The Kingdom of Childhood

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You should.”

She shot him a sideways look, her gaze lingering on his face for a beat, seeming to take in his grim expression. He shoved his hands deeper in his vest pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind, then turned and headed back into the school.

His anger left me anxious all afternoon. I poured myself what apple juice was left in the bottle from the children’s snacktime and dosed it up with Bach’s Rescue Remedy to calm my nerves. My students engaged themselves in a game of tying on a golden silk cape from Michaelmas Day, back in September, and chanting its rhyme for each other in turn. Aidan wears a cape of light. It gives him courage, strength and might. As soon as the cape went on, the child’s expression would change, grow prouder and more noble; occasionally a beaming smile would cross his or her face. If it was a girl, she might spin in a circle; a boy would plant his fists against his hips. I sat in a tiny chair, my knees hiked up beneath my jumper, and wished Steiner had thought up an equivalent item for adults. What I needed was a sweeping velvet cloak with a hood, panther-black, to make me feel aloof and mysterious instead of groveling and desperate. But I would have to shed it anyway to give Zach what he wanted, so I was fresh out of luck.

As the school day ended I sent each of my students, one at a time, off with their parent or caregiver. Easing them through these transitions was an important part of my job, and one I valued, but today I felt impatient to get these rituals over with and move on to the business of smoothing things over with Zach. But after the last child left, as I moved around my classroom tucking in chairs and straightening baskets, Sandy stepped in.

“Judy?” she began. “Do you have a moment?”

I turned to face her, and she perched on the edge of the shelving unit beneath the window. “I saw you speaking with Zach Patterson on the playground earlier. He’s one of my students.”

“Is he?”

“Yes, and something’s off about him. He doesn’t even make a passing effort to pay attention in class. You should see his notebooks. I’ve seen fifth-graders turn in better work. Clearly he’s not stupid. I mean, I don’t think he’ll be discovering the cure for cancer, but I’m sure he’s not as…boneheaded as he comes across in my classroom.”

I nodded, then shrugged. “Kids that age. They can be pretty disengaged. Scott’s the same way.”

“I know you’ve spent a lot of time with him lately. Helping him get in his service hours, and all that.”

“Yes.”

Her hands moved in a searching gesture, slowly stirring the air. “Has he—said anything to you? Indicated if there’s a problem at home? Does he seem distressed to you?”

I offered her a small smile. My heart was beginning to settle down from the panic that had trickled into me when Sandy began asking her questions. Now I understood the situation was simple: Sandy wanted me to tell a story. In the Waldorf teaching college we had learned the right way to tell a story, and that way is quite different from the common wisdom. It calls for the teacher to speak in a near monotone, absent of animation, never varying from the script. A story told this way is almost hypnotic, sending the child’s focus to the words rather than the storyteller, allowing her to memorize the tale and grow familiar with it until it is drawn into the heart. This is a very good way to tell a fairy tale, and also an excellent way to explain a complicated lie. I was a master at Waldorf-style storytelling, because I had been using these techniques all my life.

“Yes,” I admitted. “He’s had problems with that girl. Fairen Ambrose.”

“Ah.” Her face rearranged itself instantly into a look of total comprehension. “He told you this?”

“Oh, yes. She plays games with him. Strings him along. I saw it myself on the choir trip to Ohio. Playing footsie, back massages, and then when he pursues it she turns him down. He’s a bit stymied by it. Embarrassed. He covers it up by acting like he doesn’t care.”

“That makes sense. I’m trying to get to know all these kids, but it’s a process. You’ve known most of them since kindergarten, I’ve been told.”

I nodded. “It’s interesting how little they change. Fairen, for example. She’s very bright, but she uses terrible language and doesn’t have much respect for adults. She was the same at five. And of course, since she spends a lot of time at my house and I have a son, there are other things I don’t love about her. To put it politely, she’s very liberated.”

Sandy laughed. “No wonder Zach likes her.”

“Yes, I’d say that’s an ill-advised match for a kid who seems pretty naive.”

She nodded, then leaned in and said in a stage whisper, “I’ll change my seating arrangements at the end of the term.”

I chuckled. “Good idea.”

“God, isn’t it hell?” she said. “Being that age and dealing with all the romantic drama? There’s no amount of money you could pay me to go back and experience all that again. Remember what it was like?”

I smiled again, the muscles in my face going taut with the effort. I remembered.

“Lift.”

I followed Zach’s command and raised up my end of a folding table, taking a few mincing steps forward as he strode backward. His biceps bulged forward; the tendons in his forearms shifted beneath his skin.

“This weighs about twenty pounds more than it ought to,” he observed.

“Well, it’s pretty old.”

His voice was derisive. “Everything in this school is pretty old.”

“I beg your pardon.”

He caught my smirk and returned a patient half smile. “Present company excluded, Mrs. McFarland.”

“Zach. Please.”

He eased the table down into its spot and I gratefully followed suit. Banners were already strung high above our heads, the distinctive Waldorf script lettered in a dusky rainbow of colors by hardworking eleventh-graders.