the principal sighed. “Not till the semester ends in February. That’ll give you plenty of time to send your résumé around.”
It gave her four months, give or take a week. Dara sighed, staring out the window, where Old Glory popped and snapped in the brisk winter wind. She’d sat right here as a Centennial student when she’d served as an office aide to Mr. John Westfall, and again nearly nine years ago when he’d interviewed her to fill the open math teacher slot. There were other teaching positions available here in Howard County, and more than likely, she’d accept one. But it wouldn’t be the same, because those schools wouldn’t feel like home.
“Should I put in a good word for you over at River Hill?” Westfall asked, standing. “I hear there’s going to be an opening there.”
“Sure,” Dara said, getting to her feet. “That’d be great.”
“I hate to lose you, Dara. And so will the kids.”
He extended his hand; she clasped it gratefully.
“It’s gonna be like sending one of my own daughters off into—”
“Hush,” she said, smiling sadly, “or you’re going to make me cry.”
“Don’t want to start up any waterworks, now do we?”
Dara focused on their hands. He’d been jerking her arm up and down like a pump handle. “I’ve heard of trying to get blood from a turnip,” she teased, “but I don’t think this is the way you go about it.”
Chuckling, Westfall let go of her hand, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said softly, “anything, you just ask, you hear?”
“Thanks,” she said, heading for the door. “I will.”
“You’ll come see me once in a while, won’t you? Let me know how you’re doing?”
Another nod, one hand on the doorknob. “Now, let me leave before I start blubbering all over this gorgeous green-and-orange carpet of yours!”
She closed his office door. Could things get any worse? she wondered. The second anniversary of her mother’s death was just around the corner; in a week, her father would have been gone six months. Then there was the news about his so-called embezzlement. And now she was out of a job. If you had any sense, she said to herself, you’d make reservations and take that cruise you’ve been saving up for.
Immediately, she shook her head. No telling what Noah Lucas might do on Kurt Turner’s behalf while you’re off in the sunny Caribbean worrying yourself silly.
The janitor flung open the door, rolled his oversize metal trash can inside. As he banged and clanged down the hall, a huge gust of wind whipped in behind him, blowing the papers from Dara’s hands and scattering them across the floor. Some fluttered out the door; others skidded under lockers. “That cruise is gone with the wind, too,” she muttered as she gathered the papers that hadn’t escaped.
Look at the bright side, she told herself. Now you have two projects to distract you from the Pinnacle mess—Sunday school and job hunting!
As she headed for her cubicle in the teachers’ lounge, something told her neither would be a very good diversion.…
* * *
The weather bureau was predicting snow. Lots of it. But it wasn’t supposed to start until late afternoon, which meant Sunday services and Dara’s class would take place as scheduled. If TV meteorologist Norm Lewis was right, there’d be no school tomorrow, and if her students had heard his report, they’d be too busy looking out the windows to learn much of anything this morning.
It was a good chance to put Naomi King’s advice to the test: “You can’t teach the little ones with ordinary lessons. If you follow the teacher’s manual, they’ll be bored and restless.” The art project had worked quite well last week. Why not incorporate more of the same into this Sunday’s lesson?
She’d purchased five jars of peanut butter, a bottle of vanilla, ten boxes of confectioners’ sugar, two rolls of waxed paper, a monumental stack of foam bowls, three rolls of paper towels and a huge can of crushed peanuts at the grocery store yesterday. Dara could hear in their puzzled voices that she’d piqued her students’ curiosity when she called each last evening and asked that they bring one of their fathers’ old shirts to class, but it was nothing compared with the inquisitive looks on their faces when they marched into the room and saw the supplies, standing in a tidy row on her desk.
“I’ll answer all your questions as soon as we’ve said our opening prayer,” she promised. “Who’d like to do the honor?”
At first, Dara thought she might have to do it herself, as she had last week. Then one tiny hand slid hesitantly into the air.
“Thank you for volunteering, Bobby,” she told him. “Now, let’s all close our eyes and bow our heads.”
The children immediately complied.
“Go ahead, Bobby.”
“Dear Lord,” he began in a sweet, angelic voice, “we thank You for getting us here safely. God bless Miss Mackenzie for being our teacher…” He hesitated for a moment before concluding. “And for bringing all the ingredients to make peanut butter balls. Amen.”
“Peanut butter balls. What’re peanut butter balls?”
The question echoed around the room a dozen times before Angie said, “They’re a no-bake dessert that’s very high in fat and—”
“But they’re fun to make and dee-licious!” Bobby tacked on.
“How do you know ‘bout peanut butter balls?” Pete asked.
“Our mother taught us to make them,” was Angie’s straightforward reply.
Dara clapped her hands. “All right, class, let’s get our hands washed so we can dig in.”
In a matter of minutes, they were back in their seats, draped in their fathers’ baggy, cast-off shirts. “We’re going to learn something about creation today,” she said, going from desk to desk, rolling up sleeves. And handing each student a sheet of waxed paper, she added, “God took special ingredients, mixed them and made the world.”
As Dara gave the children their own disposable bowls, she began quoting Genesis in words these first graders would understand. To emphasize the lesson, she doled out peanut butter and sugar, a drop of vanilla, and invited the kids to mix them thoroughly…with their bare hands. When they’d made dough of the mixture, she instructed them to form gumdrop-size balls from it, then instructed them to roll their peanut butter balls in the crushed nuts.
Lisa licked the mixture off her fingers. “Mmm,” she said. “That was good work.”
“And messy work,” Tina agreed.
“But now we can enjoy—and share—what we’ve made,” Dara told them.
“Oh, I get it!” Pete shouted. “Like God enjoyed the world, and shared it with Adam and Eve once he got done makin’ it!”
“Once
