The Broken Protector Read Online Nicole Snow

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The strategy lets them sharpen their own social skills by assisting, letting them feel helpful. I’m actually pretty proud of the strategy.

One especially bright, precocious nine-year-old keeps me on my toes, though.

Nell Faircross.

She’s in fourth grade, but well ahead of her peers, this restless little butterfly. The younger kids can barely keep up with her, and she’s my little helper all day.

I find out fast that she’s also a little gossip.

Every time I forget a name in the sea of new faces, she whispers in my ear, That’s Billy Compton or She’s Sarah with an H, remember the blonde one is Sara without an H but also with a little giggle of Billy pinches girls’ skirts and tries to peek or Mary steals pencils, watch out or she’ll take yours too.

I appreciate the little warnings.

But I also feel like I should keep an eye on Nell.

She forces me to cover a loud laugh more than once, but that kind of behavior could quickly turn from helpful to malicious gossip. I don’t want people picking on her for helping the teacher or ratting them out.

Trust me.

Snitches get stitches applies on the playground more than the streets.

Hell, especially on the playground.

By lunch, they’ve worn me out. I get five minutes to stuff my face with Nora.

Of course, she teases me about looking like an exhausted soldier in the trenches before I’m back at it with the kids.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m enjoying myself like mad, but the burnout hits hardcore.

I’m relieved that a little recess and full bellies seem to dampen their energy, too.

By afternoon, I’ve put the little ones down for their nap. The older kids are quiet and content with reading time, diving into classics by Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis.

Then Nell wants a story about an hour later.

I smile at her and ask, “What kind of story?”

She perks up, her brown hair bouncing around her face.

“Can you tell us a story about the people who live in the hills, Miss Clarendon?” she whispers, drawing it out dramatically. Her eyes widen. “Y’know, the ones in the scary house with the windows like eyes. The ones who eat people. My uncle says if you go too deep in the woods, they’ll chop you right up and put you in their stew pot.”

Gasps rise around the room, hushed and excited.

Many of the students stir restlessly.

“Nell, your uncle shouldn’t tell you stories like that,” I say. “And you’re going to wake the little ones. Be good now. Hearsay isn’t always the truth. I’m sure the hillfolk are perfectly nice people—” I stop. Yes, perfectly nice people, with their terrifying habit of standing by the side of the road and glaring at me like they really do want me for stew meat. But I can’t let my own goofy bias infect my kids.

“They just live a little differently than we do,” I tell her, choosing my words slowly.

Nell pouts, folding her chubby little arms. “But why would Uncle Grant tell me that if it’s not true?”

“Because,” I tease gently, “you’re a fearless little adventurer. I bet if he didn’t tell you fun stories to keep you from going out looking for the hillfolk, you’d wander all over the place to find out what it’s like for yourself. If you got lost in the woods, you’d wind up in a really scary situation. Your Uncle Grant would worry himself sick. So, I think you’d better listen to him and not mess around in the forest, but don’t pay any attention to silly stories about the hillfolk. He’s just teasing you.”

I hope.

After everything I’ve seen in this town, I honestly wouldn’t write off living in a bad remake of The Hills Have Eyes.

Nell lets out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Oo-kaaaaay,” she drags out.

“I appreciate that, Nell.” I smile. Even if I had to chide her, I prefer teaching through positive reinforcement, and I don’t want to embarrass her. “Now, does anyone want to hear any other stories? What else do you know about the history of Redhaven?”

A few kids chime in, talking about how they have a dad or a grandfather in Sons of the American Revolution because their sixth generation grandfather did something or other in the Revolutionary War.

Then Sarah With an H raises her little hand. “Can you tell us a story about living in New York, ma’am? That’s where you’re from, right? My mama told me.”

I’m not surprised their parents have been talking, wondering what kind of person I am and how I’ll be with their kids.

I just smile wider. “Sure! Buckle in, guys, because I’m going to tell you all about the Cinderella of New York City.”

Okay.

So I’m making up a fictionalized version of my life on the fly.

In the story, I’m a princess, stolen away from my mother by evil fairies. The evil fairies leave me with a cruel royal family who may be rich and rulers of a bigger country, but they don’t love me.


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