She blinked back her tears. “Because not all Littles are children,” she said. “And I’m setting a bad example for my daughter and the others who are.”
“Why do you care about setting examples if your Littles will never grow up?” I asked. Immediately I hated myself. I sounded like a typical Amazon just then.
“Because children still learn about their world, Mr Gibson.” Mrs Zoge said. She wiped her face on her sleeve. She stood up. A soft, demure smile came to her. “And I want my children to learn that the world is fair.”
I was standing straighter, too. “It’s not, though.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’s not. But it’s my responsibility as an adult to try.” She looked at me. “How do I make this right, Mr Gibson? Shall I wear diapers for a day? A week? Till Spring Break? Summer Vacation?” There was resignation in her voice. Weary but determined. It felt like she was asking me to flog her in the public square.
Wild. Just wild. I couldn’t believe it. This was a trap. It had to be a trap. From the back of my head, my survival instinct was screaming behind a carefully constructed cage of etiquette. It was a trap. But it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. Amazons were crazy, and if you managed to trigger their crazy in the right way, they still had to play by their own asinine rules. That’s why Zoge had been crying.
In her eyes, she’d trespassed on an actual adult, and the penalty for most Amazon trespasses was, of course, diapers. Her own crazy brain couldn’t accept less.
This was the opportunity of a lifetime.
“Hey,” I said as I walked into Mrs Beouf’s class. It was later that same afternoon. The buses had just left and every teacher at Oakshire Elementary had done the weak and weary shuffle back to their classrooms to either grade papers or blow off steam; sometimes a little bit of both.
Mrs Grange was in Beouf’s room, too. “Oh hey, Clark.” she said. She gave me a friendly little wave. Ever since she’d pitched in for that I.E.P. meeting, she was spending more and more time with our tiny clique. At this rate she’d be dashing across campus just to join us for our morning walk up to the front office.
“Hey Janet,” I said back. “Mrs Beouf, can I speak to you for a second?”
Beouf adjusted her glasses and swiveled around in her seat to look at me. “Of course, Mr Gibson.” She didn’t seem angry, but it wasn’t the same relaxed routine that we’d developed over the years, either.
Janet caught a look from both of us and politely excused herself. “I’ve got papers to grade. See you both later!” Maybe Janet could teach Tracy how to better read a room, I mused.
All the doors were closed: Both the door leading to my room and outside Beouf’s were shut. Even the side room with all the cribs, the Nap Room, was shut. We were alone. “Mrs Zoge apologized to me today.”
“I know,” Beouf said. “I didn’t tell her to.” No anger. Just matter-of-fact.
“Did she tell you she offered to punish herself for me?”