"We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know."

~W.H. Auden

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Miss Rudy's kindergarten class is one runny nose away from being a literal hell.

And not just because of the kids (who smell like grape body wash).

There are parents here too.

Parents who are making it look like the kids are the ones not wanting them to leave, when, in actuality, they keep turning around and giving them "advice" or "encouragement" or "their lunch".

To be fair, there are definitely a few kids who are about to have a seizure at the thought of their parents leaving.

The classroom is decorated with plastic animals and leaves and trees, making it look like a jungle. There's a "reading loft" in the corner, which looks perfect for sneaking a nap, and a sign hanging over the coat closet that says "Mistakes Are Proof That You're Trying!".

Miss Rudy better try harder because this whole thing looks like a mistake to me.

"Moooooom!" A little girl is being dragged across the floor as she clings to her mom's pant leg. "Nooooo!"

I spot one boy hop up on top of a desk and begin beating his chest, shouting at the top of his lungs. "I'm a gorilla!"

A mom nearby turns around and asks him to get down, but another mom stops her. "Hey! My son is living his truth, back off!"

And that is my cue to leave.

I slowly go to back out of the room, but a small child steps in my way.

"Are you the teacher?" he asks, staring up at me with his gap-toothed mouth hanging open. Pop-Tart crumbs are still stuck to his cheeks.

"No," I say, and try to move past him, but he tugs on my shirt.

"Then why do you have a tag?" He points to the strap of my hideous overalls, where a PTO sticker is attached.

"Because that's what they give people who come into the school. Now move along, kid."

"No!" he shouts, but then giggles. Is he playing some kind of game?

"Yes!" I shout back.

"No!"

"Yes!" I frown. What am I doing arguing with a 5-year-old? "Just move!"

"No!"

"Is there a problem?" a cheery voice asks.

I turn to see a woman—probably in her early twenties—coming up to us. "I'm Miss Rudy."

I glare at the boy. "No. Nothing's wrong."

"Are you Blake's mom?" Miss Rudy asks, patting the boy's shoulder.

My jaw drops. "Do I look old enough to be his mom?"

A blush rises to Miss Rudy's cheek. "I mean, well, he's only five!"

"She's my mom!" Blake announces with another laugh.

I gasp. "Now listen here you little mother—" I glance at Miss Rudy and finish by saying, "loving little angel." I reach out and pinch his cheek, but give him a glare. "You're such a jokester."

A grin spreads across his face. He knows exactly what he did. The monster.

I straighten. "I'm not his mom. I'm here to—" I'm interrupted by a mother screaming at her daughter to stop throwing books at the class hamster. "I just joined—"

"Mommy!!! If you leave, I'll have asthma for the rest of my liiife! Please don't goooo!"

"You know what!" I say, louder than I intend. "I'm in the wrong classroom, sorry."

I whirl around and flee out of the horror fest.

I press my back against the waxed concrete walls, panting.

But before I can catch my breath, a herd of second graders coming from two classrooms stampede through the hall, teachers desperately trying to yell "Single file!" above the chaos.

I have to get out of here.

I barely manage to escape and sneak through a side exit.

I can hear more kids coming around the corner, so I race across the hallway and shove open the door closest to me.

I shut and lock it behind me, feeling weak all of a sudden.

I sink against the door and exhale.

I peek out of the small window, just as the army stomps by.

They're terrifying. All of them.

"This is the worst," I say out loud. "I hate this freaking school and all its freaking kids."

I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the memory of the tiny demon Blake pretending that I was his mom. I mean, I'm twenty-seven, not thirty!

I release the handle and do a half-turn, where I see rows of beautifully crafted pottery lining two shelves.

I stop and tilt my head.

There's a set of oval-shaped mugs that are glossy with earthy tones. When I get closer, I realize that they look like a galaxy.

To the right of the mugs, there's a somewhat misshapen white bowl with tiny, but precise red dots painted on half of the outside.

Most of the shelf is filled with unpainted pottery that's been left to dry.

I trace a finger along the rim of the bowl, temporarily forgetting what's outside. Did someone make these?

I haven't seen art this beautiful since Ron Gallagher, the town's resident druggie, painted a mural of Bob Marley on the side of a Costco building.

I turn to see if there's more artwork and freeze.

At a messy desk sits a man. Just casually writing something down on a notepad. He has a shock of reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes behind a pair of wireframe glasses. Has he not seen me? It'd be impossible with the way I slammed the door. Maybe he's deaf?

As if detecting my gaze, he glances up, takes off his glasses, and gives a flicker of a smile. "Hello."

British.

I should've known Percival would hire people who think they're smarter than us Americans just because they sound more educated.

"Sorry for uh, bursting in like that," I say, swinging my arms at my sides and almost knocking over a mug. "You...didn't hear what I said, did you? About hating this school and the kids? Because what I meant to say was that I love this school!"

He glances up again, a perpetually timid sort of smile still on his face. "Oh, no worries. We all need a safe place to go on occasion. Stay as long as you like."

