who had been caught for a moment in that dirty old cage of a schoolhouse, perhaps by mistake.
But he hoped, he prayed, she’d never get loose and fly away.
He managed to endure the whole boring week of school for that one half hour on Friday afternoons
when they’d sit on the worn-out rug on the floor of the teachers’ room
(there was no place else in the building for Miss Edmunds to spread out all her stuff)
and sing songs like “My Beautiful Balloon,” “This Land Is Your Land,” “Free to Be You and Me,”
“Blowing in the Wind,” and because Mr. Turner, the principal, insisted, “God Bless America.”
Miss Edmunds would play her guitar and let the kids take turns on the autoharp, the triangles, cymbals, tambourines, and bongo drum.
Lord, could they ever make a racket! All the teachers hated Fridays. And a lot of the kids pretended to.
But Jess knew what fakes they were. Sniffing “hippie” and “peacenik,” even though the Vietnam War was over
and it was supposed to be OK again to like peace, the kids would make fun of Miss Edmunds’ lack of lipstick or the cut of her jeans.
She was, of course, the only female teacher anyone had ever seen in Lark Creek Elementary wearing pants.
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