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Andromeda kicks her legs while she sits on her desk, surrounded by the other children. I’m busy setting up the printouts my class will need after recess ends. Beside me, Zahra grades journals and draws tiny animals next to each passing score.
Before Zahra was my assistant, Elsie graded in the back office where this school keeps the cots for the younger grades’ nap times, the extra books that don’t fit in any of the other library shelves, and the mandatory emergency first aid supplies. Elsie was an older woman who preferred the quiet of the back office when she started with the teacher who worked here before me. I only had her for a couple years, then she retired late, and I think it’s been about three years since she passed now.
Unlike Elsie, Zahra can’t stand being alone in that back room.
Since Zahra is my best—read as: only—friend, I know a few more details about her past than she supplied when she interviewed for this position in front of my school board.
Her life growing up was garbage, but for one reason or another, her mother got her diagnosed with schizophrenia. Nowadays, I think the diagnosis would be refined as mild auditory hallucinations.
Simply put, Zahra hears the voices of things that aren’t there. She doesn’t love being alone with them. Ever. Sometimes I joke and say they’re the only reason she’s an extrovert; she argues that she’s so extroverted her brain had to make up friends whenever any were absent.
But we both know the things she hears aren’t friends.
Some days she looks too exhausted to even pretend.
Lightning crashes across the sky, reminding me why my littles aren’t playing outside during today’s recess. No one wanted to dart through the rain and into the stinky gym building today. Nope. They all wanted to have story time with Andromeda instead.
My eleven children sit around their leader and hang on her every word as though she’s the oldest kid here. She isn’t. Not even close. But every school year comes with a queen bee, and she took the crown shortly after she arrived.
She chirps, “So, right now, the dryads are planting their sprouts in the woods near here—which is super exciting because that means next spring we might have a new baby dryad.” Her legs kick, kick, kick as her kinky curls bounce, bounce, bounce. “You really never know when you’re going to get a new baby dryad, but the current youngest dryad is hopeful.”
“Why is she hopeful, pacifically?” Riley asks.
“Specifically, she’s hopeful she’ll get to raise a little baby. Dryads don’t have soulmates or fall in romantic love. They also don’t really have families with mommies or daddies. They consider one another as sisters. But the eldest of the copse says if a new baby comes in this next bloom, the youngest dryad may take care of it.”
“Boringggg.” Josh picks his nose and wipes it into the carpet before rolling onto his back and scrunching like a worm. “I thought we’d hear more about monster fighting.”
“Hey, what is everyone dressing up as for Halloween?” Mia interrupts the flow of conversation, as she does, regularly. It’s a habit I’ve been trying—and failing—to work with her on. “I’m going to be a unicorn.”
“Boringgg,” Josh complains again.
“Shut up! It is not!”
“What’s Halloween?” Andromeda asks before the argument devolves into a fight.
I go still.
Even Zahra looks up from her sketch of a cat playing with a ball of yarn.
“You don’t know what Halloween is?” Josh blurts.
While my littles explain the concept of one of the most common holidays in this entire country to Andromeda, I try not to picture myself wringing Pollux’s neck. Again.
To be fair, I get the image stuck in my skull at least once a day lately. Usually about the time Andromeda comes to school. In the same outfit as always. Without a lunch. Unattended.
It’s like my meeting with her father two weeks ago meant nothing.
Since then, all I’ve been able to do is confirm with Andromeda that I have her correct home address and resubmit the information to the proper (useless) authorities yet again. When I tried to ask if Andromeda had contact information for Willow, she simply told me Willow doesn’t like her ringtone.
It’s best not to call. Or show up. Except on movie nights. But only if I’ve been invited. And Willow doesn’t really invite humans. Because Willow doesn’t really like humans.
And, you know, Willow might think I’m human. Because Andromeda hasn’t told her directly otherwise. Because Andromeda has been taught not to meddle in people’s relationships. She’s already played a main role in a story; now she’s committed to being everyone’s favorite side character.
Which, apparently, is difficult. Because her friend Pila exists. And, for context, Pila is the youngest dryad she mentioned a moment ago…
Some part of me understands that Andromeda is seven and fantasy stories like this aren’t entirely unusual for a seven-year-old, but the commitment and the details are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s all consistent. When any of the other students challenge her pictures, she doesn’t get upset or insist she’s right like a child fighting to have her fantasy story validated. She just…laughs a little. Like she knows the truth isn’t something their objection can change. Sometimes, her eyes will sparkle, and she’ll encourage the difference in belief.
Because belief is powerful for the fae.
