Samantha's Gift

With a questioning frown, Rachel straightened. Her intense blue gaze wordlessly asked him what was going on.

Sean shrugged, palms out. “That’s the third time she’s done that.” He turned. “Did somebody stick a ‘Kick Me’ sign on my back when I wasn’t paying attention?”

“No. There’s nothing there,” Rachel assured him. “It’s clean.” And broad and strong and impressive and… Oh, stop it, her conscience demanded, bringing her up short before she had time to give in to the idiotic urge to dust invisible lint off the shoulders of his jacket.

“That’s a relief,” he said.

Rachel swallowed hard. “Yeah. Well, thanks again for helping Samantha find her class.”

“You’re quite welcome.” He gave a slight bow and grinned at the little girl. “I’ll watch tomorrow, too. Okay? After that, I’m sure you’ll be able to get here all by yourself.”

“I know she’ll be fine.” Pausing to give the loitering parents—and Sean—a look that clearly meant she was taking charge, Rachel added, “It’s time for class. All the grown-ups have to go, now.”

It wasn’t until she’d guided Samantha through the door and closed it behind her that she realized her hands were shaking. That third cup of coffee she’d had for breakfast must have provided more caffeine than she’d thought.

To Rachel’s relief, the only tears she’d seen that morning had been those of the parents left outside. Some years the opposite was true. Snifflers weren’t so bad because they were fairly easy to distract. Screamers were another story. Occasionally, there would be a child who was so afraid of separation from mommy or daddy that hysteria ensued. Not only was the wild sobbing distracting, it tended to spread an unwarranted sense of dread to the others. This year, however, it looked as if the adjustment was going to be peaceful.

Suddenly, an indignant whoop disturbed the calm. Children froze and stared. Rachel immediately zeroed in on the cause and hurried to help.

She bent over the screeching little boy. “What’s wrong?” Name—name—what was his name? And where was the name tag she’d carefully pinned on him when he’d first arrived?

Other children had huddled in small groups, looking on as if expecting dire consequences to spill over onto them.

Rachel guessed. “It’s Jimmy, isn’t it? What’s the matter, Jimmy? Did you hurt yourself? Can you tell me what happened so I can fix it?” By keeping her voice soft she forced the child to quiet down to hear what she was saying.

Jimmy drew a shuddering breath and pointed to a nearby knot of boys. “He hit me.”

The knot instantly unraveled as children scattered.

Rachel took charge. “All right. I need everyone to sit down on the rug so we can talk about keeping our hands to ourselves.” She pointed. “Jimmy, there’s a box of tissues over there. You can go get one and wipe your nose before you come sit with us.”

Choosing the adult-size chair at the head of the class, Rachel waited for the children to comply. All but two did. The tearful boy was doing as he’d been told and blowing his nose. Samantha had gone with him.

Rachel was about to remind the little girl that she was a part of the class and needed to behave just like the others, when she noticed something that gave her pause. Although Samantha was whispering to the sniffling boy, her excitement was evident. She waved. She pointed across the room. She held out her arms as if mimicking a bird and smiled so broadly her eyes were squeezed almost shut. Or were they actually closed? Rachel couldn’t tell for sure. All she knew was that Jimmy had forgotten about being upset and was giving Samantha his rapt attention.

So, Samantha wanted to play mother. Rachel smiled. That was a good sign. The child obviously needed to feel needed. Looking after the other children would give her a positive purpose, not to mention a boost in morale.

And anybody who can calm a screamer like that is okay in my book, she thought. There was a tenderhearted peacemaker in the class. This was going to be a good year.

A very good year.

The day flew by so fast that it was over before Rachel had time to notice how tired she was. At twothirty she lined up all her students and marched them out to the lawn in front of the school to make sure each one was handed over to a parent or had boarded the right bus.

Samantha stood by Rachel’s side and watched each classmate depart, until only she was left.

“Which bus did you come on?” Rachel asked her, wiping sweat from her own brow and wishing she could escape the sultry southern afternoon by heading back to her air-conditioned classroom.

“I don’t know.”

“What was the number on it?”

“I don’t know.” Clearly, the child was about to cry.

“Well, did it have a lady driver or a man?”

“I don’t remember.”

Terrific. “Okay. Let’s go check in the office.”

As she turned to lead the way, the little girl gave a happy squeal, shouted, “There! That one,” and took off running toward the last bus in line.

Rachel paused, unconvinced. An older child might remember suddenly, but five-year-olds were more likely to remain confused.

She started to follow, then decided to check the office records first. If Samantha had chosen the right bus after all, Rachel didn’t want to do anything to undermine her self-confidence. If not, there would be plenty of time to correct the error before the buses pulled out.

She hurried into the office, glad for a temporary respite from the heat and humidity of the September afternoon. “I need to see the Samantha Smith file, Mary.” Breezing past the receptionist, she headed straight for the upright filing cabinet.

“I don’t think I’ve finished that one yet. It’s probably still here in this pile on my desk.” Mary gestured toward a messy stack. “Sorry. We’ve been swamped. I don’t know why so many folks wait till the last minute to register their kids.”

“In Samantha’s case, I don’t think there was a choice. Any idea where her file might be? Top, bottom, middle?” Rachel was already paging through the folders.

“Near the top, I think. Why? Didn’t you already see it?”

“Yes, but I don’t recall what it said about the foster home placement. She needs to ride a bus and I don’t know which one.”

“Oops. Maybe we should phone and ask Ms. Heatherington.”

“No way. I’d rather spend an hour listening to my mother complain than to have to say two words to that woman.”

“She is kind of stuffy. Is that why you dislike her?”

“No. It’s her attitude about the children she deals with that makes me mad. She acts like it’s their fault that their families fell apart and she got stuck helping them.”

“The little Smith girl’s an orphan, isn’t she?”

“Yes, which makes it even harder. That’s why it’s so important to be sure she’s on the right bus. Life has to be frightening enough for her already.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on. It’s almost time for those buses to leave.”

“I know. I’m hurrying.”

Rachel fumbled a file folder and almost dropped it, just as a mother burst through the door and shouted, “There you are. I want to talk to you. Now!”

It took Rachel a moment to realize she was the object of the woman’s ire. Her first clue was the small, round-faced boy who was clutching his mother’s pudgy finger and rubbing his runny nose with his other hand. It was Jimmy.

“I’ll be right with you, Mrs.—”

“Andrews,” she said crisply. “My son, James, is in your class, as you well know.”