The Paper Flower He Carried Across the Room
“My mom makes pancakes shaped like Mickey.”
“My grandma lets me feed the chickens.”
“My dad,” said Jeff Lindgren’s little girl, Ava, very firmly, “is pretending to be my mom today because Mom is in Kuwait.” Every adult in the room laughed and then had to look at the ceiling for a while.
When it got to Wyatt, he stood up very straight and looked at the floor.
“I love,” he said, and stopped.
Twenty-two children waited. Brittany sat forward. I held my breath.
“I love,” Wyatt said again, “when somebody reads the dinosaur book and does the voices.”
Then he sat down fast and put his face in his elbow.
I am the one who does the voices. Brittany could not have known that. But she knew it was not her. I saw it go across her face like a cloud across a field.
Mrs. Olson gave him a second, then moved on. That is the thing about a good kindergarten teacher. She knows exactly how long to let something sit.
I put my hand flat on the floor beside Wyatt’s chair, where he could see it but did not have to take it. After a minute, his little sneaker came down and rested on top of my fingers.
Then Mrs. Olson brought out the flowers.
They had been making them all week. Kindergarten flowers: pink and yellow tissue paper pleated like an accordion, twisted in the middle with a green pipe cleaner, then pulled apart one layer at a time until it looked something like a carnation if you squinted.
She had them in a big plastic tub, each one with a name tag taped to the stem. She walked around and handed every child their own.
Wyatt’s was pink. It was a little lopsided. One side was pulled out fat and full, and the other side was flat, like he had gotten tired halfway through.
“Now,” Mrs. Olson said, standing in the middle of the room, “I want each of you to carry your flower to your mom.”
Then she caught herself, the way teachers do now, and added, “Or your special grown-up.”
But the first word was already out in the air. Your mom.
Chairs scraped. Little shoes squeaked across the tile. Emma Berg ran hers to her Grandma Joan so fast the flower bent in half. Ava Lindgren marched hers to her father and pinned it on his corsage, right next to the other one.
Wyatt did not move.
He stood beside his little chair with his pink flower held in both hands. He looked at Brittany. He looked at me on the floor. He looked at Mrs. Olson, like he was waiting for her to tell him the answer.
I made myself not reach for him. I made myself not say a word. Whatever he did, I had already decided I would smile at it.
Brittany leaned forward in my little chair and held out her hand.
She did not say anything. She just held it out, palm up, and her hand was shaking a little. I saw she had painted her nails pink, very carefully, probably the night before.
Wyatt looked at her hand for a long time.
Then he turned around and walked to me.
He held that flower in both hands like it was full of water and might spill. Three steps. He stopped so close that the toes of his sneakers bumped my knee.