Page 3 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

My throat closes.

“I’m fired,” I say slowly, my brain trying to catch up.

Mrs. Kline nods once. “Yes.”

I go still.

I think of the kids.

Of little hands grabbing my fingers. Of the way they say my name like it’s sunshine. Of the sensory toys I made for the quiet corner—smooth wooden shapes and little spinning wheels I sanded until my fingertips hurt, because if I could make something safe, maybe the world would be safer too.

Of the kid who cried yesterday because his dad forgot to pick him up, and I sat on the floor with him and told him it wasn’t because he wasn’t loved.

How can they do this?

How can they erase me like I’m nothing?

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Mrs. Kline speaks again. “You can collect your belongings from the front desk. Denise will help you. You’re not to return to your classroom.”

My eyes sting. “You won’t even let me say goodbye?”

“It’s for the best.”

“For whom?” I choke.

Mrs. Kline doesn’t answer.

Mr. Harris looks down.

That’s when it hits me that it doesn’t matter what I say. They’ve already decided I’m too risky to keep.

“June,” Mrs. Kline says, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

The apology makes me want to scream. Because it’s not sorry. It’s we’re done with you.

I swallow hard. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mrs. Kline’s eyes flicker with discomfort.

“I understand this is upsetting,” she says.

I laugh sharply. “Upsetting. Sure.”

My hands shake as I shove the folder back across the table, then I turn and walk out before I start crying in front of them. I refuse to give them that.

Now, the hallway is louder. Kids laughing. Someone’s shoes squeaking. A teacher calling out, “Single file, please!”

Normal life. Bright. Indifferent.

Denise is still behind the desk holding my box. Her lower lip trembles.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers again when I approach.

I take the box from her arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Not because of the objects inside, though there are enough to rattle and shift, but because it contains proof that I was here. Proof I mattered.

My mug is inside. So are the stickers, the little plastic bins of googly eyes, my notebook full of lesson plans and doodles, the wooden elephant keychain I carved from scrap, and the half-finished fox I’d been sanding on my lunch break.