“What about your homework? We do have a math test on Friday.”
She groaned. “I have to sit in the office and do it all before I can work with him. Uncle Ronan knows about the test and already said he won’t let me start working on the carb until I show him I’ve done my homework. Then he’ll quiz me.”
“So your uncle will check your homework? Doesn’t your mother do that?”
She giggled. “Mom couldn’t pass the test herself. She dropped out of school. She’s really nice but doesn’t read or anything. Same with my dad, so Uncle Ronan has been coming over to the house to help me with my homework for a long time, even before Dad got hurt. Sometimes, Uncle Jett comes with him and helps out, but he’s better at spelling and stuff.” She made a face. “They’re harder to please than you are. A lot harder. I have to answer every question right and it has to be neat—they won’t let me turn in sloppy work.”
No wonder the girl’s homework was always on time and neat. She was motivated. “What if your work is sloppy? What do they do?”
Kayla scowled, looking serious. “They make me do it all over.”
“Or what? Do they get angry?”
“Yup. And if I don’t re-do it right, I don’t get to help fix the bikes.” She hesitated, looking embarrassed. “Sometimes, Uncle Ronan teases me in front of the other guys and tells them I have to understand how important it is to be neat, or I’ll accidentally put an engine back together with dirt in it and blow it up.”
Tessa was having a problem reconciling Kayla’s picture of her home life with the pictures in her head. She was the most well-adjusted kid she’d ever met. The bell rang for recess, and Kayla closed her notebook and got up. She obviously wanted to leave, but Tessa held her back for a second. It was important to learn about the kids and to find out about their home lives.
“When you say your uncle is a biker and his friend is also a biker, do you mean they have motorcycles and ride with friends?”
Kayla laughed. “Sure. What else?”
Tessa reconsidered her initial fears. The girl never came to school bruised or depressed. She clearly loved her life, although now it was clear why there was usually grease under her fingernails. Tessa desperately returned to her idea that Kayla’s family was more than a bunch of renegades. Just because these men rode motorcycles and worked on them, it didn’t mean they weren’t lawyers or something respectable.
“What does your uncle… your real uncle… do for a living?”
Kayla looked at Tessa with a withering stare that made her feel like she was the student and obviously had missed the point of the lesson. She stood squarely in front of Tessa, put her hands on her hips and scowled. When she spoke again, she sounded impatient. “Uncle Ronan is a biker and the club mechanic. I already told you that, Miss Lee.”
“I was paying attention, Kayla. I just wondered what else he does—when he isn’t riding his motorcycle. Or your Uncle Jett?” she added casually, hoping to extract more information.
Kayla laughed, relieved to find her teacher wasn’t a complete dolt. “When he isn’t riding, he’s repairing bikes. Uncle Jett is busy with his crummy old bikes, but they always look good when he’s done.” Kayla fidgeted, obviously wanting permission to leave.
“C’mon, Kayla!” Tessa turned to see Jimmy Taylor standing in the classroom door, waiting for Kayla impatiently. “It’s recess.”
“Go on,” she told the girl and then smiled as she dashed out to play with her friend.
Jimmy was Kayla’s best friend. He was a shy, gentle, nervous beanpole of a twelve-year-old boy, and big. In fact, he was so big, most people assumed he was a year older, probably having been kept back. But he was just big for his age—a lot taller than Tessa. During the day, with Kayla there, Jimmy came alive. But each morning, he arrived at school withdrawn.
Jimmy’s track record with homework was spotty. A check of his records revealed that he lived with his father and that his mother was dead. His father hadn’t come to the parent-teacher conference she’d scheduled with him at the beginning of the year, so she knew nothing about him and had no idea if he was supportive of the schoolwork. Often that made a difference, which was why the image of Kayla’s biker uncle patiently insisting she do her homework before playing with a motorcycle was so intriguing, and unsettling in some way.
Jimmy might not have someone encouraging him, and that bore watching. She never saw any indication he was mistreated. He never came in with marks or bruises, and he always had the right school supplies and clean clothes. All the physical indications suggested he came from a good family that cared for him.
But that withdrawal came from somewhere. And unlike the effervescent Kayla, he never mentioned his father or anything about home.
Thinking about him, paying attention, and watching for signs was all she could do, ethically, legally, or morally. Worrying came naturally to her, especially for the kids under her care. Now she wasn’t sure if she should be worried about Kayla’s home life or if she was overreacting. Tessa had heard more than once that she tended to be too narrowminded and traditional in her views, but how could a biker and his best friend provide the stability a child needed? She intended to keep a watchful eye on both Kayla and Jimmy’s situations.
When school letout that afternoon, Tessa followed the kids as they poured out of the classroom and into the schoolyard. As the ones who rode the bus queued for their rides home, the ones waiting to be picked up were required to stay within the fenced yard until a parent or guardian came for them. A few more who lived nearby put on their backpacks and walked home, usually in groups of two or three. Once they left the school grounds, they were on their own.
Watching them leave school and go off into the world, Tessa felt an ache. Some of them had happy homes, loving families. But some didn’t; some of them went to homes where they weren’t treated properly. Some were even abused.
The idea that anyone would treat a child badly horrified her.
You are overly sensitive.
She was. Other teachers were glad to see the backs of the children when they left. Once the last child had left, they were shed of their responsibilities for them and could return to their own lives. Tessa had trouble letting go. She needed to find a balance, a way to let them live their lives. After all, the children weren’t hers.
From the beginning of her teaching career, Tessa had suffered for her kids. And she’d made a conscious decision that it was better to hurt a bit for them, for their possibly imagined wrongs, than be indifferent to any pain she might be able to do something about. Her attachment to other people’s children had wrecked more than one personal relationship, but she would accept that. She was a teacher and had never wanted to be anything else, because of the children.
Now, standing in the schoolyard, she watched them talking excitedly, as if there were no problems in the world.