All I Need to Know about the Earth, I Learned in Kindergarten
Kira Bacal
Copyright 2012 Kira Bacal
License Notes
It was a beautiful, sunny day. Birdsong mingled with the happy shouts of the children as they fled their daylong incarceration in the schoolhouse for the school buses and home. It looked like a frigging Hallmark commercial, and I should have known that the god of irony couldn’t pass it up.
It wasn’t entirely my fault that things progressed as far as they did. I was distracted by Johnny Rogers’ trying to eat the dried macaroni off Angelita Ramirez’s Mother’s Day card. Angelita retaliated by thumping him over the head with her bookbag, and the thermos inside bonked him hard enough to make him cry. That prompted Angelita to start crying out of fear of being blamed, her best friend Emma to start crying out of loyalty to Angelita, and Tommy Washington to try filching the rest of the macaroni. By the time I had dried the tears, administered the scoldings, and gotten them all back in line, Joey Bitford was in the middle of the street with a car barreling down at him.
The other teachers hadn’t even noticed the Johnny-Angelita fracas, let alone Joey’s venture into the forbidden zone beyond the curb. The car was going well above the speed limit, much too fast to stop in time, even if the oblivious driver had paused long enough in her search for just the right radio station to look at the road and see the five year old in her path. I knew instantly that it was not humanly possible to save him.
Good thing I’m not human.
I froze the rest of my kindergarten class in their tracks with a subvocal “DON’T MOVE”. It would be impossible for an adult human to disobey a command when I use that mental tone, let alone for children to do so. Even as I was issuing the thought, I surged into normal (for me, that is) speed and snatched Joey up just before the car passed by. We came to a rest at the far side of the street.
He was too shocked and disoriented even to cry, and I took off my glasses and crouched down to his level so I could look directly into his eyes. “If you ever again walk into the street like that, I will smack your bottom so hard you won’t sit down until your Senior Prom. Do you understand me?” I didn’t use The Voice; I didn’t have to. My eyes alone, unshielded by the camouflaging lenses, were sufficient.
He stared at me, transfixed. “Ye-yes,” he managed to squeak.
I extended my thoughts and flipped briskly through his mind, quickly delving beyond the surface layer of mingled bewilderment at what had happened, lingering terror at the memory of the approaching car, and enormous guilt over his Breaking a Rule. What had prompted this uncharacteristic behavior? Aha. I should have guessed.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the schoolyard. My class’ immobility hadn’t yet attracted notice, but it would soon. I needed to get back there, but first, where was the little weasel? Oh yes, trying to hide behind Mrs. O’Leary’s bulk.
I made sure that the rest of the school were occupied with their own minor crises, then segued Joey and myself back to the bus loading zone before anyone realized we had been gone. I released my class from their frozen state and gave Joey’s hand one last squeeze. He gave me a tremulous smile, and I could “hear” in the still-confused tangle of his emotions that he was as happy that he wasn’t being punished as he was to be alive. That’s one thing about humans at any age: no sense of perspective.
I mentally reviewed exactly what I had said to him. In the heat of the moment, I am sometimes injudicious in my phrasing, and my threats (or promises, to be precise) often had a lasting effect on humans. There had been one instance where a promising young artist’s career had been jeopardized by his inability to experiment with various modern art techniques. Once I rephrased my years-old injunction against paint-throwing, he won several prestigious awards. Satisfied that I had not inadvertently prevented an adult Joseph Bitford from independently crossing the street (though I doubted he would ever be a jaywalker), I moved to address my unfinished business.
I asked Mrs. Brandenstern if she could keep an eye on my kindergarteners along with her second graders for a few moments, and she agreed, surprised. It’s rare that I ask other teachers for help with my class, and they usually regard it as a mark of high distinction when I do. Mrs Brandenstern colored a bit and straightened up proudly, rather unnecessarily calling to two of my students to stay with the group.
I headed off in search of my prey. I found him quaking at the back of the playground, trying to make himself invisible through sheer will power. “Well, well. Little Alec Barrett. I’ve heard about you,” I said, eyeing the third grader with disfavor. He wasn’t one of mine – one of my former pupils, that is. He had moved into the district last year and had rapidly acquired a reputation in the teachers’ lounge for mischief making. He was especially talented at inciting others to break the rules while he stood back and watched. I had learned from Joey’s mind that he had ventured into the road as the result of a “double dare” from a Big Boy – namely, Alec Barrett.
From the looks of him, Alec had heard about me, too, and he knew that I was unlikely to be pleased by his attempt to turn one of my students into a stooge. “Did you see what happened to Joey after you dared him to walk into the street?” I asked him coldly.
“I didn’t –“ I took off my glasses and his voice trailed into a whimper. He stopped quivering, but that was only because he was frozen, much like a bunny rabbit confronted by a snake.
“Did you want to say something?” I asked him.
“Nn-nnh.” He shook his head – well, vibrated it a bit from side to side – his eyes never leaving mine.
“Did you realize that Joey could have been killed?” I asked him, then dismissed my own question with a wave of my hand. He was eight years old. Death was a concept he could grasp only vaguely. Instead, I delved into his mind. What made him prey upon the other children like this?
Hmm. Youngest child. Bullied at home by his older siblings. Nothing horrible, but enough to make him feel impotent and resentful. Parents loving but oblivious to much of what occurred among their children. Poor sense of self-worth, due to being the youngest (and therefore the weakest, least coordinated, slowest – the Barretts appeared to be a very sports-oriented family)… Hmmm. Something would have to be done.
I pulled my focus back to the outside of the child’s head. “Alec, what is your best subject in school?” I asked, curious if his answer would agree with what I had learned from his classroom memories.
“Reading,” he breathed, still held in thrall by my gaze.
Good. That matched what I had seen. “Come with me.” I took him by the hand and marched him back to his teacher, replacing my glasses as we went.
“Mrs. O’Leary, I have good news,” I told her with a pleasant smile. She looked down at the boy by my side and her eyebrows rose.
“Good news?” she reiterated skeptically.
“Yes. Alec has just volunteered to spend his Monday recess periods helping tutor some of my students in reading. Isn’t that wonderful? What a nice thing to do – helping younger students like that.”
Now both Alec and his teacher were staring at me in astonishment. “Really?” Mrs O’Leary asked. “Alec? Alec did that?”
“Shall I repeat myself?” I asked her, and she hastily shook her head. Most humans, regardless of age, stop arguing when I narrow my eyes.
“I’m sure my class will look forward to your coming by on Monday, Alec,” I said, giving him a Look over the rims of my glasses. “It’s very nice of your offering to teach the smaller children like this.”
“Yes, Miss Buttercup,” he nodded j
erkily. “Thank you, Miss Buttercup.”
I moved away to reclaim my class from Mrs. Brandenstern. Behind me, I heard Mrs. O’Leary – not the brightest woman, but a good-hearted one – say, “Well, Alec, since you volunteered to do such a nice thing, I think you should be the one to hold the class flag today. Will you please wave it to show the others they need to gather for the buses?”
Alec’s little chest puffed out as he accepted the class flag. To a third grader, this was the equivalent of being knighted, and I was grateful to Mrs O’Leary for following my lead. If we could bestow a sense of self-worth upon Alec by making him a role model to the younger children, he would be unlikely to continue trying to exploit them. Teachers don’t only care for their own classes, you know.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the last child boarded her bus for home. Another day, another crisis, yet I had still managed to conceal my identity. So far as any