On their way home from school, a group of third-grade girls crossed our path and stopped to say hello. It occurred to me that if you were ranking the world’s most heartwarming greeters, third-grade girls would take the gold without contest. They fold themselves into a hug so completely and so naturally — it gets me every time. As it happens, they’re also the grade whose schedule lines up best with ours this semester, so they show up to class more than anyone else. Ten of them, give or take. This particular beloved tribe reversed course at the school gate, turned their backs on home, and walked with us to the classroom.
Our usual room was still in the middle of a lesson. We tried another, but a group of ninth-graders had claimed it for something. The little ones marched right in, so we followed — and promptly got the politely worded news that the ninth-graders had a meeting, actually. I accepted the explanation with grace, though my finely tuned radar — I consider myself a ninth-degree black belt in reading a room — caught more than a few of them trading suppressed smiles behind our backs. We stepped out and waited in the hallway until they filed out, then took the room. I did feel a little sorry for them. They’d just wanted somewhere to hang out with their friends. There wasn’t much to be done about it.
So we set up in opposite corners: my wife with four or five seventh and eighth-graders for Korean, me with the younger ones for English. A few kids were there for the first time, so I ran a quick review of what we’d covered before. New students, returning students — it made no difference. Everyone looked equally, perfectly blank. At a certain point you stop calling it review and just accept that every lesson is the first lesson. We wrapped things up, a few of the younger ones asked whether Korean class was next — Yes! — and then word came that every room in the building would be needed for the rest of the afternoon. That was that.
We were heading to the car when Kalys, a fourth-grader, came sprinting after us and held out her hand. “Twenty som.” I stopped. “Twenty som for what?” I already knew I wasn’t going to give it to her. But I wanted to hear her say it. She shuffled her feet. Looked at the ground. Then, very quietly: “Morozhnoye.”
Ice cream.
I almost couldn’t keep a straight face.
“What did she say?” my wife called from the car.
“She wants twenty som to buy ice cream.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Agreed — but what if we just take them and buy it ourselves?”
She was already smiling. “Class ended early today anyway. I feel bad about that. Let’s get ice cream for all of them.”
“Let’s.”
We rounded up whoever was still kicking around the schoolyard and walked them to the shop.
On the way, my wife made a fair point — it’s not a great habit, a child holding out their hand to ask for money. She’s right. But I found myself turning it over differently.
Would Kalys have run after a stranger on the street and asked for ice cream money? Of course not. That particular brand of shameless, affectionate pestering — that’s reserved for fathers. For older brothers. For family. The fact that she tried it on me, Nurlan baike, meant something. She’d decided I was close enough. That small, outstretched hand quietly made my whole day.
I’ll bet you twenty som that word gets around overnight, and tomorrow’s class is twice the size.