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If I had to pick one word to describe Legolas Greenleaf, I would pick strange.
As his first grade teacher, it’s a horrible thing to say, I know, but…
He isn’t like the other kids.
A peculiar atmosphere hangs about him.
The first thing I noticed about him when he first entered my class was his hair. It’s long and blonde, and that’s fine because I know I would have died sobbing at that age if someone made me cut my hair, but-
It’s perfect.
All. The. Blasted. Time.
It’s against the laws of entropy.
It doesn’t matter if he runs hard during recess or climbs the large oak tree in the middle of the schoolyard - it’s always perfection. Not a single strand of hair displaced from any of the braids his mother must surely wake up an hour earlier to do every morning.
Being jealous of a seven year old’s hair makes me feel guilty. What kind of a jerk does that?
I felt even more like a monster when he brushed it back during a math test to reveal some kind of a deformity on the tip of his ear and realized that he must grow his hair long to hide it.
I endured teasing for less when I was in elementary school, but I know very well how horrible it feels to be the brunt of other kids’ jokes.
I am a jerk.
I deserve to die a thousand deaths.
But it’s not just the hair that makes Legolas Greenleaf abnormal.
On the first graders’ first spelling test of the year, Legolas wrote everything in an entirely different language. I tried searching it, but Google came up empty.
Completely empty.
As empty as my head when I try to remember the name of the principal when I stumble across him in the hallway.
Google helped me survive teacher’s college. Nothing stumps Google.
I’m also fairly certain I’ve heard him speak the same language (as far as I can tell, at least) to that oak tree.
But it’s completely absurd and wild to think that the tree leaned down to listen. No, absolutely bonkers . It was a figment of my imagination. A result of stress from the school year.
I’m probably hallucinating, in fact, because I’ve been out of coffee since eight o’clock this morning, and-
Well, it’s beside the point.
I can ignore the trees, and the other things don’t matter to me, either.
(That’s a lie. I very much care about the hair, but it’s below my pride to ask a seven year old for advice on braiding, thank you very much. There’s only so much dignity I have left after wiping kids’ noses every day for forty weeks a year.)
But there are other things I can’t exactly ignore as Legolas’ teacher, and well, what’s the school year without a parent-teacher conference?
Sometimes, I curse the principal for his firm belief in face-to-face connections with the parents or guardians of all students.
Not to his face, of course.
Children, I can interact with. Most of the time. There was that one incident with the water balloons. And the Great Marker War of Room 312. And the escaped chihuahua. But children are easier to interact with than their parents.
I can’t help feeling a great pool of dread as I send off a polite (at least, what I think comes across as polite but is more than likely just rambling) email to Thranduil Greenleaf, asking him to meet in my classroom after school to talk.
As I close the lid to my laptop, I half-hope that he wouldn’t check his email and fail to show.
…
He does not.
With the air of a king, he sweeps into my classroom, scanning the room and its childish decorations with a touch of disdain.
And, hey, maybe he is a king because he looks like one of those models in the magazines my sister Julie likes to read. All that’s missing is a crown and royal robes, and he doesn’t even really need those.
Breathe, I remind myself. You have a nice cat at home. Mr. Wiggles will not take this unfaithfulness.
Thranduil Greenleaf and his son are spitting images of each other. Same white hair, same smooth face. But where Legolas is warm, tiny, and cheerful, his father is cold, strong, and intimidating.
“Mr. Greenleaf,” I manage to squeak out. “Please...sit.”
Greenleaf sits, crossing his legs and looking at me both expectantly and as though he has no expectations of me whatsoever.
The chair I dragged up is far too small.
Since I don’t know what else to do, I plow right in. “So, Legolas has been doing well, and-”
A second later, a cell phone rings, some kind of flute tune, and I jump.
“Excuse me,” he apologizes. “I must have forgotten to silence it.” He glances at the screen. “If you will excuse me for one moment, I have to answer this.”
“Of course.”
Greenleaf turns slightly away as he accepts the call. “Yes, Galion?”
As I try to calm my pulse, he listens for several minutes before speaking, his voice cold and sharp. “I do not want Thorin Oakenshield or any member of his accursed company on my property, do you understand? If he so much as sets one filthy boot on my doorstep, break his knees. I don’t care. Do whatever it takes to keep that bearded fool away. Understood?”
He ends the call.
“So you say Legolas has been performing wonderfully? Delightful.”
Maybe he’s genuinely pleased, or maybe he’s one of those parents who thinks their children were born to become the next Nobel Prize winner.
I hope it’s the former, but I can’t really tell.
I swallow. “Ah, yes.” I clasp my hands on the desk in front of me. I’m a little unsure how to proceed, now, because while I’m just trying to help, I do not want to get Legolas in trouble with his father.
His very intimidating, cold, and powerful father.
Maybe this could have been an email.
“So...Legolas is a very bright child,” I begin, and I’m not lying or trying to placate Greenleaf because Legolas is one of the smartest children in my class by far. He might even skip a grade next year although I know from experience that doing so might make his life miserable. “But-”
“But?” Greenleaf raises one of his dark eyebrows.
Julie would swoon if she were here.
“Well, lately, he’s been talking about...things.”
“Things.”
I didn’t know it was possible, but the eyebrow arches higher.
