“Surrender to the bouge, Calliope. Surrender to the bouge.”
Chapter Four
Man, I’m starting to sweat. We’re talking about six-year-olds here. Am I really going to be intimidated by a bunch of six-year-olds?
Apparently, I am.
“It’s clear you don’t know as much about dinosaurs as you think you do.”
This comes from Finn, a self-proclaimed dinosaur expert.
It’s day two of my first week. In theory, I am in the midst of leading my inaugural education session with “Dino Diggers,” a group of local first graders who want to learn about all things prehistoric. In actuality? I am just trying to keep these small humans alive and accounted for until their caregivers arrive to collect them in forty-five minutes, at which point I can finally breathe again.
“Hm. Why do you say that, Finn?”
“Because you just pronounced Diplo-DOCK-us like Dip-LOD-ocus. It’s not Dip-LOD-ocus, it’s Diplo-DOCK-us.”
This kid makes me feel dizzy.
“It’s actually not, sweetheart.”
“It is, sweetheart!”
Oh, snap! Is he mocking me?
“Let me ask you this. Where do you get your information, Finn?”
“YouTube videos. Duh.”
“Gotcha. Well, I get my info from reading the works of preeminent paleontology scholar Jack Horner, visiting every natural science center in every major metropolitan city I can, constantly scouring the best-seller lists and news articles for the latest fossil findings, and worshiping the work of women like Dr. Eileen Knowles who is blessedly the head of paleontological studies at this here museum. So, yeah.”
He does not seem impressed.
“Keep this in mind, kiddo. YouTube is a cesspool of talentless hacks baiting us all for clicks while offering little to no substance, simultaneously filling our heads with misinformation and lining their pockets with dollah, dollah bills, y'all.”
“What?”
“Just… don’t trust everything you see on the interweb.”
“It’s called the internet. Not the interweb.”
All right, so clearly, Finn is my new pint-sized nemesis, and I am making no impression on him whatsoever. Ugh. Kids.
Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. I’m just not sure I “get” kids. I was never the girl who wanted to hold the baby in the room. Never the one who counted down the days until I could babysit. Certainly never the one who dreamed about being pregnant and pushing a watermelon out of my nether regions. Call me crazy, I guess.
All right. I’m going back in.
“So! Boys and girls, I’m crazy excited to be starting out on this journey together today. We’re going to learn so much about dinosaurs and the other creatures that lived alongside them over sixty-five million years ago. It’s going to be awesome! And every time we meet, we’ll have the opportunity to dig up some real dinosaur fossils! You can even take some of them home! How cool is that?”
My one and only girl in the group has been jamming her arm into the air so hard over the course of my little speech she looks like she’s going to dislocate her tiny elbow.
“Yes, Harper, what is it?”
“Um. You called us boys and girls.”
“I did, yeah.”
“Well, you shouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s offensive.”
“How is it offensive?”
“Not everyone identifies as a boy or a girl. Gender is a construct, and I don’t think you should be putting us into predetermined and generalized categories without taking this perspective into account.”
“Wow. How old are you?”
“Six and three-quarters.”
“Well. Thank you for that… perspective, Harper. I hear you, and I actually… You know what, girl? I mean, person? I agree with you. What do you think would be a better way for me to address you all moving forward?”
“Energetic creatures on Earth? Planet helpers and healers? Spiritual beings in human form?”
And… I instantly recognize the type of parents who are raising Harper.
“Solid ideas, my friend. How about I call you Diggers, though? Because that’s who we are while we’re together. We’re Dino Diggers on a mission to excavate and innovate!” I infuse my voice with that higher-pitched sing-songy tone people use when they’re trying to relate to children. I’m not so sure it’s working, but onward I go.
“Everybody has their picks and brushes?”
“Yes!” seven tiny voices yell.
“Aprons fastened and in place?”
“Yes!”
“Are we ready to discover some new dinos?”
“Yes!”
“Alright, Diggers! And three, two, one... go!”
They dive into their digging with a childhood exuberance I think I’ve been missing in my life, and I can’t help but smile. Hm. Maybe I can do this after all.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I always thought that was some lame thing people said. I never thought it actually happened. But honest to God, at that moment, the little tiny mammal hairs on my neck are lifting away from my skin. I turn around.
Some old dude is staring at me. Like, unabashedly staring. His eyes are glassy, and he’s smiling. He holds a notebook in his left hand and has a pencil floating in the air in his right hand as though he’s about to write something down. But he doesn’t. He just… stares. Creepy.
After whipping my head around to glance behind me, I then look back at the guy. Huh. Maybe he’s not gazing at me after all? He seems to be staring through me. Is it at the kids? Oh God, what if he’s staring at the kids? I am so not equipped for this sort of thing.
But I’m also not one to sit around and just let life happen to me. No, sir. I confront things head-on. So that’s what I do. And sure, I could probably have a million more appropriate responses at the moment, but I can’t think of a single one, so I plaster a big smile on my face and… start waving. Yup, I wave at him like a complete goober. Like someone who just spotted their best friend at the mall. Or an old-timey person saying bon voyage to a ship.
Weird dude waves back, but he seems to move in slow motion as though he’s surrounded by water.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m moving through water too as my wave slows and my smile sours. Wait a damn second. This isn’t “the” guy, is it? This can’t be Alf, can it? Seriously, don’t tell me I spent my elevator debacle getting all hot and bothered by a dude who is old enough to be my grandpa. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Love is love—like Sasha said—and age ain’t nothing but a numbah, but still.