The Bark Before Christmas Read online

  A moment later, the triumphant pair joined us outside the ring. Davey was clutching the coveted purple ribbon in his hand. He had a dazed look on his face.

  “Did that really happen?” he asked.

  “It did indeed,” Aunt Peg told him. She took Augie’s leash and moved the Poodle to one side so he wouldn’t get messed up before the Best of Variety judging. “That was well done.”

  Praise from Aunt Peg was a rare and precious commodity. Davey flushed with pleasure and ducked his head to hide a jubilant grin.

  Sam was studying the catalog. “Three points,” he said. “The major held. That’s your first.”

  “And it’s only the beginning,” Aunt Peg announced.

  Fortunately I was too busy savoring the moment to argue.

  Chapter 5

  After the busy weekend we’d had, Monday morning came all too early.

  Since rejoining the teaching staff at Howard Academy at the beginning of the semester, I had been working three days a week. My tutoring sessions were scheduled virtually back to back on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and I already felt like I was always playing catch-up. Now that the task of managing the Christmas bazaar had landed in my lap too, I was pretty sure that I’d be lucky to see daylight before the end of the week.

  Howard Academy is situated on a hilltop just north of downtown Greenwich. The original school building, once the sumptuous, early-twentieth-century mansion of founding siblings Joshua and Honoria Howard, sits at the end of a long, meandering driveway. Constructed of stone and built to last, it has weathered the century well. Its public rooms house both the administrative offices and the classrooms for the younger grades.

  The school’s new wing, added in the 1960s to accommodate a growing student population, is a soaring vision of glass and concrete. Classrooms there, including mine, are big and bright. They feature every amenity that the wealthy parents who pay Howard Academy’s hefty tuition bills, assume their privileged children should have access to. And in the case of my particular classroom, they also feature a Standard Poodle.

  That would be Faith, of course.

  Six years earlier when I began teaching at Howard Academy, I was a single mother and a recent convert to the joys of dog ownership. I’d petitioned for permission to bring Faith to work with me and Mr. Hanover had proven surprisingly receptive. Always eager to promote ideas that would set his school apart from the dozens of other private academies in Fairfield County, he’d decided that the presence of a dog in the special needs room would do much to foster the school’s image as a child-friendly environment.

  To our mutual delight, Faith had quickly become a valued member of the teaching team. Her calm demeanor and friendly temperament proved soothing to even the most recalcitrant students. The Standard Poodle’s welcome presence had transformed my classroom from a place that students were assigned to report to, to one that they were instead eager to visit.

  Indeed, when Faith and I had returned to Howard Academy the previous autumn, much of the student body had turned out on our first day to welcome us back with dog biscuits and chew toys. Watching Faith interact with the eager children, I’d gotten the distinct impression that my Poodle’s absence had left more of a void in the school community than mine had.

  I try very hard not to take that personally.

  Driving around the main building, I pulled into the lot behind the new wing and found an empty parking space near the cafeteria door. Faith, who’d been riding shotgun, hopped out of the car with her head high and tail wagging. And why not? In her mind, Howard Academy was all laughing kids and biscuits. No one had assigned her to take over a multibooth, volunteer-staffed, bazaar at the last minute.

  I got Faith situated in my classroom with a rawhide bone, a fresh bowl of water, and a promise to return shortly before heading down the main hallway to the teachers’ lounge. Before the first bell rang each morning, the lounge was information central. Some teachers stopped by to grab a cup of coffee, others stashed snacks in the refrigerator or compared notes about school activities.

  All were hoping to share the latest gossip.

  I’d spent the previous evening on the phone with a dozen different parent volunteers. Each had assured me that the tasks they’d been assigned for the bazaar were under control, and that the loss of Virginia Highland to a beach in Cabo in no way impacted their readiness to go forward. That was all good news. Now I was really hoping that the teachers who’d been conscripted to work on the event would tell me the same thing.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the ornate silver urn and added a dollop of thick cream from the china pitcher on the tray beside it. Also on the sideboard was a plate of fresh blueberry scones and a small bowl of whipped butter. The school kitchen sent up fresh pastries every morning and their scones were my favorite.

  I was debating helping myself to one when a voice behind me said, “There she is now . . . Madam Chairman.”

  I counted to five under my breath, turned, and smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Ed. How are you today?”

  Ed Weinstein taught upper school English. He was opinionated, outspoken, and altogether annoying. He also had a permanent chip on his shoulder—due, I suspected, to his tendency to weigh the state of his own finances against that of his students.

  Over the years, Ed and I had butted heads on any number of topics. In the time that I’d been away from Howard Academy, he had grown a beard and given up smoking. The former was a change for the better: the beard had covered up his weak chin. I couldn’t say the same for the latter, as nicotine deprivation had done nothing to improve his often-surly disposition.

  “I’m fine,” Ed replied. “Now that you’re here.” He was seated at the heavy wooden table in the middle of the room. Now he reached over and pulled out the chair beside him.

  “Why is that?” I hadn’t intended to linger in the lounge, but I supposed I could sit for a minute.

  “I thought you might want to give us a status report on the Christmas bazaar,” Ed said with a smirk. “You know, now that you’re in charge.”

