Amazons like Mrs. Beouf are what make me want to believe that Amazons are over-maternalized crazies. For close to ten years she had been one of the nicest, most pleasant, most respectful, most decent people I’ve ever met. It’s really hard to think of her as a monster.

For example, the coffee: every morning, I’d come in, and Mrs. Beouf and I would share some before work. Sometimes it would be in my room and I’d take my teaching spot at the table, with her huddled up to her knees in one of my student’s chairs. Sometimes we’d do it in hers. But she’d always prepare it and I’d drink it, fully and without hesitation.

If you’re an Amazon, you’d be surprised how many stories and close calls every Little or a friend has had with regards to the coffee. It’s already a natural laxative, and bitter or sugared to the max, it was good for hiding extra little somethings in them.

One accident. That’s all it’d take in this town to get sent into her class, and that’s if I was lucky. Some Littles went to New Beginnings. We both knew that. A typical Amazon would hasten that, try to control circumstances so that I’d end up right where their crazy instincts wanted me.

Beouf wasn’t a typical Amazon.

“Ready for the day?” I asked, sitting my cup down with both hands.

Mrs. Beouf took a sip from hers. “No sir,” she said. “But gotta do it anyways.”

It was a sign of trust. I trusted her not to poison me. She trusted me to trust her. That was the basis of our friendship. Back then we were trying to prove something to the world and to ourselves. Not all Amazons were monsters. Not all Littles were babies.

“Faculty meeting, today,” she reminded me.

I got up and stretched. “I know, I know. Want me to save you a seat?”

“Think you’ll beat me to it?”

“I suspect so. My students’ bus tends to take off before your students’.”

“That’s just because you don’t have to buckle all of your students into those special car seats.”

I shuddered. I brought that image on myself. “Point taken. Still, want me to save you a spot?”

“Sure,” she said, taking our cups over to a nearby sink and rinsing them. “We’ve gotta stick together.”

I let out one last yawn before the coffee kicked in. “You know it.” I suspect we both did. She was looking for camaraderie. I was looking for safety. Ten years knowing the same Amazon and no betrayals. That was a good track record.

Go on. Call me a Helper if you want. Maybe I was. I’ll own it, now. It wasn’t the most dignified thing, but there’s no dignity in diapers. Truth be told, I picked my profession for a reason.

The few Littles I knew of who went into teaching picked middle or high school. Hormones. Puberty. Double digit years of bad habits learned from their parents. Students able to pick up their teachers without straining. Total recipe for disaster.

I was at least the same size as most of my students. I got my own assistant, and if I could make an impression on them as kids, plant the seed early enough that Littles were adults, then maybe future generations of Amazons wouldn’t be such crazy assholes.

Speaking of assistants, Tracy poked her head in from my side of the divide. “Hey, Mrs. Beouf. Hey, Boss.”

“Hey, Tracy,” we said in unison.

Tracy was a Tweener. Taller than me and most of the fifth graders, still dwarfed by Beouf. She was my teacher’s assistant. I doubt I could have taught if not for her. Four-year-old Amazons were still four-year-olds, meaning that they could be taught good habits. They were also still four-year-olds, meaning that very physical tantrums also still happened. “Thought I’d find you in here when the room was empty but the light was on.”

“Sounds like me,” I said. “The lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

We all had a good laugh at that. Beouf was chuckling and shaking her head, like she felt guilty for laughing. Tracy was howling, the little poof ball bangs of her hair bobbing up and down as she pounded the kidney table. I laughed too, proud of myself.

The laughter died down and Tracy started talking again. “Got your printouts from the copy room.”

“Thank you, Tracy,” I said in a kind of lackadaisical sing song.

She answered back in the same cadence with “Welcome, sir.”

I’ll admit it: I secretly loved it when taller people called me sir. “I’ll put them where I need them right after the kids’ breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” Tracy said. “Ready to go clock in?”