I hadn't heard those words since a Walmart employee found me trying to scrounge coins from the bottom of an ATM machine. He thought I was homeless, but I was really just trying to get a few more quarters to buy tickets to see the Backstreet Boys in concert. It wasn't in great taste, but I'd heard there would be free corndogs.

"So you're the art teacher?" I ask, unable to tear my gaze away from a mural of a street, lined with lamp posts. It's bright, with dozens of colors I wouldn't have expected illuminating the canvas.

"I am," he says. His voice is soft, but not weak. "Finn Watson."

"Beverly Curie."

"Pleasure."

He never quite meets my gaze, and his eyes always dart around when he looks up. It's like he's shy, but not really.

There's no way that I'm leaving just yet. I can't face any more children or parents or teachers, so I have to swallow hard and make small talk with a stranger. Has it really come to this?

"So these paintings and pottery and stuff," I say, "did you make all of them?"

Finn gets up and walks toward the gallery with an uneven and awkward gait. "Most of them," he says, then points towards the white bowl with red dots. His eyes soften with fondness when he explains, "a student of mine made that a couple years ago. Finest work I've ever seen come out of this classroom. She was maybe seventeen when she made it."

"That's cool," I agree. "When I was seventeen, the only thing I could do was sing the entirety of Free Bird without taking a breath. Did she become an artist?"

Finn smiles sadly. "Last I heard, she applied for law school. Which is alright, I suppose. There's no money in being an artist, eh?"

He turns his gaze back to the paintings and taps the one with the lamp posts with a finger. "This one was inspired by Leonid Afremov."

"Who?"

"He's an Israeli painter. Absolutely brilliant. I got to meet him last summer in person—he's a genius. The way he checkers the pattern in such lovely colors. It's like each brushstroke is a word added to a description. I could certainly never replicate it, but who would want to try?" He shrugs one shoulder, and I think he forgot I'm still in the room for a second because he looks surprised to see I'm still standing here.

His smile returns. "And here I am, talking about old painters when I don't recall seeing you here before."

"I usually try to stay far away," I admit, "but I'm taking care of my three nieces for the next six months, so...now I don't have a choice."

He raises his eyebrows. "Six months? That's...that's quite a while."

"Thank you!" I shout. "Every time I tell someone that, it doesn't seem to phase them! It is a long time!"

"What are your niece's names?"

It takes me a second to think of them. "Eloise, Jemma, and Dusty."

"Oh, I saw Jemma this morning, actually," he said. "Brilliant sketcher."

We settle into silence, looking up at the paintings.

If I have to go to Miss Rudy's two days a week, maybe I can come in here instead. Just like the old days, skipping out on class to go trade pirated MP3 downloads with the fifth graders.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," I say.

His eyes are still on the canvas. Searching for something.

"Anytime," he says distractedly.

I crane my neck to try and see what he's seeing. There are nothing but rows of brightly colored smudges.

Finn does that thing again, where he acts like he forgets I'm here. "Right! Sorry, miss, uh..."

"Just Beverly," I say. I take a step back. "I guess you want to get back to work."

"No!" he says. "No, no, sorry...I just get lost in the paintings sometimes; lose track of reality."

"Right," I say slowly.

Finn blinks and steps away from the painting, offering a sheepish smile. "Anyway, getting away from PTO duties, I suppose."

"How'd you—"

"The sticker," he says, nodding towards the stupidly colorful "PTO Parent" badge slapped on my equally stupid overalls.

"Oh, yeah...right."

"Is this your first year?" he asks.

"It's my first everything," I mumble. "I haven't even seen my nieces since they were all babies."

"Do you like it here so far? At Percival, I mean."

"I haven't seen much of the kids here, but if the parents are any indicator...it's going to be a long semester. If I have to see another Vera Bradley diaper bag with quinoa and Veggie Straws in it, I'm going to explode."

He nods thoughtfully. "Some of the parents here are like Da Vinci's mirror theory. It's intended for the viewer to observe their reflection, and extend it creatively to the canvas for others to enjoy." His hazel eyes twinkle. "But most of the people here just stand in front of the mirror for the sake of looking at themselves."

I grin curiously, the image clear in my head. "Yeah. Exactly."

I realize that there's at least one non-idiotic-ego-maniac in this school.

"Well," Finn says, spreading out his hands, "I...I suppose if you're not going to help in the kindergarten class, you can help me in here. If you'd like, of course."

I sag with relief. "Yes! Thank you. I'm this close to throwing a child off the planet if one more snotty-nosed kid tells me they're hungry. It's like they're a bottomless pit, and it's straight-up terrifying."

Finn gestures towards a cabinet. "I'm about to have the third graders for class. Perhaps you could fill up these containers with paint?"

I hesitate. Usually, I try to avoid this kind of commitment to helping people. But, seeing as it's the best option I've had so far, I shrug.

"Sure thing, captain."