It’s a perfect eyebrow.
Remember Mr. Wiggles.
“Yes, things...like spiders. Which, normally, no cause for concern, boys love spiders, you know, and while they aren’t really my cup of tea, personally, I do encourage children to have interests-” I stop myself. “Well, the spiders he is describing are the size of cars. Which, again, fine, no problem, I love it when children have imaginations. I am a firm believer that all children need imaginations! But Legolas is insisting that they’re real and attack your home on a regular basis with some creatures he calls orcs. And that they killed his mother. Normally, all of this would be fine, but…”
Well, Legolas seems to be teetering slightly off the edge of what I would consider a healthy imagination.
Maybe not, though, because I also remember pretending to spear my brother through the heart as a mighty Amazon warrioress when I was younger.
But he is starting to scare the other children in my class.
Is warrioress even a word?
“I see,” Greenleaf says, a frown touching his face.
I shrink back. “And…” I swallow. I really hope I’m not getting Legolas in any trouble. To calm myself, I reach for the nearest pen and begin fiddling with it. “And I find him staring off into space during class, and it’s hard to get him to focus back in again when it happens, and then he’s rather small for his age, so I was wondering...is there anything going on at home that I should now about or something I should do, or maybe-”
I can’t stop myself, but Greenleaf does.
“Archery.”
The word is so unexpected that I stop babbling at once.
What in the world?
“Legolas must be sneaking out of the house at night to practice. I will ensure that he sleeps properly from now on. Lately, I have been busy with work.”
“Oh, it’s not very often, and he isn’t falling asleep -” From the look on Greenleaf’s face, I can tell that whatever I say isn’t going to change his mind. “Have you seen a doctor about his size?” I try instead.
I’m also not trying to be mean here, but I’m not the only one who has noticed that Legolas is behind on growth.
“He is small for his age, and he has always been. His mother was that way as well. As for the spiders and the orcs…” Greenleaf looks uncomfortable for the first time since he came in here. “His mother died in a tragic accident not long ago. Legolas witnessed it. I will speak with him about what he shares with his classmates. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me?”
I feel terrible.
“I am so sorry-”
“Words of consolation are not necessary, Ms. Norton,” Greenleaf sneers.
I have a feeling that it is more out of his own raw grief than anger at me.
His face looks as though it holds the fragile sadness of a thousand years although he can’t be older than thirty-five.
“All right.” I clear my throat. “No, that was all.” I feel as though I have to make up somewhat for this train wreck of a parent-teacher conference. “Legolas is a joy to have in class, and he’s very bright for his age.”
It sounds just like anything I would tell any parent.
Inwardly, I cringe and facepalm. I’m probably making it worse.
It’s going to take a tub of ice cream to recover from this.
“I know,” Greenleaf tells me in the same condescending voice as before. “If that is all, it has been a pleasure to meet with you, Ms. Norton.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
I really hope I haven’t made things worse for Legolas. Greenleaf doesn’t give off loving father vibes, and I know how discouraging it is to grow up with a father who doesn’t care about you.
I hope I’ve done the right thing.
The more I think about it, the more my heart sinks.
I don’t want to have hurt Legolas.
Greenleaf has already stood, and I rise from my chair.
Am I supposed to shake his hand, or-
He nods at me, and then he turns and strides from the room.
The last thing I see is his magnificent, magazine-worthy hair, just like Legolas’ except the braids look like they were done by a child.
With a start, I realize that since Legolas’s mother is dead, someone else must be braiding his hair every morning before school.
Although I really want to collapse back into my hair, I hurry across the window that surveys the school yard.
Within a few minutes, Thranduil Greenleaf is outside the building.
All the other children avoid him completely.
Underneath the oak tree, he stops and looks up.
A small figure drops from a high branch.
Too high. He’s going to break an arm one day if someone doesn’t tell him to stop, and then some parent’s going to sue the school, and I’ll lose my job-
I’m expecting a confrontation between the two.
Instead, Greenleaf crouches down in front of Legolas, and they talk for a minute.
Where I am, I can’t hear a single word, but I can see the pure happiness on Legolas’ face - something that isn’t always present - and the surprising softness on his father’s.
Briefly, they hug.
My happy family, Hallmark ending-loving heart almost bursts as the older Greenleaf takes his son’s hand and walks with him to the parking lot.
On the way by, Greenleaf sneers at something the monitor says to him.
I’m too much of a sap, I think, yanking the blinds down before anyone catches me being a creep. Worse yet, I’m starting to sound like Julie.
I can just imagine what she would say - ethereal, handsome bachelor with adorable son.
I am not going down that route.
Sighing, I collapse back into my chair. When I check my coffee mug, I find it as empty as it was the last three times.
There’s a report on my desk, one that I was considering filling out. I pick it up and look at it. Half of the lines are empty.
Before I can change my mind, I crumple it and toss it towards the nearest trash can.
It misses by a mile.
A tub of ice cream and an angry cat are waiting for me at home, and I am exhausted.
There’s something about the Greenleafs. My romantic, book-loving, Netflix-binging side tells me that while they are at ease with the world, they don’t entirely belong here, either. Even though it’s reeeeally none of my business, it annoys me that I can’t place a finger on it or give a name to the feeling.
I just know it’s strange .