “an extra hour and forty-five minutes for each appointment to arrive.”

  “Guess I deserved that.” If I think I’m going to get another apology, I’m off the charts wrong.

  I mutter a nasty comment and continue to organize my papers. When I find English’s, I pull them out and proceed.

  “So, English is very bright and shows a great aptitude for vocabul—”

  “Yeah, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me what I don’t know. She’s got great vocabulary, math, reasoning, blah, blah, blah, skills. What do I
need to do at home?”

  Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out, “Talk less about penises, vaginas, and X-rated topics and hug her more.”

  His leg drops down, and his shoulders lift and square. “Care to elucidate?”

  I’ve definitely touched a nerve. A raw one. His full pink lips flatten and thin into a firm line.

  The explanation I give him on the alphabet game doesn’t satisfy him. To the contrary, it further inflames him.

  “So, let me get this straight. You play a game and ask for things that start with each letter. My daughter, in her innocence, supplies you with said things, and in her defense, we don’t fluff up anatomy in our home, Miss Monroe. We don’t call vaginas pee-pees, nor do we call penises wee-wees. We don’t make a fuss about them. They are what they are. So, when she answers you, this is what happens?”

  I quickly shrivel like a flower in the Georgia August sun directly in front of this man. Now I must find a way to gain my confidence back. “The point is, Mr. Bridges, English can’t be saying those things in class.”

  “No, Miss Monroe, the point is, if your students say things such as that, you need to be better prepared to handle them. Is this the best they can do for teachers these days?” he mumbles. Only it’s loud enough for me to pick up on. All the confidence and faith I’ve built over the past few weeks is utterly shattered by a few carelessly muttered words.

  His eyes spear me as he asks, “Is there anything else on your agenda for English, because if we’re going to discuss this kind of drivel, I consider this meeting concluded.”

  There isn’t a thing in the world that comes to mind for me to say to this horrid man. Beckley Bridges is the world’s biggest prick.

  Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I push them away, forcing myself to smile and shake my head. He stands, and without so much as a single syllable, strides out of the room. I didn’t even get him to sign the form he was supposed to because I don’t trust myself to speak. Oh my gosh. I am stunned, glued to my seat, and it’s not until an hour later that I find the energy to get up and leave.