“Ah, I see. Well …” She wrinkles her nose, the most emotion I’ve seen from her since she started working here. “At any rate, you did not reply. So, I must assume you did not receive my texts.”

Of course, I saw them. I’m wearing a skirt, aren’t I? What is she getting at? “Well, there was no name on them. I figured they were from Manager or …” I trail off before I say, “a random stalker.” Probably best not to joke with a pissed-off Lieko.

“No, they were from me. You have very important trial lesson today. Every lesson is important, now. It would have been better if you replied to them. According to Manager, you always reply to him or to Yoshino with ‘hai, wakarimashita.’ It is not professional to not reply at all. Please consider this for next time. The Zozo company is very important.”

Wonderful. The one time I don’t respond all hell breaks loose. Not sure what hell that would be, it was just three stupid texts. I don’t know what business Lieko has harassing me after-hours in the first place. I decide it’s better to drop it. I sit down at the bench to get to work. Lieko must be waiting for a rebuttal or an apology because she remains rooted for another moment, staring at me before she goes to the cupboard and riffles through files. She mutters something in Japanese, diverting my attention. Her nose is buried in a binder as she walks out of the room. She takes significant time to glare at me over her notes as she slides the door closed behind her. Now I’m really glad I didn’t call her a stalker.

Once I finish a little more prep work for the week, the elevator dings with the arrival of our morning students. For the next forty-five minutes, I play with a group of three-year-olds in the guise of English instruction. My students all sit on their knees in perfect polite seiza. My skirt leaves me no choice but to do the same. The kids whip out their Zippo and Zappo colouring books to get their “homework” stickers. I also reward them with the Chicken Dance song and a couple of Sharon, Lois & Bram hits. Overall, my students are a joy to teach, when they’re not crying, beating each other up, or kicking the CD player. The helicopter moms at the giant viewing window couldn’t be prouder. They even follow along with the songs and repeat vocabulary after me.

After the “Goodbye Song,” the moms appear to be happy with how the class went. I hope they feel they got their money’s worth, because my calves are killing me.

“Thank you, Cybelle-sensei,” Yuta’s mom bows. “How was he?”

“As usual, Yuta was great,” I smile down at him. “You spoke up so much today, big guy. Have you been practising?”