It was Mrs Beouf who made a show of stomping her feet and whining. “But I don’t wanna!” Another joke, though it was how we all felt at this time of morning.

“You sound like the kids!” I joked.

“Whose?” Tracy asked. “Hers or ours?”

Then Mrs Beouf said “Both!” She and Tracy laughed again. I didn’t. It didn’t feel good being reminded how Littles were viewed. If they noticed my discomfort, they were either nice enough to stop without apologizing, saving me the embarrassment, or it was just a coincidence how abruptly their bark of laughter ended.

“Oh, before I forget,” Tracy told me. “Watch out for Raine today.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Raine,” Tracy said. “Y’know, the school receptionist?”

I threw my head back. “Oh, Miss Forrest,” I said. I’d long ago developed a habit of thinking of most Amazons by their last name. Even Mrs Beouf wasn’t always “Melony” in my mind. “What is it this time?”

“I was up front and saw her packing some kind of chocolate.” she said. “No wrapper. I think she wants to give it to you.” I slapped my forehead in exasperation. “I know, right?”

Beouf shook her head in disapproval. “That woman….” was all she said. Forrest

All Amazons are crazy. I’m still convinced of this. But not all Amazons are equally nutter butters. Beouf was crazy in that any given Little, regardless of age, could be either a baby or an adult. I was an adult to her. Her students weren’t. Crazy, right?

Miss Forrest was crazy because not only were we ALL babies to her, but she wanted a “baby” of her own oh so badly. Her own daughter had grown up and moved to college and the gossip mill was churning that she was looking to “adopt” to fill that empty nest in her life.

Typical Amazon.

Our school receptionist was a junkie, and I was heroin on two legs. Mrs Beouf couldn’t believe that the woman would violate some unspoken code of Amazon ethics that so very few of them, in reality, actually shared.

I couldn’t believe anyone would name their kid Raine Forrest.

A knock at the door (out of politeness) and then the turn of a key, and Mrs Zoge entered. I shoved my hands in my pockets and did my best to look casual as I backed away. Wire-rimmed glasses, wrinkles just starting to set in, and dark black hair despite it all, Mrs Zoge was Mrs Beouf’s teaching assistant. The “Maturosis and Developmental Plateau” unit got one too.

Toddling and waddling in close behind her was her daughter, Ivy. “Good morning everyone,” Mrs Zoge said, eerily cheery as usual. “How are you?” She looked at me. “How are you, Mr Gibson?” She always made a point to single me out. It always sounded so forced when she said it, too.

Maybe it was her accent.

It probably wasn’t her accent.

Some rituals weren’t always as pleasant as coffee and small talk…

I gave my usual non-committal reply. “I’m well, thank you.”

Mrs Zoge turned to her daughter. “Say hello, Ivy.” she chirped.

“Hiiiii,” Ivy waved. She did a curtsey, lifting up her short skirt and letting her nappy peak out as she did. “It’s good to see you all today.”

A tired chorus of “Thank you, Ivy,” and the girl was satisfied, giggling and clapping her hands as if she’d done a performance. In a way she had, most likely. I hoped. We’d been doing this routine with Mrs Zoge and her daughter for the last ten years at least.

If you’re doing the math and if you have any empathy in you, you also know why being around Mrs Zoge and her daughter made me distinctly uncomfortable. A fringe benefit for Mrs Zoge was that her Little girl got to attend instead of going to a private daycare.

“Alright,” I said, opening the door to my room. “Let’s go sign in. We can cut through my room.”

Tracy and Mrs Beouf were right behind me. “Ivy, I swear I just changed you, you silly thing!” I heard Mrs Zoge scoff, lifting the front of a twenty something year old Little’s dress to check for wetness. “Don’t wait up! We’ll meet you at the bus loop!”

I never waited up.