9. Oliver
NINE
Oliver
I am tapping my foot, glancing at the 3:09 written across my watch, thinking about Ms. Baker’s unit plan. It was unique. Unconventional, yes, but there were some real opportunities for student learning. That sort of creativity is supremely difficult, nearly impossible to teach teachers. Many teachers in our building would actually benefit from observing her. With a bit of fine tuning, the unit could even be excellent. Walking into her classroom, seeing her students grappling with content productively, it was… good. Almost… irritatingly so. I can begrudgingly admit that. Surprising, for sure. Am I being too hard on her?
It’s 3:11 when Ms. Baker bursts through my door, not bothering to knock.
“OhmigodIamsosorry,” she exhales, wheezing. She throws her backpack on the floor and herself into the chair across from my desk.
I raise an eyebrow in response.
She pushes her hair from her eyes and pulls out a water bottle of unknown brand and color, unknown to me because she’s covered every square centimeter of the bottle in a sticker of some sort, texts and colors overlapping in places. Black Lives Matter. Trans Lives Matter. Brooklyn Public Library. Planned Parenthood. ACLU. A holographic rainbow with “What a beautiful day to smash the patriarchy,” written in pink cursive. One that simply says, “But her emails.”
I cringe at the permanent chaos she is so comfortable with and straighten my black coffee mug and black stapler so they are perfectly aligned on my practical and bare dark wood desk. I do, however, watch the perfectly symmetrical lines of her throat as she chugs from her bottle.
She finishes with a tiny burp and deposits the bottle back into her bag. “I’m sorry. Max’s dad is being difficult. He accosted me outside in the schoolyard about an incident that Max totally made up. We were out there arguing for twenty full minutes. Max said that Dorothy shoved?—”
I hold my hand up. “Ms. Baker, stop. Breathe.” I commend myself for only glancing down at her chest for half a second as it shifts when she takes a deep breath. “First, we do not refer to PS 2 parents as ‘difficult.’” I cut in again as she prepares to retort. “I know Max’s dad, and he is, indeed, difficult, but please refrain from calling your parents that to your immediate supervisor. It is profoundly unprofessional.”
She harrumphs.
“Second, we do not ‘argue’ with parents. We have conversations. Discussions. Because we are in service towards the same goal…the well-being of their children.”
I can tell it takes everything in her to not roll her eyes at me. She doesn’t.
“Ms. Baker, do you have children?” I ask, glancing down at her ring finger.
She notices and hides her hand under her thigh. “I could have children and not be married, you know. And even if I were married, I wouldn’t have to wear a ring. I wouldn’t have to have kids, either. Smash the patriarchy!” she announces, waving her fist in the air. I know the verbal diarrhea will continue, so I remain silent. “But no, I don’t have them. Kids, I mean. Or rings. Or marriage, really. Or anything resembling a situationship?—”
“Ms. Baker, I don’t have children either, but I have two nieces. And what I do know about parenting, at least from my sister, is that all parents want is what’s best for their children. It would do you well to remember that any time you find yourself ‘arguing’ with a parent. Max’s dad is,” I pause, wanting to be diplomatic about my word choice, “an unsavory character, but he really just wants what is best for Max.”
She smiles that placating smile at me. “Understood, Mr. Flores.”
I find myself supremely irritated at her continuous nonchalance, the fake compliance she shows me. Bristling, and wanting to goad her into productive argument, I choose to start off strong with her unit plan review. “The ease with which you brush things aside is alarming, and it is not the way we like to do things here at PS 2,” I say, and list things off my fingers. “Your irreverent choice of wording when referring to our parent community, the borderline contemptuous way in which you receive feedback, the sloppy formatting and general disorganization of your lesson plans?—”
Her blue eyes flash at me, looking directly into my soul. I realize they skew greener when she is angry. “Wow, those are big words,” she tells me. “Most people would just say I’m a mess.”
