Natural Order by Brian Francis Read Free Book Online Page B

be like that,” Helen says. “No offence, Fern.”
    “None taken,” Fern says, but her tone says otherwise. She’s about to finish her first year of teaching.
    “I almost went crazy,” she confessed to me. “They’re horrible little creatures. All snot and smelly feet and pestering questions.”
    “Then why did you go into teaching?”
    “It was either that or sit at home with Mother all day. I picked the lesser of two evils.”
    I look over at John. Miss Robinson was younger than me, with pouty red lips like glue bottle dabbers. Her nylons made whispering whish-whish sounds each time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. How much happiness can be found in a pair of perfectly shaped calves? Everywhere I looked in the classroom, there were rectangles: the green chalkboards, the beige desks, the melamine backs of chairs.
    “About John,” Miss Robinson began.
    “John,” I repeated, tucking my legs under the seat.
    She assured me he was a good student. “Just the other day, he held the classroom door open for me.” She laughs lightly. “The perfect gentleman.”
    “He’s very considerate.”
    “But I have concerns.” She twisted around, her legs jutting towards me. She gestured behind her back with an index finger. I saw a miniature oven, a sink. Shapes that looked like plastic fruit. “John likes spending play time in the kitchen area.”
    “He helps me at home,” I explained.
    “I’m sure he does.” Miss Robinson cleared her throat. “There are other things, Mrs. Sparks. John also enjoys playing with dolls.”
    Did this woman think she was revealing things I didn’t already know? “He likes taking care of people. He’s … he’s a very caring soul.”
    Miss Robinson nodded. I was hot under my jacket. The warm June morning was building to a hot afternoon. I was glad Charlie wasn’t there.
    “I’m not questioning John’s intentions,” she said, pressing the pads of her fingertips together. Her fingernails matched her lips. “I’m concerned about the end result of those intentions. Most boys in this class couldn’t care less about the kitchen set and they certainly aren’t playing with dolls.”
    Dolls and kitchens. Kitchens and dolls. Was that all she could focus on? What about his spelling?
    “I’m sorry, Miss Robinson. But I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to tell me.”
    She looked up. “If I see a child exhibiting abnormal behaviour, I have a responsibility to address it, Mrs. Sparks. My conscience won’t allow me to turn a blind eye.” She leaned in. “Is everything all right at home?”
    “Of course.”
    “No upheavals or change in the environment that might cause John to act out in peculiar ways?”
    “Nothing that I can think of.”
    I watched her tongue poke the inside of her cheek. A large clock above the chalkboard ticked the seconds away.
    “When the children play tag at recess,” Miss Robinson finally said, “John lines up with the girls. He wants to be chased by the boys. You’ll need to keep a close eye on him, Mrs. Sparks.”
    I say nothing to Charlie. There’s no reason to get him involved. I try to keep certain things about John a secret; things I know Charlie wouldn’t be good with. Besides, he’ll only blame me.
    “You coddle him too much,” he tells me. “He can’t keep running to you whenever he’s got a problem.”
    “What do you expect me to do? Turn my back?”
    “I see the way he is around you.”
    “You never give him the time of day.”
    “You won’t let me near him.”
    “You’re too critical.”
    “You make excuses.”
    You. You. You. I don’t know when this blame game started. It’s a jagged piece of glass between us.
    I buy celebrity magazines when I go grocery shopping, glancing over my shoulder before tucking a rolled-up copy between the items on the conveyor belt. It’s not as though I’m doing something shameful or unusual. These magazines are created for women like me, looking for escape, for straight-toothed