Group by group, Riki sent the students to gather their backpacks and line up near the door. Typically, Riki followed them out at the sound of the bell, but today she hung back—a watchful eye on the children, of course—but the thought of conversing with any parents caused her head to ache.
Little arms slid around her waist, shaking her from her thoughts, and she looked down to see Penelope.
“I love you, Miss McFarlan!” she sang before skipping to her mom. More kids rushed by, including Darcy, who also paused by the door to hug her.
Riki patted her back. “Have a good afternoon, kiddo. Your mom is waiting outside by the round table.”
The last student left, but before she could swing the heavy door shut, Mrs. Trainor held up a hand. “Miss McFarlan!” She advanced toward the classroom, the heels of her black-suede knee-high boots clicking against the blacktop. Mrs. Trainor probably had an Instagram account titled @MommyFashionista.
“Hello, Miss McFarlan. We need to chat for a few minutes. I’ve sent Darcy home with our nanny.” She shifted her glasses to her head, revealing perfectly applied eye makeup, as though she’d just returned from an afternoon at Sephora.
Excuses to avoid talking with her swamped Riki’s mind. I have to use the restroom. It’s our staff meeting day. I haven’t wiped down the tables yet—think of the germs! I don’t want to talk to you! But she smiled politely and invited her in. “Of course.” She held the door open. “Have a seat.”
Mrs. Trainor sat at the horseshoe table, landing her supple leather purse on a chair with a thud. Her expression was pinched.
Stealing a look at the clock before she sat, Riki said, “I’m assuming this is about the email conversation?”
“How astute of you. Surprising, being that you acted with such carelessness this past weekend.”
“I’m really sorry about—”
She held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she said, her eyes brimming with anger. “Susie Johanson and I had a chat with Gerry this morning, but I need to get a few things off my chest with you.”
Riki nodded pleasantly even though she felt like fire ants were crawling along her skin. Mrs. Trainor was on a first-name basis with Principal Rosenkrantz? Talk about a red-flag warning.
“I know you came from a public school, but this is a private school. Do you understand me? A private school,” she said, drawing out the words.
Riki swallowed in an attempt to moisten the desert that was her mouth. “I understand that. It—”
“There are social dynamics here,” she said pedantically. “If a parent, someone who pays large sums of money for their child to have a positive experience here, emails you with a concern, you should address the issue.”
“And I did just that.”
“No, you didn’t do just that,” she repeated with a snap. “What you did, Miss McFarlan, was to allow the conversation to turn into bullying. There’s a fine line.”
“But I—”
“Do not interrupt me. I’ve defended you all year to parents who claim you’re too young, too inexperienced, and, frankly, too careless. I understand what a nasty group they can be.” She pursed her lips, making her look more like a duck than an imposing power mom. “But this was unacceptable.”
Riki wondered if it would be unacceptable to tell Mrs. Trainor it was time for her to leave. She bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from saying a word. And maybe to keep her focus on the sting so she wouldn’t burst into tears at the insults. Inexperienced and careless? That was simply untrue. She knew all her students by heart—their strengths and weaknesses, their friendships and struggles. But she couldn’t try to explain all that to Mrs. Trainor. Riki had the strange feeling Mrs. Trainor might attempt something unexpected, like pulling a knife from the sleeve of her sweater and stabbing Riki’s hand if she dared to correct her.
“You’re right,” she said. “I handled it inappropriately, and I’m very sorry. Principal Rosenkrantz and I talked at length over the weekend,” she said, crossing her fingers beneath the table, “and we are dedicated to resolving this positively. We chatted this morning about the contest you suggested, and we both think it’s a wonderful solution.”
“Well, like I’ve said all along, I’m here to help.” She riffled manicured fingers through her hair. “I’m glad you were able to take ownership of the mistakes you’ve made. It’s difficult for new teachers, but it’s also tough for us parents. We