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Tessa

I parked in the staff lot next to a dented orange minivan with “Honk if you love frogs!” bumper stickers and stared at the school building like it might explode.

This wasn’t brain surgery.

It was harder.

I took a deep breath, smoothed my dress down my sides, and stepped out of the truck.

As soon as I entered the building, the scent of elementary school hit me like a nostalgia bomb—pencil shavings, whiteboard markers, mystery cafeteria food, and the faint, lingering scent of anxiety.

Brenda was waiting for me near the front office with a tight smile and what looked like a very large cup of espresso. “Good, you’re here. Room 2B is your class. I’ve told the kids you’re their official teacher now, so they may be a little… energetic.”

“How energetic? Wait, this will be my class I teach from now on?

“Yes, you’ll be staying with the elementry class.”

A kid screamed from down the hall.

Brenda didn’t even flinch. “That’s Charlie. He ate an eraser.”

“Like… on purpose?”

“He said it looked like bubble gum and he was conducting a taste experiment.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t make direct eye contact with him. He takes it as a challenge.”

Got it.

As Brenda led me down the hallway, we passed a teacher weeping softly into a vending machine and another one holding a rabbit in a baby sling. I didn’t ask. I had questions, but I didn’t ask.

“Here we are,” Brenda said, stopping outside a classroom door covered in glittery stars and motivational posters like Mistakes Are Proof You’re Trying and You Are Loved, But Please Use A Tissue.

She knocked once, then opened the door.

Inside was absolute pandemonium.

Paper airplanes flew through the air. Two kids were standing on chairs arguing over whether a duck or a dinosaur would win in a fight. One child was underneath the teacher’s desk building what looked suspiciously like a shrine made out of glue sticks and crayons.

A very red-faced aide turned to me with wide, grateful eyes. “Oh, thank God.”

I stepped in and cleared my throat. “Okay, hi. Hello. Everyone! I’m Miss Swindle, and starting today, I’m your new teacher.”

Most of the class paused. One kid dropped his airplane mid-throw. Another blinked slowly, like I was a unicorn that had wandered in from the woods.

“I’m here to help you learn things and make sure you don’t glue yourselves to the furniture,” I said, setting my bag on the desk.

A girl in the front row raised her hand. “Are you the lady who tried to steal Boris?”

I paused. “...The goat?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I didn’t steal him. He wandered into the B&B where I’m staying, yes, that was me.”

The class ERUPTED. Screams of “You know Boris?!” and “That goat pooped on my brother’s scooter!” echoed around the room like I’d just admitted to knowing a celebrity.

“I didn’t know he was famous,” I muttered to myself.

The desk shrine kid raised his hand without emerging from under the desk. “Do you still have him?”

“No. He went home. But he did sneeze on me.”

Someone clapped.

I sighed, fighting back a smile. “Alright. Everyone find your seats. Today we’re going to learn how to measure things that aren’t goat-related.”

Somehow, some way, they listened.

By mid-morning, I had them quiet-ish, engaged in a group activity, and nobody had eaten any additional school supplies. It wasn’t a miracle—but it was close.

And somewhere in the middle of reading a math problem aloud, I realized something kind of important:

I was happy.

Not surgeon-level adrenaline-happy. Not a life-saving rush, happy.

But I felt useful. Needed. A little bit less broken than I was yesterday.

Even if someone in the back row was trying to put googly eyes on the classroom fish tank.

By noon, I was only mildly frazzled, a little sweaty, and very proud no one had set anything on fire.

That felt like a win.

When the bell rang for lunch, I gave the kids their instructions and practically jogged to the teachers’ lounge like it was the last life raft off the Titanic. The second I opened the door, I realized something:

This was not the oasis I’d imagined.

The lighting flickered like a haunted basement. A microwave made in the nineties was humming something that sounded like a threat. And the smell? A mix of burnt popcorn, tuna, and despair.

But the people?

They were the best part.

“Hey!” A woman waved me over, standing by the sink with a Tupperware container and a vibe that screamed den mother, but will fight someone if necessary. “You must be the bee girl.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Brenda said you got stung and still showed up. That makes you one of us now. I’m Ms. Melton. Fifth grade. Call me Joy.”

“Tessa Swindle. Fourth grade. Former brain surgeon.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Joy said, totally unfazed. “We’ve all had weird jobs before this. Coach Grady used to be a bounty hunter.”

Grady, a burly man in a windbreaker and cargo shorts, nodded solemnly while chewing on beef jerky. “Only in three states.”

“I feel so safe,” I said, setting my lunch down and eyeing the fridge like it might grow teeth.

A younger teacher popped a yogurt container with a spoon and leaned over. “I’m Lexi. Kindergarten. I once had a five-year-old hand me a cricket and tell me it was his emotional support pet.”

“That feels weirdly on-brand for this place,” I muttered.

“You have no idea,” she said.

Joy Melton flopped into a seat across from me. “So, how’s it going so far? You regretting every life decision that led you here, or just the last three?”

“Honestly?” I smiled. “I think I might love it.”

Joy raised a brow. “Give it a week.”

“She’ll last,” Lexi said. “She looks like the kind of person who brings color-coded pens and snacks that come in matching containers.”

“I do love a good storage bin,” I admitted.

“Yep,” Joy said. “You’re one of us.”

As I bit into my sandwich, I heard a sudden crash from down the hall, followed by distant screaming and someone yelling, “WHERE’S THE HAMSTER?!”

Everyone in the room paused.

“Five bucks says it’s 2C,” Grady muttered.

“Ten says Charlie ate the class pet,” Lexi added, already grabbing her yogurt to-go.

We all jumped up.

“Welcome to the team, Tessa,” Joy said over her shoulder. “Hope you don’t have a rodent phobia.”

I sighed and grabbed my lunch.

I’d survived doing brain surgery. I could survive this.

Probably.