Connection (Temptation #6) - K.M. Golland Page 0,16
of tennis. At the beginning of the year, I thought he was going to invite me to join him at the Australian Open when he showed me two tickets he managed to secure to the semi-finals. Only then I saw a picture of him with his friend on his Facebook page the very next day, drinking wine from plastic cups in the stands at Rod Laver Arena.
Remembering how hurt and disappointed I felt, I can’t help but exhale harshly through my nostrils.
“Yes, we did go to Opals. Carly knows the owner, so we spent most of the night in a private section with our own bar. It was great!”
Oliver’s eyes grow wide. “Office-Carly? She knows the owner of Opals?”
My jaw tightens. “Yes, Teacher-Oliver, she does.”
We stop outside the classroom where our kids are lined up in pairs and chatting about the fun things they got up to on the weekend.
He gives me a sideways glance and murmurs, “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Good morning, everybody,” I say, deliberately brushing him off.
“Good morning, Ms Hanson. Good morning, Mr Bunt,” the kids chant.
Smiling at their innocent little faces, I gesture they go inside. “Quickly put your bags on your hooks and sit on the mat, and I’ll announce this week’s bell monitor, roll monitor, and classroom helpers.”
“Can I be a helper?” Jet Bradley asks.
I lovingly cup the back of his head and usher him along—he asks every Monday morning. “Just go and hang your bag up, Jet, and we’ll see what happens.”
Quickly entering the classroom before I’m bailed-up by the few loitering parents, I leave Oliver at their mercy. That’s another thing that happens every Monday, and usually I’m the one who’s stuck answering queries while Oliver slithers inside like a snake. Not today, buddy.
I take a seat at the front of the room and clasp my hands together. “Okay, Grade 2s and 3s, who’s ready for Funday Monday?”
Most of the kids say, “Me!” except for Evan, whose head is down, his shoulders slumped. He’s not normally the spriteliest of kids, but even so, he looks particularly miserable, so I make a quick change in my notebook and appoint him one of this week’s classroom helpers.
“Is Gregory Adams here?” I ask, starting the roll call.
The kids who are present answer, “Yes,” and I soon discover only one student is absent.
“Excellent!” I close the roll-call folder and hand it to Jet with a knowing smile. “Here you go. You’re this week’s roll monitor.”
He jumps up and says, “Yes!” while the other students clap.
“And the bell monitor is—” I pause while the kids perform a drumbeat on the carpet with their hands. “—Emma Johnson.”
Most of them clap while some moan their disappointment.
“And this week’s classroom helpers are—” Another carpet drumbeat. “—Zoey Michaels and Evan Hunter.”
I wait for Evan to smile, but he doesn’t, and it has me a little concerned.
Oliver enters the room, frowning, and I’m childish enough to enjoy his annoyance. He normally announces the monitors and helpers, but again, Not today, buddy. Instead, he heads to the back of the room, to where our sink and Let’s-Make-It table is, and readies things for the first lesson—Science, and the wonderfully messy shit known as Ublex.
“Hannah and Dylan from Red House, it’s your turn for Show and Tell,” I announce.
Dylan springs up, goes to his bag, and brings back a pair of boxing gloves, and I’m instantly thrown back to Friday night, when Will said he was going to teach me how to box. Large, sculpted biceps dance across my mind, and I delight in them before blinking them away. What the hell was that?
“What do you have there, Dylan?” I ask.
“Boxing gloves.” He shows the class, and they stare wide-eyed.
“My dad has those,” Gregory says.
“My mum has pink ones,” Hannah adds.
“Hands up if you have questions,” I remind them.
“These are my new gloves.” Dylan straps them on and punches the air in front of him.
“Whoa, Muhammad Ali! Be careful. We don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
“I won’t punch anyone.” He punches the air again, his demeanour overly confident. “I’m not allowed to, unless it’s self-defence or I’m in the ring.”
“In the ring?” I nearly choke, a little surprised. Surely not. I can’t for the life of me imagine one of “my” kids in a boxing ring.
“Yeah, but I’m too young for the ring. I gotta be ten.”
Jesus! Is that all?
Jet sticks his hand up.
“Yes, Jet, you have a question?”
He nods. “Can you do an uppercut, Dylan?”
Just as Dylan punches toward the ceiling, Oliver curses