Free A Necessary End by Holly Brown Page B

behavior issues (not to mention managing the expectations of the parents who want to make their job yours). Sometimes you have a tough kid who triggers everyone else; sometimes there are clusters of kids who hijack a room. They’re so impressionable that they can easily act on each other, a ceaseless game of marbles. So it’s marbles for them but chess for me, as I figure out what to do about it all. Generally, I like that.
    But not today.
    Why isn’t he texting me?
    I hadn’t realized it would be worse for me once the kids got calm. Their cacophony was drowning out some of the noise in my head.
    It’s not that I think he’s doing anything wrong. She’s a kid herself. A pregnant kid. Pregnant with our kid, mine and Gabe’s. It’s that I don’t like to be ignored, and Gabe knows that better than anyone.
    â€œI’m going to turn the lights back on,” I announce, “and I want you all to remember the way you feel right now. The calm. Hold on to that, okay? We’re going back to our small groups and you need to work . Five, four, three, two, one.”
    It’s amazing how quickly our eyes adjust to the darkness and how glaring the light can seem. The kids blink and look around. For a second, it’s like they’ve never seen the room before. I recently decorated for spring, with lots of blooming and budding. In the corner is our unit on metamorphosis: the Eric Carle type, not Franz Kafka’s. The students have painted pictures of their interpretation of The Very Hungry Caterpillar . We have 3-D replicas of the various stages of development from caterpillar to butterfly. There are little plastic cocoons that the kids can hold in their hands and, in more rambunctious moments, chuck at one another. We have a field trip planned to see butterflies.
    WTF, Gabe?
    My students are now doing what they’re supposed to, and I sit back down at my desk. I scan the room, wondering which of these kids will look most like my kid and what his temperament will be. I’m a big believer in temperament. I don’t think anyone who works with kids on a regular basis can deny it. I’m hoping for one who’s outspoken yet sweet, like Michaela; I hope he looks like Cody, because Cody is a dead ringer for Gabe.
    Our baby’s almost here. If I close my eyes, I can so easily imagine the weight of him in my arms, my lips grazing his forehead. I’ll never get to breast-feed, of course, and that pains me. But Leah won’t breast-feed either. Not on my watch.
    My fingers itch to text again, but there’s no point. I’m sure he saw the last one. Another would only look desperate, and desperation does not increase one’s attractiveness. He’s just in the middle of something, that’s all.
    What could he possibly be in the middle of? It’s not even noon. They wouldn’t have gone to see a movie; they’re out sightseeing. Sightseeing should make someone eminently available.
    The next half hour passes in a vacillating haze of baby fantasies and agitation over Gabe’s failure to respond. The kids are remarkably self-contained. Not a single argument, or a raised hand, or a “Mrs. T . . .” Once you’re inessential, you realize how much you want to be needed.
    â€œLunchtime, Mrs. T.” Angie points at the hands of the clock. She sounds proud. It takes her a lot longer than the other kids to pick up skills and once she does, she likes to demonstrate them. With her red hair and off-center pigtails, she’s got a certain Pippi Longstocking quality. It’s hard not to love Angie.
    I smile at her. “You’re right, Angie. It is.”
    That means lunch for me, too, though my stomach says otherwise. After I make sure the kids are safely to the cafeteria, I head for the break room, phone firmly in hand.
    The break room is windowless, with each wall painted a differentcolor (green, blue, yellow, red). It’s like eating