Good Intentions

I could've asked, but there's no point it poking a hole in a dream half-deflated. Besides, it's my turn to hold on to the notion; I promised that I would.

"Ms. P?"

"Yes?" and I bite my tongue on the dear, let her identify herself, as if I don't know who it is exactly.

"We're not coming to school today," and I don't say no kidding to the voice on the other end of my classroom phone. "We don't have a car."

"What happened?" I ask, though I've already heard the story.

"My license plate expired at the end of December." I can hear the baby's fussing as she pauses. "But Eduardo," and she brightens, "he gets paid today, so we can get it and come tomorrow."

And I don't ask how he's gonna get that check, or about the work he must have been missing, you know, without the car. Though I don't doubt the tag's expired, don't doubt they're nervous to drive.

"Have you thought about taking the bus? You know, save the gas money?" I offer instead. "Would that work for you?" Like it could have worked today, the first day. She knows as well as I.

"Yeah, we were thinking about doing that," she says half-sheepish, "to walk down the hill to Angel's stop." It may be the phone, but she knows the look I'm giving. After all, she calls me to confess. And thus she swears out a new plan for tomorrow, gathers schedules and sounds so determined, clear until she hangs up and goes back to bed.