  I paused to blow on my steaming mug then said, “Right now, I’m still trying to get up to speed. I only found out that I’d be overseeing the event on Friday.”

  “That should have given you all weekend to get things figured out.”

  “It might have, except that I had other plans that couldn’t be changed. Which is why I’ll be working doubly hard all this week to make sure that everything proceeds smoothly.”

  “Don’t mind Ed,” said Louisa Delgado. A vivacious woman with glossy dark hair and a beautiful smile, Louisa taught math to the upper grades. She helped herself to a chair across from us at the table. “He’s just mad that Mr. Hanover didn’t make him chairman.”

  “Really?” I turned and stared at Ed. The notion that someone might have actually wanted the job came as a surprise.

  “When Russell needed someone to step in and take over,” he said, “the position should have come to me. I have seniority. Not only that, but I’m good at making sure that things get done right.”

  No one commented on Ed’s use of the headmaster’s first name, but a few of the teachers in the room rolled their eyes. We’d all seen Ed’s obsequious act whenever Mr. Hanover was nearby.

  “I’m sure Melanie will do a fine job.” Ryan Duncan, who taught lower school social studies, raised his cup to me in a small salute. “She’s a hard worker.”

  “She’s a tutor,” Ed grumbled, like I wasn’t sitting right there. “Not even a real teacher. And she only works part-time.”

  “Which is probably why Mr. Hanover picked me,” I said, striving for patience. “He probably thought that I’d have more time to devote to the bazaar than someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” Ed’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  Rita Kinney, a slender, quiet, woman who was my best friend among the Howard Academy staff, entered the lounge and caught the tail end of the conversation. She stood in the doorway and
laughed.

  “Melanie means someone who’s already busy, Ed,” she said. “You know, like you. Since you’re always busy butting into everyone else’s business.”

  “Now see here!” Ed shoved back his chair and stood.

  Abruptly the other conversations in the room fell silent. All heads turned our way.

  “Do sit down, Ed,” Louisa said softly. “You know you don’t want to make a scene.”

  I wouldn’t have been so sure of that, myself. From past experience, I knew there was nothing Ed Weinstein enjoyed more than boasting and blustering until everyone else backed down and he got his own way. As both a teacher and a mother, I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with behavior like that. Now I knew just what to do.

  “Ed, I had no idea you felt this way,” I said. “Let’s do something about it. If you’d like to take over as chairman of the Christmas bazaar, I have no objection.” I stood up beside him. “Let’s go right now and see if Mr. Hanover is in his office. You can make your case for being in charge and I’ll be happy to bow out gracefully.”

  “Now?” Ed looked stunned. He clearly hadn’t been anticipating this turn of events.

  “No time like the present,” I said cheerfully.

  “I have class in ten minutes.”

  “We’ll make it fast then.” I skirted around the table and headed for the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “But—” Ed stood beside his chair. He still hadn’t moved.

  “But what?” I paused near the doorway, next to Rita.

  “I can’t take on a project that big now. It’s too late.”

  “Like Friday was a whole lot earlier?” Rita said under her breath.

  Ed aimed a glare her way. “Friday would have given me the weekend to work on it. To bring everything together.”

  A glance around the room confirmed that I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t buying Ed’s lame excuse.

  “In that case, I guess you’ll just have to hope that Melanie can get it all done this week,” said Ryan Duncan. “I know I’m pulling for her. And I’m definitely glad that I don’t have to do it myself.”

  “Me, too,” Louisa echoed. Several other teachers also added their agreement.

  Out in the hallway, the first bell rang: a warning to teachers and students alike that we had five minutes to get to our respective classrooms. Ed strode across the room and pushed past us out the door. With his departure, the level of tension in the room eased. People began to talk again. They started to gather up their things.

  I looked around the lounge. Several teachers whose names were on my list of committee heads still remained. “Can we talk over lunch?” I asked. “Just a short meeting to make sure we’re all on the same page?”

  I was grateful to see everyone nod. Whether Ed recognized it or not, this wasn’t just my job. We all needed to work together to make the Christmas bazaar a success.

  My title is special needs tutor. Though I have my own classroom, I don’t teach a specific age group or discipline. Instead, it’s my job to ensure that every child at Howard Academy receives as much individual attention as he or she might need to excel—both in their class work and within the school community.

  Howard Academy’s curriculum is rigorous and exacting. The course selection is varied and sophisticated. Students are offered every opportunity to succeed. Even so, some still manage to slip through the cracks.

  It’s my job to catch them when they fall.

  Most of the students that become part of my program are those who don’t possess the scholastic tools or the academic drive that it takes to keep up in this unapologetically competitive environment. Identified early by their conscientious teachers, the children are sent to me before their small problems can become big ones.

  In many cases all it takes to turn them around is some one-on-one oversight, coupled with focused tutoring targeted on their specific needs. As a group, my students are diverse, enthusiastic, worldly, and altogether delightful. They are also children with first-world problems.

