Virgil froze. The raccoon puppet drooped.
So Virgil began. He cleaned the classrooms first—waxing floors, scrubbing sinks—and then, between 1:00 and 3:00 AM, he became Professor VPK. He used overhead projectors to cast giant letters onto the gym wall. He built a solar system out of dust mop heads and paper lanterns in the library. He left cassette tapes of himself reading Where the Wild Things Are in the listening center, his deep voice rumbling through the school's empty speakers.
It started five years ago, after his wife left, taking the dining room table and his sense of purpose. Virgil had been wandering the school's darkened halls when he noticed a kindergarten cubby overflowing with uncorrected worksheets. A little girl named Elena had drawn a sun that looked like a fried egg and written "I am not smart" in shaky letters across the bottom. moonlight vpk
He was the best teacher Moss Creek had ever seen, and not a single soul had ever sat in his classroom.
Mrs. Albright's thermos slipped from her hands. It clattered to the floor. Virgil froze
He called it "Moonlight VPK" officially now, and he hung a sign above his door: "Even a rock can shine, if the light is right."
"Exactly," he said, nodding. "And that means you can shine too. Even when you feel like a rock. Even when nobody's watching." He left cassette tapes of himself reading Where
She held up a hand. "No," she said. "You're going to need a teaching certificate. And I know a principal who owes me a favor."
She stepped out, not with anger, but with tears streaming down her face. "You're the Moonlight VPK," she whispered.