Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sayla
“Good morning, Helen!” I heft my bag on my shoulder, praying Mr. Wilford’s administrative assistant won’t be able to tell how badly my palms are sweating. “I’m here for the meeting.”
She looks up from her computer and pushes her cat-eyed glasses higher on her nose. “The boss will be back any minute. He said you can wait for him in his office.”
“Terrific!” I flash her a smile and swipe my clammy hands down my skirt.
Terrific? I don’t think I’ve ever said that word out loud before. As I stride toward the open door, a pep talk runs through my head.
You’ve got this, Sayla. Your proposal is perfect. Even Loren said so.
But I only make it a few feet into the office before I freeze.
Dexter Michaels is already seated across from Mr. Wilford’s desk. Every inch of my body begins to heat. Stomach, chest, throat, cheeks. Even my forehead feels hot. Then a stress burp threatens my esophagus.
Stupid breakfast burrito.
“Hey, Tin Man.” He grins like he’s welcoming me to my own meeting. “Lose your oil can?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The WD-40.”
“Oh.” I tuck my bag more closely to my side. “Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s in my bag.”
“I see.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
“What? No!” I level him with a glare. “Of course I’m not stalking you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say, as something sharp claws at my throat.
“First the weight room. Then the hallway. Now Wilford’s office.”
“For your information”—I jut my chin—“Mr. Wilford is expecting me.”
“Yes, I am,” Mr. Wilford confirms, blustering into his office. He’s wearing a black suit with a gray striped tie. Slivers of scalp peek out from under a scrape of salt and pepper hair.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sinks into a swivel chair and pulls up to his big walnut desk. The wall behind him is covered in framed degrees. The opposite wall is dominated by bookshelves.
“You’re right on time,” I gush, a little too enthusiastically. “I was just early.” I tag this on for good measure, aiming for courteous and professional, but probably landing somewhere just north of butt-kissing.
I need to calm down.
“You’re too kind,” Mr. Wilford says, his forehead shining like the skin there is stretched too thin.
“Ms. Kroft. Please. Make yourself comfortable.” He waves at the empty chair next to Dexter, and I have no choice but to sit.
Unfortunately, this puts me close enough to smell the man’s woodsy body wash.
Which is the last thing I need when I’m trying to focus.
“I’d like to thank you both for meeting with me on such short notice,” Mr. Wilford begins. “I know you’re very busy.”
Wait. Dexter is supposed to be here, too?
A ribbon of unease tendrils through my insides. I figured he’d showed up for some kind of early-morning man-talk, or whatever he does in his spare time while the rest of us are working. I expected Mr. Wilford to ask him to leave. But now … I gag and break into a coughing fit.
“You all right there, Kroft?” Dexter asks. “Need CPR? You know I’m certified.”
I shake my head, pounding on my sternum and working to clear my throat.
Mr. Wilford’s caterpillar brows lift. “Are you able to continue?”
I nod frantically, even as panic rises in me. No sane person would entrust a massive grant to someone so easily flustered.
To someone like me.
“I’m ready,” I rasp.
“I’m ready, too,” Dexter says. He’s all straight white teeth and confidence. “Did you have any questions about my grant proposal?”
My stomach cartwheels, and I almost spew my breakfast burrito on Mr. Wilford's desk. Dexter going after the funding too is my worst nightmare. But I’ve been practicing my pitch all morning. All week. All month. Ever since school started.
He can’t beat me.
Not this time.
“Much like my esteemed colleague here”—I lean forward, shoving my bag to the side of my chair—“I’m prepared to review all the reasons why the performing arts department deserves this money.
And we desperately need it. The truth is, the theater won’t be able to function without a major renovation soon. ”
“With all due respect to my colleague,” Dex says, “the gym is in disrepair, and all the athletic department’s equipment is antiquated. We’re talking about student safety here. And another year of—”
“Let me stop you both right there.” Mr. Wilford lifts his hands to interrupt.
“We’ll get to the grant eventually.” He settles back in his chair.
“But there’s another more pressing matter we need to discuss first. Well, one pressing matter, plus an opportunity.
” He puts a little pepper on the word “plus.”
“That’s great,” Dexter says. Again, all confidence and teeth. “Because opportunity’s my middle name.”
“My middle name is Candice,” I blurt. Then my neck heats, and a look of confusion passes over Mr. Wilford’s face.
Yes, I get it, sir. I’m behaving weirdly. But that’s only because there’s so much at stake. And I mean this all so much. My chin trembles ever so slightly, so I clamp down my jaw.
Be cool, Sayla. Be cool.
“As you know,” Mr. Wilford continues, “the Southern Accreditation Committee for Secondary Schools is coming here next month.”
“Yes, for their four-year assessment,” I pipe up.
I wasn’t at Stony Peak during their previous visitation, but I was on the team of teachers who prepared for this one.
Six of us spent all last spring compiling a two-hundred-page report, putting together a PowerPoint presentation, and scheduling classroom visitation.
The accreditation committee will be able to evaluate interdisciplinary lesson plans in every department.
Performing Arts is responsible for a concert with the choir, band, and orchestra.
And the theater club will perform a short play.
As for athletics, Dexter has arranged for all the varsity sports teams to offer separate showcases for the committee.
Our plan is immaculate.
“You’re correct, Ms. Kroft.” Mr. Wilford steeples his hands on his desk. “But I must tell you, I’m a little worried about things going smoothly with the sacks.”
I stare at him for a long moment. “The … sacks?”
