Page 21 of The Chaperones

Stella, the art teacher

The kids are getting restless as they wait for lunch to be ready, so I call out, “Who wants to do an art project?”

The boys put down their Frisbees. The girls stop scaling trees. Even the two older sisters, who graduated elementary school before my time, make their way over. I can’t fight how good this feels—not just that the children prefer my projects to open play, but that all their parents are watching them do it. If this weekend doesn’t redeem me in the eyes of the PO, I don’t know what will.

The kids sit in a lopsided circle around me, sticking to their groups. The Chester School is small, something that should help with cliques. Instead, it only means there are fewer of them.

“Wyatt, you stink. Go sit somewhere else,” Sawyer says, shoving her little brother, causing her friends to laugh and squeal “Ah, Soy, now you’ve got the cheese touch” as Wyatt sprints over to his father. I know Wyatt from the transitional kindergarten class, and although it pains me to agree with Sawyer, he does have an unusual propensity to smell for someone so young. Wyatt and his father stare at Sawyer. Brady looks distressed, while Wyatt is undeniably gleeful. I’m impressed at his ability to reframe his sister’s attempt to embarrass him into an asset. Maybe impressed isn’t the right word. Astounded? Unnerved?

“Sawyer,” Brady calls. Sawyer ignores her father, whispering with Lily and their other friends who pretend to pass around “the cheese touch,” as the kids call cooties these days, glancing over at River to see if he’s watching. They all have crushes on him. It’s going to cause trouble, infighting, if it hasn’t already. Maybe it will even motivate one of them to become an artist. Early heartbreak is good inspiration. River, for his part, is more interested in manipulating objects—a shoe, saliva, carrot sticks, grapes, a tent pole—into a weapon or a penis.

“Sawyer!” Brady shouts so loud that all the children turn to him.

At some level, I can’t fight the satisfaction that someone is putting her in her place. I’ve never liked Sawyer, not even before the trouble she caused with Travis. Then, I’d thought she was your average, run-of-the-mill mean girl. Now, I keep my distance from her, wary of what she’s capable of. It’s absurd to fear a nine-year-old, but there’s something primal in her, some ancient wisdom she seems intent on using for bad.

“Over here, now. Don’t make me ask you again,” Brady adds for good measure.

She stares at him, unmoving, and the boys hoot, “Ooh, someone’s in trouble.” Everyone waits to see what Sawyer will do. Just as her father starts to charge over, she runs to him, not before I spot the threat of tears on her face. It comes to me in a painting, a girl trying not to cry overlaid in thick layers of blue until she’s nearly invisible beneath. I’ve been so focused on seeing all the latent bad in her that I’ve forgotten she’s a kid. A kid whose mom isn’t here, who got stuck in the middle of something adult that she didn’t fully understand, despite any ancient wisdom.

I check my watch. Mona should have arrived over an hour ago. I wonder if Brady, the other PO moms, realize what I do. She won’t be coming today. And if the ocean is as rocky as the kayak guides claim it will be, she won’t be coming tomorrow either. I can’t help but feel opportunity in Mona’s absence. It will be so much easier to remind the parents what an asset I am without her scowling at me all weekend.

Sawyer sighs dramatically as she grabs her brother’s hand.

“He’s so annoying,” Sawyer whines to her father as she tugs Wyatt back to the group of kids, neither of them particularly happy about it.

Sawyer flops beside her friends and stares up at me expectantly.

“Wyatt, you can sit with us,” Javi calls. He’s seated with his mother, Lei, and Kai, who stares in space as he picks his nose. Sofía whispers something into her son’s ear and musses his hair. Clearly, she’s put him up to this, but he waves so eagerly to Wyatt that it doesn’t matter whose idea it was. Javi has embraced it. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites. If someone put a gun to my head, though, I would choose Javi. Always.

I hold up a flat palm-size rock on which I’ve painted the bluffs of Santa Cruz Island.

“When I say go, I want you all to find a rock that feels special to you. Don’t overthink it. Use your instincts. Then we’ll talk about ideas for what to paint on them.” They nod enthusiastically. “Okay . . . go.”

The children scatter, and I can’t fight the satisfaction that I really am good at my job. If I can get a girl who just told her brother that he wasn’t allowed to sit next to her, and a boy who just bent over to pretend to fart, to hunt for what they think of as the perfect rock, that really speaks to my competence as a teacher.

Only they’re scrambling in every direction, already too far afield. There are thirteen third graders on the trip. I’m not sure all of them are participating. While I can see the two teenage girls by the debris pile near the bathroom, I don’t know which younger siblings besides Kai and Wyatt are collecting rocks. I’ve completely lost control.

“Guys, stop,” I shout. “Don’t go where I can’t see you. And don’t leave the campsite.” They race down the path toward the lower campground, into the dry riverbed, and up the trail behind camp that leads into the hills. “Chester School. Stop,” I scream. No one is listening to me.

Suddenly, a whistle blows loud and sharp. It startles me, along with all the students. It blows again, and I look over to see the whistle fall from Yoo-Jin’s mouth, catching on a string fashioned around her neck. Why didn’t I think to bring a whistle?

“Anyone who plans on having dessert better get back to this campsite by the time I count down to one. Ten.” She pauses. I’m certain this won’t work. They’re nine, not three. But sure enough, they trot back, emerging from behind the bathrooms and trees. The two teenage girls hold rocks. Most of the third graders are empty handed. They encircle Yoo-Jin, standing in the open field at the center of camp.

I take a head count of all the kids at camp, even those who decided Frisbee was a better use of their time than awakening their inner artists, even the older brother who hasn’t taken off his headphones since we boarded the boat. I’m dying to know what he’s listening to. Twenty-three. All the children accounted for. I sigh in relief.

“There aren’t any rocks at the camp,” Lily whines.

“How about we take a trip to the beach?” I suggest. Lily does a little dance as she and the others follow me toward the path.

“Stella?” I turn to see Yoo-Jin running over. She has a perfect gait, each of her small breasts with a mind of its own, like one of Picasso’s runners in Two Women Running on the Beach, or a lifeguard on Baywatch. “A word?”

I signal for the kids to wait, then try to act peppy and upbeat as I trot over to Yoo-Jin.

“You know you can’t take anything from the island, right?” Her eyes widen for emphasis. “The rocks? I’m pretty sure it’s like a federal felony or something.” I must appear clueless because she adds, “That park ranger cop said nothing leaves the island, not even a rock.”

As if on cue, the ranger’s truck pulls to a stop at the campground. She hops out and ambles over to Raymond.

Before I’m able to come up with a new plan, Raymond rings his cattle bell and announces, “Lunch is ready.”