  Skiing trips interfere with their deadlines. Clinics with noted riding instructors demand their energy and attention. Late nights in the city at the opera or ballet leave them tired and listless in class the next day. Some have parents who are inattentive and mostly absent. Others have their every move scrutinized and analyzed by adults who demand that they achieve near-perfection.

  Sometimes what I really want to do is gather them all in my arms, give them a big warm hug, and reassure them that everything will be all right. Sad to say, our new guidelines pertaining to teacher/student interactions expressly forbid such a thing from ever happening. Ever sadder, most of my kids are already so jaded that they probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  It’s hard to be a teacher these days. And sometimes I think that it’s doubly hard to be a child. That’s why I want what I do to matter. If I can make my students’ lives even just a little bit easier, then the effort that I expend is well worth it.

  My first session of the day was with two sixth grade girls, Charlotte Levine and Quinn Peterson. Other than the similarity in their clothing—both were attired in the school uniform: navy plaid wool skirt, white button-down shirt, and navy blue kneesocks—the two girls couldn’t have been more different. Charlotte was small, shy, and earnest. Quinn was blond, bubbly, and ever-talkative.

  Both, however, currently shared a problem with science reports that were overdue. Their teacher had sent the pair to me in the hope that I could help them develop better study habits. Not to mention coming up with the missing reports.

  As usual, Quinn came dancing into the room. She sketched a cheery wave in my direction, called out, “Good morning, Ms. Travis!” then went straight to Faith’s bed in the corner to say hello to the Standard Poodle.

  Charlotte followed close behind. Her books were clutched against her chest and her head was tipped downward over them. Dark bangs, too long for her small face, fell forward to obscure her eyes.

  “Good morning, Charlotte,” I said. “Are you ready to get to work?”

  “Yes, Ms. Travis. But I already finished my science report. I worked on it over the weekend.”

  “Good for you.” I walked over to the round conference table where Charlotte was taking a seat. “Can I see it?”

  She handed over a narrow sheaf of papers bound inside a clear plastic cover. How Does Mold Grow? I read on the front.

  Hmm. I hadn’t the slightest idea. Science had never been my forte. I flipped through the pages. The report had pictures, and diagrams, and very wide margins. Still, it wasn’t up to me to evaluate the project, only to make it appear. Mission accomplished.

  “Quinn?” When I gazed toward the corner, the other sixth grader popped to her feet. She crossed the room to join us. “How’s your report coming?”

  “Just fine,” she said with a sunny smile. “Almost finished.”

  “So you’ll have something for me to look at tomorrow?”

  “You don’t work on Tuesdays,” Quinn pointed out. She was an expert at evasive maneuvers.

  “Usually I don’t,” I said. “But this week I’ll be in and out every day.”

  “How come?”

  “Mr. Hanover put me in charge of managing the Christmas bazaar.”

  “Oh right.” Charlotte looked up and nodded. “I heard about that. Puggy was really bummed.”

  I didn’t know Puggy. He wasn’t one of my students. “He’s bummed about the bazaar?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, about his mother running off to Mexico with her lawyer.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. There wasn’t much I could say to that.

  “Hey, it’s not so bad,” Quinn said brightly. “New stepfathers can be fun. “It’s in their best interest to get you on their side, so they give you stuff. Ask me how I know.”

  Oh my. On that note, a change of subject was definitely called for.

  “Are you girls coming to the bazaar?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Charlotte. “It
’s a school function.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Quinn stifled a giggle. “I’m bringing my pony.”

  I’d misheard, I thought. I must have.

  I tipped my head in Quinn’s direction. “You’re doing . . . what?”

  “Scooter,” she replied. “My pony. I’m bringing him to the bazaar. My mom said she’d hook up the trailer. Scooter’s thirty years old. He used to be bay but now he’s mostly gray all over. He never gets to go anywhere anymore so this will be, like, a big day for him.”

  “I must be missing something,” I said. “Why is Scooter coming to the bazaar?”

  “There’s going to be a booth where you can get your pet’s picture taken with Santa Claus.” Quinn’s tone implied that the answer should have been obvious. “I thought that sounded like a cool idea. Scooter’s old for a horse. He might not have that many more Christmases left. So I figured I’d better get his picture while I can, you know?”

  So much for thinking that I’d had things marginally under control. “Does Mr. Hanover know about this?” I asked.

  Quinn shook her head. “No. Why would he? But I’m sure he’ll love Scooter. Everyone does. He’s very friendly, for a pony. And he even likes candy canes.”

  “I’m sure that’s a plus,” I said faintly. I made a mental note to be sure to have a pitchfork and muck bucket near the picture booth.

  “I have a dog,” said Charlotte. “She’s a Cockapoo. Her name is Coco Lily.”

  “A Cockapoo?” Quinn echoed with interest. “She must be one of those new designer dogs.”

  For Charlotte’s sake, I tried not to grimace.

  Designer dogs. I hated both the term and the currently trendy product it described. Hype and false promises aside, how could it possibly be a good thing to take two nice purebreds and breed them together to create a purposely mixed result?

  “I don’t think Coco Lily is a real breed,” said Charlotte. “I’m pretty sure she’s just a mutt. But my mother thought calling her a Cockapoo made her sound special.”