It was cold, the kind of cold that turns your nose pink and your windshield frosty. I stood shaking in my thick navy parka, watching the cars zip by, leaving a filthy smell in their wake. I groaned as the clock tower announced the hour. "BONG...BONG."
It was two, and I was supposed to have my butt parked in a foot tall pre-k chair, helping some kid color an animal, but I was stuck at a crosswalk on Oaklawn lane, waiting for the walk sign. For my community service hours my mom recommended volunteering at the Preschool, so I signed up, not realizing the utter horror that is room 109, ages 3-4.
On my first day, I discovered that children are not sweet, shy angels, hiding behind their mother's legs, but fiery demons fueled on grape juice and crackers. They take your stuff, run around the class, jab you with small plastic toys, and annoy the teacher, Mr. Marlowe, to the verge of baldness. Seriously, what is this guy doing teaching preschool?!
So when I finally crossed the street and walked towards the Pre-K center past the big oak tree, I just barely noticed the jaguar, lolling out on a thick branch, eyes narrowed in exhaustion.