My older sister’s voice pops into my head again. Watch it, Ollie . My jaw clenches. “A perfect segue into my next point, Ms. Baker, and let me then use language you are familiar with. The organization of your unit is, indeed, a mess. The final project is a mess.” Anticipating a retort, I barrel on. “The order in which you are teaching concepts is not entirely coherent. You jump from one unconnected concept to another. One day you are teaching a lesson on families, and the next day you are teaching a lesson about South America. Have the lesson follow a logical sequence, Ms. Baker.
“What happened to my ‘excellent’ unit plan, Mr. Flores? You said so yourself earlier. Doesn’t that count for something?” Her agitation is a tangible thing.
“Yes, it is commendable that your ideas are excellent, but don’t think that the work stops there. There is always room for growth.” I take a breath, on a roll now, energized by her reaction. “I also want you to reconsider your culminating project. You give students the choice of several activities, which is admirable, but there is no logical way to grade them equitably. Fix the final project. Create logical, connected rubrics for grading them. Shape up, Ms. Baker. And I warned you this would happen. You’re under a microscope right now.”
Her agitation radiates like waves of heat, and I can't help but revel in the chaos I've stirred. Yet, beneath the surface of my satisfaction, there's a flicker of something else—a pang of guilt, perhaps, or maybe just a twinge of remorse. My sister’s voice, telling me to cool it . It’s okay , she’s telling me. Stop fucking controlling everything. But I quickly squash it, focusing instead on the thrill of the verbal sparring match unfolding before me.
Her voice trembles with barely suppressed fury. Her face is flushed pink, a beautiful color that highlights the smattering of freckles across her nose, the tops of her cheeks. I wonder, for just one inappropriate moment, if her skin turns that color everywhere. “I understand and agree with what you’re saying, Mr. Flores, but do you really have to micromanage my font size ? Control every tiny little thing? Fix me? My students are learning . You know, not every classroom is the same. Not every teacher fits into your neat little mold.”
Her words sting, hitting a nerve. For a moment, I'm taken aback—the wind knocked out of my sails. But then, refusing to stay down, I steel myself and push back.
“Maybe not every classroom is the same,” I concede, my voice cool and controlled despite the storm raging within me. “But that doesn't mean we shouldn't strive for excellence. Our students deserve the best, and it's our responsibility as educators to give it to them. You haven’t proven excellence to me yet.”
She scoffs, a bitter edge to the sound. “Did you forget about the ‘e’ word you dropped to me earlier, during class? And who decides what 'the best' is, anyway? You? The District office? The city? The standardized tests?”
I hesitate, momentarily thrown off balance by her challenge, thinking about the Superintendent’s arbitrary directives regarding Ms. Baker’s classroom, something I have not yet shared with her. But then, with a confidence born of conviction, I meet her gaze head-on. "We do," I assert firmly. "We decide, together. By collaborating, by sharing ideas, by pushing each other to be better."
Her expression softens, just a fraction, and for a moment, I glimpse the person beneath the tempest—passionate, determined, fiercely protective of her students. And in that moment, the tension between us eases, if only slightly, replaced by a mutual understanding, a shared commitment to this community. Her posture relaxes, as if remembering herself and the hot water she currently stands in.
“I agree with what you said about the organization and the order of my lessons,” she tells me in a calmer tone. “I’ll look at those and move things around.”
I nod.
“I’ll think about the rubric for grading and share my ideas with you,” she continues.
“Just think about it?” I press.
“You’re totally right. Rubrics help kids succeed. But I want to make sure it’s perfect for my kiddos, so I’ll share all my drafts with you,” she says, picking up her backpack and moving towards the door.
“Ms. Baker, a reminder. I am responsible for your evaluations this year. Do not give me cause to give you an ineffective rating because of your insubordination. I also know you’re in hot water with those letters to file,” I say, standing.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Mr. Flores,” she says, throwing a wink behind her.
I, again, am left watching her perfect ass walk out my door.
Remember the promotion . She does need to fit into a neat little mold. It’s the safest way. For me and our students.
Over the next few days, I make it a point to peek in 302 as many times as my schedule allows. For different reasons. I tell myself that I’m making sure she’s compliant, to keep her under the microscope, so to speak. Maybe find a reason to write her up. But if I’m being truthful… really, I just want to watch her teach.
She’s magnetic.
