Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
The kids giggle. I do not.
I turn back to the table, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Reading primers first. Let’s begin.”
I hand out books. Grace accepts hers with a playful mock salute, which somehow makes the twins snort and Junie beam like she’s just been handed a tiara.
I steel myself. This is already spiraling.
Yet, as we begin, something odd happens.
Grace doesn’t interrupt. She follows along, gently nudging the kids when they falter, offering soft encouragement that doesn’t derail the rhythm. They stay focused longer than usual. Matty, who normally tries every trick in the book to avoid sight words, actually reads through a full page with her soft “you’ve got this,” murmured in his ear.
I narrow my eyes. She’s throwing off the balance, but not in the way I feared.
The lesson continues as I call out new words and assign worksheets. Junie colors in a big letter J. The twins trace letters to learn penmanship. Matty and Eli work on copying words and sentences while I let Rory play with wooden alphabet blocks. They obey with fewer complaints than usual—even Eli’s pencil scratches dutifully across the page.
I glance toward Grace, who’s humming faintly under her breath as she helps Junie pick out the best pink for her letter.
My jaw tightens. I don’t want to admit it, but this isn’t the disaster I expected.
We’re forty minutes in when Grace, as anticipated, disrupts the flow.
“We should build a story together,” she says brightly after Junie holds up her finished page for the tenth time.
I blink. “That isn’t on the schedule.”
Matty looks up, eyes wide. “A story?”
The twins instantly perk up. Eli stops scribbling and glances sideways, curious. Grace leans back on her palms. “Come on. I’ve done this with my mom’s kids. Everyone adds a sentence to build a crazy adventure. If you get stuck and need some help, someone else can throw in a word for inspiration.”
I open my mouth to shut it down, then I hesitate. The kids are restless. I know their tells, and if I push straight into math now, I’ll spend the next hour wrestling their attention back into line.
So I sigh. “Five minutes.”
“Ten,” Grace counters, grinning. “You know creative work can’t be rushed.”
I sigh, but I don’t say no.
Grace claps her hands once, and the kids gather close around her like moths to a flame. Grace starts. “Once upon a time, there was a chicken.” Matty rises onto his knees, excitement overtaking him. “Who wanted to be a cowboy,” he yells.
The room erupts into giggles.
I cross my arms, watching as the story spirals into ridiculousness, featuring a talking chicken with a hat like Daddy, a runaway unicorn, an alien tractor beam, and a magical lasso. Grace keeps them moving, eyes sparkling, gently steering wilder ideas without ever shutting anyone down.
She glances up at me once and catches me watching. “Don’t tell me Professor Mc Serious Face is enjoying this,” she teases.
I clear my throat. “I’m evaluating its educational merit.”
She laughs, low and warm. “Right. Of course you are.”
The kids are practically vibrating with joy, scribbling pictures of the chicken hero and his adventures. Even Eli seems engaged, sketching quietly at the edge of the table. Grace notices and gives her a soft, encouraging smile that she almost returns.
“You have a way with them,” I say grudgingly, unable to keep the observation to myself.
Grace shrugs. “I grew up in a house full of kids who needed attention and structure, but also a little fun. You can have both, you know.”
I glance at the scattered crayons, the crooked drawings, the beaming faces. My jaw tightens. I don’t want to admit she’s right, or how easy it is for her to get under all our skin.
“We’ll see,” I say instead.
I should’ve ended it there. The kids would’ve gone back to their worksheets, and I would’ve had my orderly morning back. But no.
Grace pushes to her feet, brushing her hands on her jeans. “All right, ranch hands. Who knows Old MacDonald?”
Five small hands shoot up, and Rory, not wanting to be left out, raises his chubby fist.
Before I can intervene, Matty is already shouting, “E-I-E-I-O!” and the twins start clapping out a beat on the table.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Grace…”
She waves me off with a sunny smile. “Movement breaks improve focus, Professor. You should read the research.”
I scowl, but the damage is done. The room erupts into gleeful chaos. Grace leads them in a stomping, marching, full-volume rendition of Old MacDonald. Junie twirls like a ballerina. Rory claps frantically, squealing at full volume. Matty neighs dramatically for the horse verse. Reserved, guarded, Eli taps one foot along with the beat, lips silently mouthing the words.
I stand stiffly, arms crossed, watching the madness unfold like an unwilling bystander at a parade I never signed up to watch.
They launch into If You’re Happy and You Know It, clapping, stomping, and shouting with wild abandon.