The blanket fell away, leaving a drooping mass of diaper out in the open. I heard one of my students let out an “Oooooooooo!” I whirled around and gave them a glare. They whithered back and paid attention to Tracy. A fringe benefit of still having facial hair: I was still scary to toddlers, even the ones that were bigger than me.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go talk to Mrs Beouf.”
Quietly, we walked out of the time out corner, through the back door, and crossed the distance between my classroom and the Maturosis and Developmental Plateau classroom. Only the very muted crinkling of Chazz’s very full diaper and my the purposefully heavy footsteps of my loafers made any sound.
That, and the heavy thud of the door behind after we entered Beouf’s classroom. I actually needed Chazz’s help yanking the lever down; an anti-escape measure I supposed…or just a rusty lever. It’s a weird thing, cognitively speaking, asking a prisoner to help you open up the door to his cell.
“Why, hello there!” Mrs Beouf said once we were all the way inside. Her voice went up an octave, meaning she was addressing someone much younger than her. She came up and leaned over and put her hands on her knees. “Chazz, have you taken time out to think about how you ought to behave?”
Chazz looked to me. I nodded. Get it over with. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Okay! Mrs Beouf forgives you,” she said. “And even when you make her mad, she still loves you! Now, go play. We’ll have circle time in just a few minutes.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Beouf stood up to her full height, and lowered her voice back to it’s normal ‘adult’ tone. “Thank you, Mr Gibson.” She stepped by me and held the door open. “I appreciate the help.”
“No trouble at all, Mrs Beouf,” I said. I motioned for her to lean in. Turned my back on the rest of the room. “But I think you might want to have a talk with his parents.” I said, making sure to have an air of confidentiality and concern.
Beouf’s expression mirrored my concern. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I listened to him a little bit,” I chose my next words carefully. Had to play to her particular brand of crazy. “I think his parents might be…” I hesitated, what was the term? “…trying to speed up his developmental plateau. Something about um…special cartoons?”
The Amazon frowned. “Oh crud…” she said. “That kind of stuff’s dangerous. Way more harm than good.”
“I know, right?”
“I’ll try to talk to his parents about it,” she promised. It was a promise I knew she’d keep.
I thought about how all week Chazz had been coming in with just a t-shirt and a diaper on. Having his new status rubbed in his face couldn’t be helping his situation. Most Amazons didn’t let their real children out of the house looking like that, but it was a form of humiliation and control for their “adopted” Littles. “While you’re at it,” I leaned in, “do you know if his parents have anything else to dress-?”
I stopped mid-sentence as I felt two very large fingers hook themselves into the waistband of my pants. I had a sudden urge to be very still. To freeze. To blush and slam my eyes closed in shock. I ignored that instinct and slapped the hand away as hard as I could, making an audible THWACK!
“EXCUSE ME!” I shouted. I whirled around and stared at Mrs Zoge “DO YOU MIND?!”
The Amazon assistant took a step back. Her eyes wide with shock and yes, embarrassment. “Mr Gibson! I’m so sorry!” I kept staring at her. “I didn’t realize it was…” She stopped. “I just thought I smelled a…” She stopped again. “I was checking di…” Again. “I mean…I didn’t know you’d come in and…” Yet again. “I’m sorry…my mistake.”
I turned away from her. Not even addressing her. I looked back up to Mrs Beouf. “I’m going to go back to my classroom, now. My students need me.” I tried to keep my tone even, but I was so incredibly angry! I was visibly shaking with rage when I went out of the open door, wanting to scream my lungs out, but not being able to. Because even though I was outraged there was still that nagging fear in the base of my brain stem that told me not to, lest I be mistaken for “throwing a tantrum.”
TYPICAL AMAZONS!