Free No More Mr. Nice Guy by Jennifer Greene

right here,” he assured her, and settled cross-legged on the far corner of her red rug.
    She looked at him uncertainly. “That isn’t going to be comfortable.”
    “Sure it is.”
    “Are you positive? I mean…”
    A little girl poked her head in the doorway; she was dressed in OshKosh overalls and a fuzzy purple sweater. Alan’s heart turned over, seeing the hearing aids in her ears. She wasn’t much bigger than a minute, and she took one look at him and hurled herself at Carroll.
    Carroll was prepared, arms ready to swing her up in a hug. There wasn’t a sound for a few minutes, as the two carried on a rapid conversation in sign. Alan gathered very quickly that he was unwanted, that the child knew whatever was in the white bag on the shelf was a treat for her, and that she was in the habit of collecting a favorite stuffed animal from the corner before they started work.
    He cleared his throat in embarrassment. In coming here, he’d wanted to show Carroll he cared about her work. It had stupidly never occurred to him that his presence might make her job more difficult.
    “Doughnuts after speech,” Carroll insisted finally. “Down we go, Cathy. Work time…but first I want you to meet Alan.” The child pulled tighter on her arms. Carroll shot Alan a wink and smoothly rushed on. “Alan brought some orange juice just for you this morning, and some doughnuts. He’s having problems with his s’ s , and you’re getting so good with them I thought you could help him.”
    The little girl looked suspiciously at Alan, who nodded gravely. Slowly, she consented to being slid out of Carroll’s arms to the floor. She made another gesture in sign to Carroll, who firmly shook her head.
    “From now on, we’re going to communicate in speech.”
    Orange juice was served, spilled, cleaned up and put aside. By then the blond urchin was batting her eyelashes at Alan and edging closer. Fifteen minutes later, the tyke was sitting on his lap, and they were both pretending they were snakes, making long hissing sounds.
    “No, not quite,” Carroll said gently. “Watch my mouth now. Watch my teeth. See how my teeth come together when I make the s sound?”
    Alan watched her mouth. He watched her teeth. He made s sounds. Then k sounds. And then d sounds.
    An hour later, Cathy was succeeded by Melissa, who had a lisp. At midmorning, Melissa was succeeded by Philip, a gangly six-year-old with a milk mustache, who had a tendency to stammer. Then there was Jimmy, who couldn’t master the l sound.
    At first, Alan was fascinated. Carroll was such a pro. Nothing shook her. Melissa insisted on working upside down—literally standing on her head. Philip dissolved in tears. Carroll battled discouragement, temper tantrums, fragile egos and plain stubbornness. She was the most beautiful battle-ax of a teacher he’d ever come across, he thought lovingly. Nothing deterred her from smoothly, gently prodding the recalcitrant little ones into mastering their speech lessons. At first amused that she’d made him part of her class, he understood shortly thereafter that he’d better toe the line. Helping the children came first. He had no doubts that she’d make the President of the United States sit down on the carpet and practice consonants if he dared to darken the door.
    After several hours, though, Alan’s legs were cramped, he’d earned two rainbow stickers on his wrists, and the tedium of repetition was getting to him. As lunchtime neared, he was dying. His right leg had developed a charley horse. His jaw ached from forming sounds. He’d had three cups of orange juice spilled on him.
    “Llllll,” Caro repeated. “Make the tip of your tongue touch the roof of your mouth, Jimmy. There now, look at Alan. See how his tongue tickles the top of his mouth?”
    Alan obediently demonstrated by parting his lips and making his tongue touch the roof of his mouth for the fifteenth time. He was going to last the rest of the morning. He was. He was