The next morning when Olivia woke up early, she checked online and discovered she had several new students who had reached out to her for tutoring. She responded to email, answered questions, assured those who needed papers proofed quickly that she could get to them in the next twenty-four hours. If she continued to add students at this rate, she might need to stop taking new students. She hadn’t expected them to find her this quickly. Though delighted as well as surprised, she couldn’t allow the side work to interfere with her main teaching.
She glanced at the clock and discovered she’d nearly missed breakfast. She signed off her account and disconnected the internet (the meter would continue to count the minutes if she forgot, and though it wasn’t exorbitantly expensive, she didn’t want to pay for more than she used). Making a mental note of which of the tutoring students needed responses first, she scurried about the room, gathering up what she needed for her classes today.
Shoot. She’d meant to email her mom. She really needed to check in with her, let her know she was adjusted and doing well. Even enjoying the teaching. Later. After class.
Switching gears, she looked over her lesson plan as she dashed across the courtyard and into the dining room.
“There you are!” Tisha said. “We were worried. Wondered if you were sick or something.”
“No, I’m okay.” She lifted the cup of lukewarm tea resting at her place and gulped it, not bothering to sit. “I lost track of time.”
No time for cereal, she decided, so she took a remaining piece of dry toast to crunch on the way to her classroom.
Quick footsteps preceded Chris catching up to her halfway to the school building. “You really okay?” he asked, nudging her arm with his elbow.
“I am. Really. Got busy with tutoring and lost track of time.” She sunk her teeth into the toast, biting off a third of the slice and immediately regretting her over-estimation of how much she could manage at once.
“I worried that . . . maybe after what I told you yesterday . . .” His brow furrowed above downcast eyes, his mouth twisted in remorse.
Realizing the completely wrong conclusion he’d jumped to, she chewed faster, trying to empty her mouth. The dry toast formed a wad and seemed only to swell and threaten to choke her. She couldn’t speak, so she widened her eyes and shook her head.
When he wouldn’t look up, she poked him and forced the dry toast down. “Seriously, I haven’t given it another thought.”
“I thought maybe it was too much.”
“Not at all. We all have our issues and baggage, right?”
He lifted his gaze from the ground. “Yeah?”
She envisioned him alone in the men’s housing again, replaying their conversation all night, worried he’d said too much, gone too far—while she ate chocolates and worried about Aditi with the other women. With no one to talk to, he must have really worked himself up, poor guy. She rested a hand on his upper arm and squeezed, hoping he could sense she meant every word. “Absolutely.”
He seemed to melt with relief. And finally smiled. “Okay. Good.”
She noticed him start to reach out—to hold her hand? Oof. That wasn’t her intention. Encouraging friendship was one thing but veering into anything remotely romantic was a whole different thing. She turned and headed toward the school building again. He walked her the rest of the way to her classroom.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” she assured him.
His eyes searched hers. She knew what he was looking for and knew he wouldn’t see it there. She liked him. She did. She wanted to maintain their budding relationship but wasn’t ready to cross the line into anything serious. Not now. She appreciated how easily he’d accepted her divorce, accepted her baggage. He didn’t judge her or show any sign of shock. Maybe she worried about it too much. Still, how would he feel if he knew—
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said.
She could tell he meant it and appreciated his support. “I will.”
He gave her one last smile before leaving for his own class.
Aditi’s empty seat haunted her, distracted her throughout class. She went through the motions of teaching, but each girl’s smile and bright eyes, eager to soak up everything she presented to them, left her distracted and fighting tears. They would all disappear, one by one, all suffer the same fate of growing up and being hidden away at home until their fathers married them off, relegated to wives, mothers, homemakers. They all had dreams. How could she in good faith encourage those dreams, knowing what she knew? If these girls wanted to stay home and do nothing else, fine. So be it. But not one girl had said she wanted to stay home and care for her husband and children. How unfair to dangle prospects and possibilities in front of them, knowing they could never have that.
By lunchtime, she’d realized she could not allow herself to grow attached to these kids, could not take any more emotional fallout from losing them one by one. Much like she held Chris at arm’s length and would not, could not, let him close enough to hurt her, she would not let the children past her barriers either. It was the only way. Otherwise, each lost child, each potential future snuffed out, would erode her heart, chipping away little pieces until nothing remained to beat in her chest. What would she be without a heart? A bitter, desiccated husk, unable to feel, to connect, to love.
No, she’d been there once before. Never again. Better to put her heart into hibernation until she got back home and could safely wake it slowly as she unpacked and examined her time in India and where she wanted to go next. For now, she would shut down.
