Gemotions

The school secretary's voice, chirpy and annoyingly upbeat, bounced off the polished floors. "Oh, that's wonderful, Mrs. Abernathy! Mr. Henderson is still teaching fifth grade! He was just fantastic." A wave of something unpleasant washed over Eleanor. Fantastic? The man had assigned her an essay on the migratory patterns of the European swallow when she was nine. Nine! She forced a smile, tight and brittle, and gripped her purse straps until her knuckles ached. This was not fantastic.

Her stomach churned as she imagined the potential for Henderson-inflicted trauma. Her daughter, Lily, bubbly and trusting, was about to be subjected to the same dry wit, the same monotonous drone about punctuation, the same endless homework. A sudden heat flushed her cheeks. She muttered a quick goodbye and nearly ran out of the office, the cheerful sunlight of the day suddenly feeling oppressive.

She found herself, almost against her will, pacing in the parking lot. The image of Lily in Henderson's classroom, vulnerable and learning, was a bitter pill to swallow.