Page 30 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“The Invisible Boy,” I read aloud. The cover shows a boy, alone, drawing with chalk, and I know that Eleanor has chosen this story with intent. I straighten, wanting to do it justice.

Wanting, I realize with alarm, to impress her.

“Can you see Brian, the invisible boy?” I begin, and the kids lean in closer. I read with care, telling the story about a boy who’s ignored by all his classmates, until a new kid arrives and befriends him. Over the course of the story, the illustrator draws the boy in faint pencil, until he’s finally in bold color at the end. All because someone saw him for who he was and appreciated him.

I can’t imagine a book that’s more Eleanor.

The class is silent when I close the book and look up. I remove my glasses and tuck them away, making the mistake of meeting Eleanor’s gaze across the room. She holds a hand to her heart, eyes shining, a small, meaningful smile on her lips.

And it burrows right under my ribs.

I swallow hard, looking back at the students. Thinking of something to ask them. Anything to distract from that feeling.

“What does everyone think of the story?” I ask, clearing the sudden thickness from my throat.

“It was sad,” one girl says. Amy, I think her name is. Yes, Amy Jones.

“Why do you say that, Amy?”

“No one wanted to be friends with him.”

I nod, scratching my jaw. “At the start, yes. What about at the end?”

Amy considers this. I glance at Eleanor again, waiting for her to step in, but she watches curiously, not moving.

“I liked that he was good at drawing,” Jessica Chu says.

“So did I, Jessica.”

“Are you good at drawing, Headmaster Wright?” Jessica asks, and I grimace.

“No. I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Could you draw us something?” Kelly Patel asks eagerly, and I glance again at Eleanor in panic.

Mercifully, Eleanor stands, chuckling. “I think we’ve taken enough of Headmaster Wright’s time.” She smiles as she walks to the front of the class, taking the book from my hands. “Let’s get our notebooks out, and we can think about some answers to the questions on the board.”

I watch, fascinated, as the students diligently head to their desks and get to work without a single complaint. It’s odd seeing Eleanor like this, commanding and respected by the room. She’s clearly in her element.

“Thanks for that,” she says quietly to me. “It means a lot to have the headmaster read them a story.”

“No problem.” I stand from the stool, buttoning my jacket. “I didn’t know I still had it in me.”

Her brows rise. “You taught third grade?”

“English Lit. To seniors. So… not quite the same thing.”

She lets out a small laugh. “No,” she murmurs to herself.

A noise from the back of the room catches her attention, and she excuses herself, going to see what the commotion is. Richie Matthews is restless in his seat, throwing balls of paper at another student across the room. I turn to leave, but when Eleanor kneels beside him, I linger, listening.

“Hey, buddy,” she says softly. “Everything okay over here?”

He shrugs, face sullen and closed off. Eleanor tilts her head in thought, assessing him.

“Richie, I could really use your help with something,” she murmurs, smiling kindly.

I watch closely, curious about what she’s planning. Richie looks up, and Eleanor’s smile softens.