Chapter 7
W hen you haven’t worked many days in your life—and none in the last four years—your first day is fucking terrifying. Especially when you’re presented with eighteen middle school students who are staring at you like you’re either the bane of their existence or the answer to their prayers.
It’s disarming.
We’ll leave it at that.
Because I find myself standing in front of the whiteboard that doubles as a SMART board that I’m slowly learning how to use and staring back at these blinking eyes.
Did I mention I was hired to be the world and US history teacher?
Still, I hadn’t considered I’d get a job that quickly.
I mean, I knew I’d need one. But one hour after signing my divorce papers just didn’t feel…
realistic. It was. The school year had already started, and the school needed someone who could start immediately.
My bachelor’s is in history and my master’s in education.
And Bridget, my only non-David friend in the world, who happens to be a math teacher here, vouched for me.
This was about a week ago.
Which brings me to today.
My morning began like this: I walked into the school front office and was immediately ushered into the smallest office in the history—catch my pun—ever.
“We have two wellness classes scheduled for you today,” the main secretary, Laura, informed me as I took in my new digs.
“Obviously you’ll still have your regular history classes, but we’re so excited you’re taking this on for us. ”
“Um. I’m sorry. What?”
“Wellness,” she said, like it all made so much sense. It didn’t.
Evidently, I’m now responsible for wellness classes. As in a combination of sexual education (that comes a bit later in the semester thankfully), nutrition, mind-body wellness, and pushing the state’s anti-alcohol and drug campaigns.
“So, I’m teaching wellness besides my history courses?
” No one mentioned wellness when I interviewed for the history position.
Then again, it was a quick phone interview, likely to make sure I wasn’t psychotic and had more than two brain cells to rub together.
I didn’t have time to fly up here prior to starting since my divorce was literally being finalized. I’m sort of regretting that now.
“Yes. And we’re so grateful you’re young. We need someone the kids can relate to. The old teacher reminded me of my great-aunt Ester if you know what I’m saying.”
I didn’t know. I like history. I don’t like teaching a bunch of pre-teens about sex.
Especially when my sex life as of late is the definition of a joke. A shitty ex-husband and a one-night stand with an asshole who gave me his brother’s name instead of his own.
“The staff meeting is on the third Tuesday of every month at seven a.m., and since it’s the second Monday of the month, the meeting will be next week.
But tonight, as I’m sure you know, is our parent open house, so you’ll likely get to meet some of the other staff and teachers around the buildings then.
Plus, the parents, of course. How wonderful is that? On your first day here.”
Right. Awesome. I want to vomit everywhere.
“Let’s get you off to your first class,” Laura said with way too much excitement in her voice and pep in her step. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you in before today to learn your way around your room, but I’m sure you’ll pick everything up quickly.”
At least I wasn’t being thrust into sex-ed on the first day.
Just wellness. And how hard could that be?
It was nearly seven-thirty by the time I entered my classroom.
I logged into the computer and played around, doing my best to learn the SMART board touch screen thing.
By eight, my classroom was filling up for my eight-ten class.
Pre-teens filed in one by one, talking and laughing and taking their seats and generally ignoring me while studying me at the same time.
With each new student, my heart rate went up five beats per minute. By the time the class was full, it was pumping at a solid one-eighty, and I was positive I was either going to pass out from the anxiety or die on the expensive floor from a heart attack.
Did I look like this when I was in middle school?
I’m guessing not. Because the girls—despite their uniforms consisting of brick red, gold, and black tartan skirts, white button-up blouses, and black jackets monogrammed with the school emblem—are all model gorgeous.
The guys all men-children, tall, handsome, and built like they live in the gym.
I thought puberty hit boys later than girls, but clearly I need to catch up on my wellness.
I couldn’t figure it out.
None of these kids were awkward or self-conscious. There were no goth girls sitting in the back eating their hair. Even the geeky boys and girls were super adorable in an emo, hipster way.
I stood on shaky legs, my palms and cleavage sweating. I was desperate to wipe my hands on my pants, but I was positive the moisture would show on my powder blue capris. I had to swallow three times and clear my throat twice before I could speak without betraying my nerves.
I’m not a wellness teacher.
I’m barely a history teacher.
I made a mental note to find Bridget and yell at her for talking me into this madness.
I introduced myself. Explained why I was in their class instead of their regular teacher and informed them I was taking on the role of wellness and history teacher for the year.
I elucidated how I was planning on following the curriculum with my own small twists to update it, then I dove into my totally off-the-cuff speech about the beauty and importance of wellness.
A hand rose in the air almost instantly. “Are you a board-certified doctor?”
“No,” I replied. “I have a bachelor’s in history and a master’s in education.”
Another hand. “How does that make you qualified to teach us about nutrition and exercise? Because my mom’s life coach tells me I need to work on eliminating carbs and intermittent fasting if I want to reach my ultimate weight goal.”
