Page 14 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“Are you going to treat me differently now?” I ask, half joking, and she laughs.

“No. I get it. I mean, I don’t get the part about my father, but I get the appeal of an older man. Guys our age are so meh.” She makes a face, and I laugh too. She’s not wrong. The last guy I dated was my age, and a total ass.

Something occurs to me, and I lean away, chewing my lip. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything. Your mom, uh, is she…?” I trail off, not knowing how to phrase it. I didn’t notice a ring on Headmaster Wright’s finger, but then I wasn’t really looking.

Juliana shakes her head, face softening. “She died in a car accident when I was ten.”

“Oh… Juliana, I’m so sorry.”

She nods, her expression wistful. “Thanks. It was a long time ago.”

“I guess,” I murmur, because I don’t know what else to say. My own parents flash into my mind. They’re both around, but I hardly see them these days. We don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. “That must have been so tough, losing your mom at that age.”

I think of my students, not quite ten, but close. How would they cope in that situation? What support would be there to help a child through something like that? There’s a school guidance counselor, I know that much, but that’s not always enough. I wonder how much Juliana had to carry alone. How much Headmaster Wright had to carry on his own. That explains a little of why he’s so closed off and pessimistic. That, and whatever happened last year.

“It was,” she says, cradling her coffee cup. “No one understood.” Her sadness gives way to a smirk. “And probably explains why I had a brief rebellious streak after college.”

I’m curious to ask more about this, but the bell rings to signal the end of recess, and we stand. She pauses before going.

“Just… don’t give up on Dad, okay?”

I open my mouth to ask what she means, and she chuckles.

“With the fundraiser, I mean. I know he can be stubborn, especially after what happened last year, but he needs someone to challenge him. He’ll come around, I promise.”

“Okay,” I agree, but I’m not so sure.

“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, leaning in to speak conspiratorially, “I think you and he would make a good couple.” She winks before turning on her heel, and I stare after her in disbelief.

What?

She has to be joking, surely.

A strange laugh bubbles out of me at the thought, and I hurry downstairs to my class. I pass Headmaster Wright in the hall, looking as sharp and severe as ever. Every day he’s in a three-piece suit, dark tie, and polished Oxford shoes, the epitome of formality and control, and the complete opposite of me. Instinctively, I want to duck my head and hide, but I remember my vow not to shrink around him, and instead square my shoulders, sending him a sunny smile.

“Good morning, Headmaster Wright.”

He nods, expression inscrutable. “Miss Hart.” His gaze slides over me, lingering on my skirt. I keep walking, spine straight, as if I didn’t notice. When I reach the top of the stairs, my heart is racing.

I pretend I have no idea why.

In the classroom, I settle the students in for a little journal writing time. I’ve started doing this each day in an attempt to practice the art of self-reflection. You’re never too young to learn that skill. To help them get started, I write the prompt How I’m feeling about the school year on the board, then set a timer for ten minutes. When the timer is up, Jessica raises her hand.

“Miss Hart, can I share what I wrote?”

I smile, leaning back against my desk. “Absolutely. Everyone is free to share if they like, but no one has to.”

Jessica grins, standing and clutching her notebook. “I’m feeling happy about this year. My little sister started school, and I’m excited to show her my favorite spots to play.”

“That’s great, Jessica,” I say encouragingly. “I bet your sister is glad to have you here to support her.”

Jessica beams as she settles into her seat.

“Would anyone else like to share?” I ask, looking around the class. No one responds, so I turn to my desk, but a small voice from the back row stops me.

“Can I share mine?”

I glance back to find little Andy O’Reilly timidly raising his hand. He’s barely said two words since school started, and I smile warmly at his courage.