It’s 6 a.m. and I’m in bed with the school superintendent.
It’s not as racy as it sounds. Technically, I’m just waiting for the superintendent to hop into bed with me.
The middle schooler’s alarm has already gone off. We’ve already received the news from the school closing scroll on the bottom of the television screen. My son’s attempting to go back to sleep, my husband is up and thinking about heading off to work. I lie in my warm bed, snuggled up to the cordless phone.
I can’t go back to sleep, not just yet. I’m waiting for the superintendent.
We usually get the call around 6:15 a.m. The snow day alert goes out first to high school homes, then middle school and so on until every schooling household in Grafton has been alerted to the lack of school. The first year, the call came in around 4:30 a.m. for my South Grafton student and I hit the roof — don’t call me that early unless someone is injured, or dead.
My eyes droop. I’m wrapped in blankets, have commandeered my husband’s pillow. I’m not a morning person. I can easily sleep until 8 a.m. and, today, there’s really no need for me to be awake this early.
I squint at the clock. 6:11. Any minute now. I can’t go back to sleep yet. The phone’s going to go off soon. I think about turning on the light and reaching for the British mystery I’d been reading the night before, but the nightstand is too far away. I think of pubs and tea and handsome upper crust New Scotland Yard detectives and their blunt lower rank sergeants and slowly start to drift…
The phone on my pillow has sprung to brightly lit life. Half-asleep, I fumble.
“This is Superintendent Connors…”
I barely listen. I already know what he has to say. I push the phone out of bed and attempt to get back to the dream. Weren’t we getting close to solving the crime?
My daughter, woken by the phone’s chirp despite my efforts, comes running into the room.
“There’s no school today!”
I guess I’m up.