I wanted to find that life coach and strangle them.
“Nutrition and health ,” I stressed, “are all things I’m very committed to and studied extensively in graduate school.”That was kind of a lie, but they had no clue.
And so it went. I spent the first twenty minutes of my very first class dodging the bullets these over-privileged students launched at me.
Evidently, the previous teacher who taught this before me often lamented about how wellness was a crock of shit and in her day, people smoked, drank, and ate butter by the pound, and no one was worse for it.
I’m keeping my opinions to myself on that—you know, since she dropped dead of a heart attack. My day did not improve. My history classes ended up being worse than my wellness classes. Especially this one.
“It says online you’re married to David Chambers. Is he going to be teaching here as well?” The girl holds up her cell phone, showing me a picture of myself with David.
“Why is your last name different than his if you’re married to him?”
And here we go. Fuck the internet. It really is an ugly, nasty bitch. I mean, only when it’s out to get me, that is. “I do not answer questions about my personal life. They are not pertinent to your education and therefore irrelevant.”
That’s my new party line. I receive a collective knowing grin for that, like they have the inside track on my miserable life. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that? Maybe that somehow undercuts my role as an authoritative presence?
Teaching sucks.
Luckily all my classes are on a rotating schedule, so I don’t have to see these kids again until Wednesday.
“How about we divide into pairs and discuss how imperative trading routes were for the people of ancient Mesopotamia. Write them down and I’ll look through your answers after class.” Yep, that sounds brilliant. Totally something a teacher would say.
The bell rings twenty minutes later and all the students rise, collecting their belongings. “I’m looking forward to meeting your parents at the open house tonight.”
I get some noise, and then the last class of the day empties.
I drop into my chair across the room, my head falling back and my eyes closing as a heavy, relieved breath escapes my lungs.
How I’m going to make it through the year, I don’t know.
I like the idea of teaching. I like the idea of educating young minds.
I get there’s first day razzing. That the first day is always the hardest.
That’s all that was. Tomorrow will be easier. It has to be.
I spend the next few hours going through everything here. Setting up my classroom and organizing my materials. Printing out handouts for parents—for both my wellness and history classes. And when it’s all finished, I take a moment to breathe, knowing the storm is about to come.
“Rough first day?” A voice startles me, and I bolt upright only to find that it’s Bridget. Thankfully not the principal.
I stand, reorganizing my papers for the fifth time. “About what I expected, actually. But it’s one thing to expect something and another to live through it.”
Bridget perches herself on the corner of a student’s desk.
Her dark brown curls look like they’re at the end of a long day.
She pushes up the bridge of her glasses and offers me a hopeful smile.
“It gets better. It always does. Just don’t let these kids know they got to you.
They live for that and will torture you for it. Just wait till you meet their parents.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan. “Because it’s not like I was at all worried about that before.”
She laughs. “I’m sure you’ll be great. At least the open house comes before you teach their kids about sex.”
“Speaking of, did you know about this wellness bullshit I’m in no way qualified to teach?”
“I sure did.” She gleams at me. “Mrs. Hastings somehow was teaching it, and she’d been around since condoms were made out of sheep intestines, and I think it’s safe to say had never put one on an actual penis. Imagine learning safe sex from someone who’s old enough to be your grandmother.”
Touché.
“Thank you again for getting me this job. I was planning on yelling at you, but I’m happy to be here and have this opportunity.”
“Thank Mrs. Hastings. She’s the one who dropped dead.”
A little more than a week ago, I had called Bridget at midnight crying.
I had indulged in one too many drinks—clearly it’s turning into a pattern.
“Please tell me you’re waking me up in the middle of the night because you’re finally signing the papers.
” That was how she answered, and I knew I’d made the right decision in calling her.
I told her I had, just that moment, and she replied with, “Are you psychic or just gifted with the best timing in the history of the world?”
She then proceeded to explain how Mrs. Hastings, the school’s history teacher—and apparently wellness teacher—dropped dead and that they needed someone to fill her role ASAP. Somehow I got the job. I then secured my rental house and started packing up my life.
“Still, I owe you a glass of wine and a meal,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up at that. “Oh, if you’re cooking, and I don’t have to clean up or try to deal with getting the twins to eat while I manage a few bites of lukewarm food, then I’m there.”
I snicker. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll make you anything you want.”
“God, I love you.” She rises off the edge of the desk.
“Okay, get your game face on, babe. The vultures, otherwise known as the overly opinionated and super nitpicky parents of your entitled kids will be here any second. I’ll come by after it’s over and give you a lift home since you don’t have a car yet. ”
She casts me a wink, then leaves my classroom, but I’m ready for this. I am. At least as prepared as any hot mess brand-new teacher can be on her first day at a prep school for the rich and elite. And for the most part, I hold my own as the night goes on.
That is until Landon fucking Fritz walks through my door.