Stormy-without-rain, dry, gusty days when the tall cedars in his front yard whipped back and forth, their spiky branches crackling against one another, were the days Quinn liked the most. The scrawny oak trees that lined the schoolyard’s perimeter fences made only a few faint whistles when the wind rustled their wilted leaves; still, any kind of wind-through-the-trees noise made Quinn want to build a campfire and sip hot cocoa. He lost track of time during recess as he wandered about the school, listening to the trees and wondering when the Mistress of Malevolence, aka the playground monitor, would decide it was permissible to run on the field.
Click click, click click.
“Did everyone enjoy recess? Please sit down and listen up!” Ms. Blakeman used her clicker to shoo students to their seats, as if she were herding a flock of lost sheep. “I’d like to introduce someone who’s going to be a regular part of our class. Mr. Bryan Standers will be with us on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. He’ll be working with our ESL students, and with all of the reading groups on a rotating basis. He’ll also help grade papers, so watch your handwriting! He’s not used to your chicken-scratch scrawls like I am.”
Several students in the front row pretended to be indignant, which prompted a hearty laugh from Ms. Blakeman.
Click click, click click.
“We’ll find many ways to keep him busy, won’t we?!” Ms. Blakeman’s eyes narrowed into slits of delight, and she turned to Mr. Standers. “Remind me to tell you about our community service project. Now, fifth graders, I’m going to ask Mr. Standers to tell you a little about himself before we get started.”
Ms. Blakeman took a step backward, and Bryan Standers took two steps forward. Neally’s father was thin and tall. His reddish-brown hair curled around his ears and down the side of his face, blending in with his neatly trimmed beard and moustache. He looks like Abraham Lincoln, Quinn thought. Quinn snuck his history book out of his desk and flipped through the pages until he found Lincoln’s picture. Mr. Standers’ eyes were as twinkly as Lincoln’s but were lighter in color; also, Mr. Standers didn’t have Lincoln’s distinctive, warty knob on his cheek. He didn’t really look like Lincoln at all, Quinn decided, except for being tall, skinny, and bearded.
“I’m Bryan Standers. It’s nice to meet you all.” Mr. Standers clasped his hands behind his back and slowly looked around the room, making eye contact with each student. When his eyes met Neally’s he blew her a kiss.
“As you may have guessed, I’m Neally’s father. And my class assignment,” he winked at the teacher, “is to tell you about myself. I am married to Ruthanne Maxwell, Neally’s mother. We moved here from Spokane, Washington, so that Ruthanne could take a job at Oregon Health Sciences University, where she heads up the nursing recruitment program. I’m a former teacher, currently a stay-home dad. I’m not a scientist, but I love reading science magazines, probably to catch up on what I didn’t pay attention to when I was in school. I’m sure none of you diligent students will ever have that problem.”
Several students giggled. Mr. Standers looked at Ms. Blakeman, who circled her hands in a “keep going” gesture.
“What else should I tell you?” Mr. Standers thoughtfully stroked his beard. “I like to hike and kayak, and I run and do yoga for exercise. I enjoy cooking and give myself special culinary projects every season. My goal this winter is to learn to make pasta from scratch. I paint with watercolors, mostly landscapes and a few abstracts. Someday I’ll get the courage to show my work to ...”
Lily L’Sotho, sitting in the front row between Arturo and Janos, clapped her hands together and squeaked, “Oh!” She covered her mouth and looked down at her desk when she realized her classmates were looking at her.
Mr. Standers smiled at Lily. “Do you like to paint?”
Lily cupped her palms around her cheeks and nodded her head.
“She does indeed,” Ms. Blakeman said. “I’m hardly impartial; still, I’d say Lily, and also Arturo and Janos, happen to be three of our class’s best artists.”
Matt Barker leaned back in his chair. “The worse you talk, the more you get to paint,” Matt whispered to Josh.
Josh snorted loudly, then quickly covered his mouth and pretended he was coughing when Ms. Blakeman frowned at him.
“I’m sure we’d all like to see your paintings,” Ms. Blakeman said to Neally’s father.
“As I was saying, someday I’ll get the courage to show them to ... someone.” Bryan Standers lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders, and several students laughed in recognition and appreciation. It wasn’t often that grownups admitted to being embarrassed.
Neally sighed, saying to no one in particular but loud enough for Quinn to hear, “He won’t even show them to me.”
