Free How Sweet It Is by Alice Wisler Page A

about my injuries.
    When school lets out at 2:50, the kids will ride the bus from Swain County Middle School to The Center, arriving at 3:05. Miriam told me that my class will start shortly after that. She also said that about halfway through my lesson, I should allow one break so that the children can play basketball outside. “We like them to get their exercise,” she said.
    I stare at myself in the round mirror with the mosiac frame. I smile, hoping to exude the confidence that the young man playing basketball exhibited. Forget it; I can’t cover up the truth. The truth is spelled n-e-r-v-o-u-s. I’ve never taught kids before. Well, once I did teach summer Sunday school to second graders, but that was ages ago. I haven’t been to church in months. I don’t broadcast this to just anyone, though. Mom would shake her head, certain I am on my way to hell. Dad would try to comfort her, and I’d want to crawl under the carpet and join all the microscopic critters that live there.
    Smiling into the mirror, I push my shoulders back and try to show poise, grace, and calmness—everything that teachers are supposed to have.
    “Cooking is my passion,” I say to my reflection. The words seem to float around in the room, and I grab them and let them rest inside me. If cooking is my passion, then telling someone else about it should be easy, right? Fluffing my hair, I smile into the mirror again, but soon break away because my look of fearful anticipation is making my stomach ache.
    At the Presbyterian church, I park in front of the gray-stone annexed building that connects to the main sanctuary by a narrow hallway. Inside The Center’s hallway, laminated signs point to the right to indicate where the preschool classes are. These classes, Miriam told me yesterday, are held Monday through Friday from nine until noon. Down a corridor to the left, next to Miriam’s office, a sign announces The Center.
    I swallow three times, using Sally’s advice, and grip my Whole Foods bag. As I walk, I note the Bible verses on the walls. In bold black letters, suspended above a large bulletin board, are the words God is love. A sign on the wall next to the board reads, Jesus said: I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. By a closed door on the right of the hall, a round plaque declares, Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Proverbs 3:5. At the kitchen door, a poster lists the fruit of the Spirit: love, gentleness, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, patience, self-control, peace, joy.
    Hearing voices, I enter the kitchen by swinging open the large brown door. The kitchen is where Miriam told me the class would meet. It’s full—children are seated on metal folding chairs. Darren, the boy with the deep brown eyes from yesterday, is absorbed with drawing in a notebook that he steadies on his thigh. His felt pen moves quickly across the page.
    Miriam is there, too, standing with her cell phone in her hand. She greets me with a smile and a flash of her blue eyes. Some people are really overly blessed in the good-looks department.
    “Everyone, this is Miss Livingston,” Miriam says to the waiting group of middle-schoolers. “She has just moved here from Atlanta.”

twelve

    I ’ve been to Atlanta.”
    This is proudly spoken by a girl with a massive amount of curly hair and a Harley Davidson T-shirt. She is seated next to Darren.
    “I saw a Braves game,” a boy with a buzz cut bellows.
    “You did not!” the curly-haired girl squeals. “You are such a liar!”
    “Your momma’s a liar,” says the boy.
    Miriam claps her hands twice and the room comes to order. “Let me introduce the children,” she says to me. Starting with Darren and going around the room she tells me their names. “Darren. Charlotte. Lisa. Dougy. Bubba. Rainy. Bobby. Joy.”
    I relax a little. Eight, I think. How hard can teaching eight kids be?
    Joy, the curly-haired girl, raises her hand. “Are you related to