Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“You’ve got glitter on your lips.” I brush my thumb to the corner of her mouth. “It’s a good look on you.”
“If you’re nice here, you can do something a little more hands-on about that later.” She grins.
“Does that mean I’m forgiven? And you have no further intention of torturing me?”
“For now,” she says airily—then flings the wet, glitter-crusted paper towel at my chest as she spins on her heel and flits away. “But I have every intention of torturing you.”
I stare after her, catching the paper towel.
That woman.
If we weren’t in a kindergarten class . . .
Let’s just say I’d make her regret tugging my leash.
I finish wiping my face off, brush my clothing off over the trash can, and return to my seat.
I suppose I can’t give Sara an undecorated letter, so I draw a heart on the front in glitter glue and shake my hair out over it before it dries, filling it in almost completely in silver.
“Done!” Sara crows, holding her card up triumphantly. “All done! It’s for you!”
She thrusts it at me like a weapon.
The thing is soaked in glue, covered in so much glitter it bends in half, but I take it anyway and open it.
The only part that’s legible is my name, and even that’s questionable.
The rest is all squiggles, the number 3, a few hearts, a stick figure, and I think that letter might be an F.
“Great work,” I say, forcing a smile. “What does it say? It’s pretty. You did a good job.”
“It says we’re gonna be friends always, Mr. Auggie!”
She flings herself at me in a hug that almost crumples her card.
I pat her back gently, holding the card away from her so she doesn’t get glue in her hair, but the glitter was a lost cause the moment she hugged me.
She pulls back spangled. Her parents are going to murder me when she goes home like that and infects their house with the silver plague.
“Here you go.” Shaking my head, I pick up my card and offer it to her.
Another shrill, ecstatic squeal. She actually hugs the letter, crumpling it, then pets the glitter heart like she’s petting a cat. “Pretty!”
“Can you read the inside?” I ask.
She opens it sharply and shakes her head.
“I see my name,” she declares. “I know my name!”
“It’s good that you can read your name.” Even if I’m still worried about asphyxiating on glitter, I chuckle. “It says ‘Thank you for being my friend.’”
Her eyes grow round and wide.
“You really mean it?” she whispers. “You mean it, we’re friends?”
“Friends,” I answer firmly, glancing over to watch the other children.
Elle was right, I think.
She has good instincts, and she knew better than I did.
Not only are the kids trading their letters and happily interpreting their squiggles, but they’re happily tottering around to show off their letters to other friends. There might even be new friendships forming.
Writing letters really does bring people together.
Maybe Inky’s time really isn’t past just yet.
It must be an hour before they’re done shouting around and laughing—and clearly very sleepy. The teacher, Elle, Miss Joly, and I help marshal the munchkins into the washroom to get the worst of the glitter, glue, and marker streaks off them.
As if this is common routine, as soon as they’re done in the washroom, they toddle out to blankets and folded mats taken from cubbies in the wall, claiming a spot on the floor and rolling their mats out to curl up.
As I help Sara scrub her fingers off, I glance at Elle. “Nap time?”
“Story time,” she answers, teasing a glob of glue out of a little boy’s hair. “And you’re going to read to them.”
I sigh, but without much exasperation this time. “You’re really grinding this in.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Smug little wretch.
“All clean!” Sara proclaims, and holds her hands out for me to dry.
I wipe her fingers off one at a time with a towel and lightly pat her shoulder. “Go get your mat and find a good spot.”
With a bobbleheaded little nod, she darts off, bouncing toward the wall cubbies. I wipe a little more glitter off my hands, watching her while Elle shoos off the little boy with clean hair.
“You’re better with them than I expected,” Elle says.
“I said I’m not good with children. I didn’t say I’m a complete imbecile with no common sense. It’s not that difficult to make them happy. Just be nice to them.”
Her lips curl.
“Seems like a good rule with just about anyone.” Her smile widens. “I thought you said being nice was pointless?”
“They’re children, Elle. What kind of monster do you think I am?” I toss the towel at her. “No, don’t answer that.”
Her grin says it all.
I just shake my head as I let her drag me out into the classroom to an actual adult-size plush chair.
The children have arranged their mats around it like sunflower petals. Elle pushes me down into the chair, then steals a book from the top of the stack the teacher offers her and slaps it into my hands.