She lined up her class and escorted them down the hall to the little room that functioned as a cafeteria. Chris passed her, leading his older charges back to class, their lunchtime over. His face lit up and he waved when he saw her. She offered a smile in return. And then spotted Aubra glaring at them both, as if any of this reflected back on her. She hadn’t encouraged his attention. For crying out loud, she hadn’t dated in . . . how many years? At least a decade. More years than that by now. She had no tolerance for middle-school drama when she was in college. She darned sure wouldn’t get swept up in any now. Chris needed to grow a backbone and tell Aubra to take a hike. And Aubra needed to accept that Chris harbored no feelings for her, suck it up, and move on.
But she wouldn’t get drawn into it. She held her head high and stared straight ahead as she passed Aubra, pretending not to notice the younger woman’s gaze. She refused to be stuck in the middle, used as a scapegoat by both parties.
Outside, the sun beat down, baking the earth in the courtyard. She took the dupatta from her shoulders and draped it over her head to shield herself from the intense heat of the midday rays. Her sensitive skin normally burned easily. But thanks to the shalwar kameez that covered her arms and legs plus the thick haze of smog that nestled over them, filtering the sun’s light and UV waves, her exposed skin had browned, but not burned. Thanks to the pollution, she blew black mucous out of her nose every night. But she hadn’t burned.
She didn’t run and play with the children—her children, as she’d grown to think of them—as she had before. She stood to the side of the courtyard, alone, determined to remain aloof—from the children, the other teachers, and Chris.
The boys tore around the yard, playing tag, kicking a ball, using a stick to play an approximation of what she’d learned was cricket. The girls skipped rope or watched longingly as the boys ran about, yelling, laughing, playing. One little girl, Prisha, even struck a batter’s pose and swung each time a boy stepped up to bat in the impromptu game. She looked like she could hit a wicked googly. Or whatever the phrase was.
Prisha discovered Olivia watching her and immediately clutched her hands behind her back, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t. Olivia smiled at her and nodded in the direction of the game, hinting the girl should join in. Prisha looked stricken, shook her head, and stared at the ground.
Of course. The girls didn’t mix with the boys. She looked closer at the girls, their frayed jump ropes, quiet demeanors, and downcast eyes. For that matter, the boys played with sticks and rocks and a ball so scuffed and deflated it thumped and careened sadly with each kick. Why didn’t they even have decent playground equipment? Surely none of this would be very expensive—
One of the little boys in her class took a tumble and landed hard on his palms and knees, inertia sending him skidding a few feet across the ground. He got up and brushed himself off, but the sight of blood must have been too much for him. Instead of returning to the game, he stood still and began to cry.
She rushed to his side and knelt to inspect his wounds. His hands and knees had been skinned, dirt lodged in the abrasions. She rested a hand on his back and led him to the building, wondering what sort of first aid might be available. She hadn’t thought about that before, but it seemed like something critical at a school. She hadn’t been introduced to a school nurse, so she tried Mrs. Gupta’s office. Finding no one, she took Dev back to her classroom and cleaned up his scrapes.
The boy kept crying, which seemed out of order for the level of his injuries. Sure, skinned palms and knees hurt. She knew that. She remembered from when she was little. She soothed and reassured him, but no matter how many times she uttered, “There we go, it’s not that bad,” he was absolutely inconsolable. Her options were limited, with no Bactine or Neosporin, nothing to deaden the pain of open wounds. But she wiped him off with a damp tissue, gently dislodging the dirt and debris stubbornly packed into the raw, red lines. With no bandages to cover the exposed pink skin, she applied pressure until the scrapes stopped bleeding. She didn’t understand most of what he said but thought maybe she caught “torn pants” between rattling breaths. Seemed like rather an overreaction. If the knee torn out of his pantleg upset him this much, she should get a sewing kit. She was no seamstress, but she could use needle and thread well enough to close the rip.
She got another tissue, blotted his face, and instructed him to blow his nose. By the time she got him cleaned up and somewhat calmed down, recess was over, so she left him in his seat, still sniffling and upset but no longer wailing. She went to retrieve the rest of her class. As she knew they would, the kids had continued to behave themselves and follow the rules even in her absence. They were such good kids. She watched them put away their frayed jump ropes and deflated ball, and leave their sticks and rocks in little, organized groups. She wanted better for them. Every one of them.
Prisha threw her arms around Olivia’s waist and squeezed tightly. “I love Auntie.”
She placed a hand on the girl’s back and squeezed back in a gentle hug. “I love Prisha.”
Her plan wouldn’t work. How could she stop herself from caring about these kids? It was a good idea but completely unfeasible.
The children lined themselves up, and she led them back inside, fighting tears and wishing she could do more.