First Grade

“What’s wrong with you?” Micaela asked, opening her cornflower-blue eyes too wide.

All I had wanted was to make it to my room without having to say a word.

“I got fired today,” I said.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck happened?” she asked, setting down the dish she had been drying and turning to face me. Hands bracing herself on the sink behind her. Elbows pointed out, sharp as ever.

“I need a minute,” I said, dropping my bag with a hard thud. Recalling that there was definitely a glass container in there, and my laptop.

In order to pass by Micaela in the narrow kitchen, I had to stare directly at her as I inched through the space. Our eyes met as she stood at the sink, her mouth half open. Making some sound, a half of a word, the rest caught in her throat. My vision blurred, and I wondered if that should concern me. I reached the fridge. Found the cold white wine bottle by feel. Grasping it by the neck, I left Micaela alone.

Some problems grow inside you. They obscenely gain substance and weight. They threaten, always, to destroy your insides. As if you’d swallowed a watermelon seed, and found out the old urban legend was nothing but the truth.

I fell hard onto my bed, face up, staring at the ceiling, wine bottle still in one hand. Snapshots floated in unbidden, filling all the space in my mind. The kids on the carpet. The big rainbow squares they sat on, sized just right for their little behinds. Red, orange, yellow, green. Each child in their place, listening to a story just like children should. The picture-perfect class, until they weren’t.

If the principal hadn’t been strolling through the doorway, back straight, arm extended to direct the visitor’s eye toward the learning that would surely occur in just a few moments. If I had slept a little longer last night. If I hadn’t had a fourth whiskey. If Ethan had been absent, and unable to pinch and poke Sienna, provoking her rage. If Sienna hadn’t stood up, screaming, in the middle of my read-aloud. If I hadn’t tossed the book aside and wrapped both arms around Ethan’s waist, carrying him to the time-out corner. If I hadn’t tossed him toward the beanbag chair. If the bookcase corner hadn’t been designed with a sharp metal point. If his tiny forehead hadn’t met it.