In a matter of a week, she’s tamed that classroom.
One time I walk by, she has the entire class singing a song about getting ready to read. She has Max up front, acting as a conductor, swinging his skinny little arms around, frowning, as he attempts to get the left side of the room to keep time. Permanently grumpy Dorothy is harmonizing (poorly) and bobbing her head as she sings.
Another time, she’s transformed her classroom into a sort of museum. Each “exhibit” showcases a different cultural tradition from somewhere in the world. Each student is traveling through each exhibit, diligently taking notes in their notebooks, engaged .
And yet another time, her students are rapt with attention as she stands on her desk, doing some sort of jig, which I later learn is traditional Irish step dancing.
I make it a point to stop by after lunch, an infamous period for students, as their little bodies, filled with adrenaline from recess, are crammed into a tiny, silent classroom. Ms. Baker has them all sitting on the ground, eyes closed… meditating?
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Mia pops her head out of her classroom when she spots me this time, mesmerized, entranced really, by the force that is Georgia Baker. “Weird, but good.”
I grunt.
“Told you,” Mia smirks at me.
“Hm,” I manage.
I’m walking through the Penthouse again when I hear a ruckus coming from 302. Kids screaming, arguing. Max tumbles out of the door and into the hallway, sprawled out like a starfish. I knew it , I think, resigned yet inexplicably disappointed.
I stride up to the door, pulling Max up by his hand. “Where’s Ms. Baker?” I ask with barely suppressed outrage, peeking into the classroom. “I—” Students are standing on desks, students are sitting under desks, several are on laptops. The only thing consistent among them is that none of them are calm. I scan the class, freezing, when I see a frazzled older woman standing in front of the classroom, trying in vain to get students under control.
I clear my throat, just as Lina shows up behind me. “Shit,” I hear Lina whisper .
“Class 302,” I say. Thirty heads whip towards me, and thirty bodies settle in their seats shortly after. “Please take out a book and read independently,” I tell the class, then I whirl towards Lina. “What’s going on? Where’s Ms. Baker?” I ask her, feeling slightly hysterical.
“I heard her puking in the staff bathroom this morning,” she whispers. “She apparently had terrible food poisoning. I sent her home. This was the only sub available on short notice.”
The substitute sits down and puts her head in her hands.
Strangely relieved, I stride over to Chaya and Emmanuel’s classroom. I poke my head in.
“Mr. Jean-Baptiste?” I ask.
“No,” he says plainly.
“No, what?!”
He walks over to meet me at the door. “I’m not covering Georgia’s room and leaving my partner. Look at her,” he says, pointing to Chaya, who has become eighty-seven months more pregnant since I last saw her. “Besides, those kids are out of control. I don’t know what Georgia does with them, but I do know that I don’t currently have it in me. Sorry,” he says, then slams the door in my face.
I sigh. I look at Lina, who is standing with me in the hall. I look at my watch. “I have a meeting with the Department of Buildings in ten. Can you…?”
She sighs. “Sure.” She shakes her head. “Still think that Georgia isn’t the right person for the job?”
“Hm,” I grunt again, for the umpteenth time this week.
Back in my office, after my DoB call, I strum my fingers on my desk and glare at my phone as if it’s taunting me. It dares me to do it. It’s not a huge deal , it tells me, to check in on one of your sick teachers . She’ll probably want an update on her class today. It’s not as if you’re having electrolytes and chicken broth delivered to her house .
That would be nice, but that would be highly inappropriate. Why do you care so much? She’s a pain in your fucking ass.
Five minutes later, I’m listening to her tinny sounding voice over her voicemail message. I cough after the beep. “Uh. Hello, Ms. Baker. This is Ol—,” I clear my throat. “This is PS 2, calling to check in and make sure all is well. We—I—Ms. Sanchez and your grade team were quite concerned for your wellbeing after the incident this morning, so this is us calling to check in. If you have a chance, give m—us a call back. If you’re feeling up to it. To check in.” Christ, Oliver, how many times can you use ‘check in’ in one message? “Thank you. Goodbye.”
She’d better be back tomorrow.
I wonder if I can send Gatorade anonymously.