“…and that’s the eruption sequence.
Baking soda, vinegar, a little red food coloring.
Nothing toxic, I promise.” A ripple of polite laughter.
Twelve folding chairs, a conference room smelling of dry-erase marker and stale coffee, Jonah up front in a tie he’s clearly not used to wearing, tapping the podium with 2 fingers.
“He’s nervous,” Diane whispers, leaning into me.
“It’s, um— it’s kind of adorable.” “Mm.” I write VOLCANO PROJECT, RESULTS at the top of a page I don’t need.
“Twelve kids, 11 volcanoes that worked,” Jonah says.
“And one that just…
kind of wept.
I don’t have a scientific explanation for that one.” Actual laughter that time, his shoulders dropping half an inch.
“Anyway.” He clears his throat.
“Reactions, predictions, and a one-page reflection are all in the packet.
I tried to keep the chemistry simple, so if your kid starts explaining exothermic reactions at dinner, that’s— that’s on me.” “Did anyone’s volcano hit the ceiling?” one of the dads calls out, half joking.
“Almost.
We’re doing it outside next year.
That’s a promise.” “What about indoor recess?” another parent asks.
“Are we— are we getting a sequel?” “God, no,” Jonah says, and the room laughs again.
“Will there be a unit on plate tectonics next?” Diane asks, genuinely, pen ready.
“Maybe.
I haven’t decided if the classroom would survive it, honestly.” “Is it me,” Rebecca says, leaning in from my other side, “or is the new teacher kind of—” “Don’t,” Diane says, not looking up from her notes.
“I didn’t even— I didn’t even finish the sentence.” “You didn’t have to.” “I mean, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” “Nobody’s thinking anything.
Write your notes.” Parents drift into loose clumps around the coffee station after.
I end up in a circle with Diane, 2 dads I only know by their kids’ names, and Jonah, still in the tie.
“Great presentation,” one of the dads says.
“My son’s still— still talking about the cinder cone thing.” “It’s a real geological term,” Jonah says.
“I promise I didn’t make it up to sound smart.” “He used the word ‘stratovolcano’ at breakfast,” the other dad says.
“I had to look it up.” “That one’s on Milo, actually,” Jonah says.
“He found it in a library book and wouldn’t— wouldn’t let it go.” “You teach all the subjects?” the first dad asks.
“Just the core stuff.
Science, math, reading.
We’ve got a specialist for art and music, thank god, because my stick figures are rough.” “Probably for the best,” Diane says, and the dads laugh.
“Hey, I never claimed art teacher,” Jonah says, hands up.
“Mrs.
Cavender.” Jonah turns to me, easy, professional, exactly the voice he’d use with any other parent in this circle.
“Milo did great work on his.
Picked the lava color himself.” “He told us at dinner, my mother got the full report.” “Good.
He should be— he should be proud of it.” “He is.
He hasn’t stopped talking about it.” “That’s the goal.” He smiles, polite and contained, then turns to answer the dads’ next question.
I stand there being Mrs.
Cavender, a married woman’s last name doing the work of everything we don’t say.
Diane catches my arm near the sign-up sheet.
“We still need 3 more parents for the spring fundraiser committee.
Mostly emails and one Saturday in May.” “I’ll— I’ll do it.” “Really?” She looks almost surprised.
“You’ve never signed up for anything before.” “I have more time now.
My mother’s in town, she can take Milo some afternoons.” “You sure?” Diane asks, pen still hovering over the sign-up sheet.
“It’s a real commitment, not just a name on a list.” “I’m sure.” “Well, great.
I’ll add you.” She’s already writing my name down.
“First meeting’s in 2 weeks, my house, wine included.” “Sounds dangerous.” “It usually is.” It isn’t a lie, exactly, the thing I told her about my mother.
It’s just not the reason.
My mother’s waiting in the parking lot, Milo already buckled in back, a juice box working down his chin.
“You took forever,” she says.
“It ran— it ran long.” “Did Mr.
Priestley’s volcano win?” Milo asks from the back seat.
“It’s not a competition, bug.” “Everything’s a competition.” “Not this one.” “Then why’d everyone clap louder for the one that worked?” “He’s got a point,” Lenore says, not looking up from her phone.
“Can we get ice cream?” Milo asks.
“Not tonight, bug.” “Everything’s a competition and nothing’s ice cream,” Milo mutters, and Lenore laughs despite herself.
Jonah’s loading the poster board into his trunk 2 rows over, and I walk over before I can think better of it.
“Hey.” I keep my voice light, parking-lot light.
“You did— you did good in there.” “Did I?
I lost feeling in my hands somewhere around minute 4.” “Nobody could tell.” “You could tell.” “Maybe a little.” “I notice everything you do.” It comes out before I can stop it.
Neither of us says anything, and the silence does more than either sentence did.
“I should go,” I say, finally, and don’t move.
“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t move either.
We stand there 4 seconds too long, maybe 5, long enough that my mother watches me the entire way back across the lot.
She doesn’t say anything until we’re at the stop sign.
“You volunteer at many schools,” she says, eyes on the road, “or just the one where that— that particular teacher works?”