“Yes.” Mr. Wilford nods. “That’s an acronym I’ve come up with for the Southern Accreditation Committee for Secondary Schools. SACSS is much less of a mouthful.”
Is it?
A laugh puffs out of Dexter. “Well, don’t worry. We’re all set for the SACSS,’” he says. “We’ve worked up excellent curricular strategies for each department.” For the record, Dexter was the head of the six-teacher team last spring. Because of course he was.
“Yes, I’m aware of the hard work everybody has put in,” Mr. Wilford says. “But our school’s curriculum is not the problem.”
“What is the problem?” Dex asks.
“In their previous report, the SACSS requested improvement in our faculty’s collaborative spirit, specifically. And Superintendent Dewey is worried that if we don’t show progress in that area, we could be at risk of being demoted to a temporary accreditation.”
“What happens then?” I ask.
“In a situation like that, the SACSS would return in two years instead of four.” His face pulls into a grimace.
“And I don’t have to tell you that would look bad to the school board and to the community,” he adds.
“So I promised Dr. Dewey we’d land another four-year accreditation.
And if I can’t make that happen, I’m afraid the district might transfer me to … Vista Middle School.”
I tip my head. “Is that bad?”
“Vista is a hellscape of hormones.” He shudders.
Dexter squints. “I’ve heard great things about that school.”
“I’m sure Vista’s teachers are heroes and the students are a delight,” Mr. Wilford says. “Sadly, I’m not built for tweens.”
Dex bobs his head. “Then I’ll make sure that transfer doesn’t happen.”
“Me too,” I add. “I can also make sure of that, sir.”
Mr. Wilford’s jowls sink. “The fact that you both just talked about yourselves in the singular, not the plural, is the problem.”
“I can totally be plural,” I say.
“She means we can be plural,” Dex interjects.
Terrific.
“I wish I shared your confidence.” Mr. Wilford’s tone is gruff.
“But you’ve both proven yourselves to be independent leaders who thrive on individual success.
And the SACSS will be looking for collaboration during their visit.
Camaraderie and cooperation that extends beyond the classroom.
” He steeples his hands on the desk. “Unfortunately, you two have a history of … not cooperating.”
“Us?” The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “Dex and me?”
“Yes.” Mr. Wilford grunts. “As directors of my two biggest departments, you set the tone for the rest of the teachers, and I can’t have any bickering or tension during evaluation week.
Dr. Dewey and the school board will be watching every move we make.
I need the SACSS to feel your collaboration from the top down. ”
Dex nods. “That won’t be an issue for me.”
“Me either, sir,” I chime in. “I’ll do whatever it takes to have the SACSS feel me from the top down.”
An uncomfortable silence follows.
Yeah, I hear it, now.
Mr. Wilford leans over his desk. “I’m glad to hear that, but you both still sound like people who are willing to work hard on your own.
I need my top leaders to thrive as a team.
But that kind of shift won’t be easy. So to help you on that journey, I’m sending you both on a professional development retreat. ”
He plucks a couple of glossy brochures from the top drawer of his desk and pushes them over to us.
“Camp Reboot. In Asheville. They had a cancellation in their next session, so there are two spots left. If you agree, you’ll take a district station up there and spend a few days being led by experts in the field of collaboration.
All expenses paid.” He leans back, hands clasped on his belly.
“They’re prepared to help you two come up with a new plan to really blow away the SACSS. ”
Dexter cuts me a glance, then looks back at Mr. Wilford. “I’m a team player, and I’d like to be on board. But three days is a lot of school to miss.”
“I feel the same way,” I rush to agree. “I can’t abandon my classes and rehearsals for that long.”
“Well, you’re both in luck,” Mr. Wilford says, “because Camp Reboot’s next retreat is this upcoming Monday through Wednesday.
That’s during our staff development week for fall break.
The students won’t be here anyway. So while the rest of the faculty is here in meetings, you’ll be up there. Preparing to wow the SACSS.”
My heart sinks.
He can’t actually force us to do this, can he?
“Of course I’d never force you to go,” Mr. Wilford continues. Almost like he read my mind. “But there is an added incentive for your cooperation.”
I gulp. “Incentive?”
“You both know that very soon, I’ll be making my decision about the frig.”
Cue another uncomfortable silence.
I tilt my chin. “The frig?”
“Facilities Repair and Improvement Grant. The FRIG.”
Dex’s mouth goes crooked. “I’m really loving these new acronyms.”
“So am I, Mr. Wilford.” I shoot Dex a glare in response to his blatant flattery, even as heat crawls up my cheeks. The truth is, I’ve been over-trying as much as he is.
Maybe more.
“The directors at Camp Reboot will be providing me with an assessment of your efforts at the end of their retreat,” Mr. Wilford explains, “and their feedback will help me determine which one of you will earn the FRIG for your department.”
I crinkle my nose. “So this is a … bribe?”
“Oh no, no, no.” Mr. Wilford lifts his hands in a not-guilty gesture. “Like I said earlier, this is an opportunity. For all three of us.” His shoulders hitch. “After all, my job is on the line.”
“Well, I for one won’t let you down.” I grit my teeth, unwilling to let this setback get the best of me.
Dexter pushes to a stand. “We’ve got your back, Larry.”
We.
Gag.
He reaches out to shake Mr. Wilford’s hand first, and I scramble to do the same. Hopefully, I’ll have more luck proving my worthiness to the directors at Camp Reboot than the administration at Stony Peak High.
Still. The thought of spending three days at a retreat with Dexter makes me want to vomit on our principal’s desk.
And now I really wish I hadn’t finished that whole burrito for breakfast.