For once, I was simply a sister at a water park.
Before anything happened, I noticed Evan near the splash area. He was attempting to balance along the edge of a fountain wall while his father walked behind him carrying two towels over one shoulder.
That was how I knew his family was there.
Then someone called my name.
I turned and saw the mother of one of my students striding toward me.
Mrs. Miranda.
I had dealt with her before during a parent conference when she insisted her son Evan was bored because I was “wasting time” helping other students catch up. She spoke about teachers the way certain people speak about servers, as though our value existed only while we were helping her child. Once, she had called me at 8:40 p.m. to ask why Evan’s spelling list was not “more competitive.”
Now she was crossing the wet pavement in wedge sandals, looking at me as though I had done something disgusting.
