side. At the moment, he seemed like a neutral party even though he came across as condescending.
By the time she’d finished the next twelve emails—another had come in while she was reading—there were five against, seven for, and three neutrals. Riki laid her head on the table and listened to the falling rain. Could she tell all the parents to shut up and get a life? She chuckled to herself. Probably not. Mr. Johanson would likely set up a conference so he could lecture her. Teaching done right takes thought and reflection, he’d start. Ugh. Maybe she’d call her own parents and get some advice.
The storm grew in strength, recruiting the wind to rough up some trees. She pushed her chair back and stalked to the kitchen. She couldn’t think on an empty stomach. Lunch at school started at 11:48, and by now she couldn’t even remember what her lunch had consisted of.
As she poured a mix of granola and Cookie Crisp into a bowl, it hit her. She’d run out during her lunch break to get an egg sandwich and an iced tea from Starbucks. There hadn’t been time that morning to make her lunch. She added a little extra Cookie Crisp to her bowl and poured milk over it. Cow’s milk. “Here’s to you, Mrs. Trainor,” she uttered before taking the first bite of milk-soaked cereal.
After the jog-a-thon yesterday, she’d talked to the class about food choices and had specifically called on Jeremy to share one of his favorite healthy foods. She’d held her breath as he answered, hopeful it would go well.
“Brussels sprouts,” he’d replied.
“Wow, those are a great source of vitamins and nutrients. Good choice.”
“I’ve never tried them, but my mom said if anyone asks me what I eat again, I should say brussels sprouts.” His eyes shifted to Darcy before they darted back to Riki.
“Here’s the thing, guys,” Riki said, sinking into her read-aloud chair. “There are all kinds of healthy food choices. You know that fruits and veggies are always good, right?”
There was a murmuring of agreement.
“And beyond that, try to pick foods with ingredients you can read, or at least, foods without a really long list of ingredients. Easy peasy?”
“Easy peasy,” they repeated.
“Look, I try to eat healthful foods. I like carrots and grilled chicken and salads. I eat eggs and yogurt and granola. But sometimes I want a Pop-Tart. And guess what? I’ll have one, and I’ll enjoy every chocolaty bite. And more important, don’t let what someone else says make you feel bad.” She looked at Jeremy, but he was busy twirling a pencil in his hand. “Okay, then. Questions?”
Brianne raised her hand. “What’s your favorite kind of Pop-Tart?”
“The chocolate ones. And that’s all we’re going to say about Pop-Tarts.” She’d smiled and stood. “Now, take out your math workbook and turn to page seventy-five.”
If she hadn’t made a quick transition, the kids would’ve turned it into a discussion of their favorite Pop-Tart flavors.
The sound of shattering glass rang through the steady fall of rain, followed by a sharp cry. She ran to the door and yanked it open. Sylvia was on her knees, holding her wrist, as curses tumbled from her mouth. A paper grocery bag lay next to her like a gutted fish with its entrails sprawled in a bloody pool. Riki held back the urge to scream. It isn’t blood, she reassured herself, taking in a fractured jar of pasta sauce, its sharp pieces gleaming in the misty dusk.
Ignoring the rain and remembering too late that she wasn’t wearing shoes, she rushed toward Sylvia. “Are you okay? What hurts?” she called, pushing her hair from her face.
Sylvia groaned and looked upward, the rain mixing with her tears. “My wrist.” She held it to her body like she was cradling a baby. “I think I broke it.”
“Oh no! Can you stand up? We need to get you inside.”
“Yes. It’s my wrist, not my foot,” she said in a biting tone.
Sylvia wasn’t mad at her—she knew that—but nonetheless, her tone stung. “Right.” She led her into her apartment and pulled out a chair. “Sit. I’ll get you some Tylenol. You shouldn’t take Advil if you have a broken bone,” she said, selecting a water glass from the cupboard.
“I thought you were a teacher, not a doctor.”
“I’ve broken my ankle, my wrist, and my elbow. Clumsy kid. Or weak bones. Anyway,” she said, returning from the kitchen with water and two pills, “take these. I’ll pick up the groceries and clean