Chapter 15
Shay
Students will be able to drunk dial.
When the second week of school rolled around, I was tired but feeling really good.
My students were remembering what school was all about and I was remembering what waking up every morning and functioning like a regular person was all about.
Everyone at my school was welcoming and helpful, and though I missed my girls back in Boston, it felt good to find some new teacher friends.
Still, I didn’t know what to expect when the principal popped into my classroom after dismissal on Wednesday afternoon.
Aside from that first morning when she’d asked me a few questions and explained the position, I hadn’t spoken much to Helen Holthouse-Jones.
She was outgoing and enthusiastic, and everyone called her HoJo though I couldn’t form that collection of sounds without snorting.
“How’s it going, Miss Z?” she called, her assorted keys and badges on her lanyard clanking as she stepped into my room. “Doesn’t look like they’ve run you off yet.”
“They haven’t,” I said from my spot at the horseshoe table. “Not even close.”
She nodded, murmuring, “Good, good,” as she glanced at the self-portraits posted on the bulletin board. She strolled toward the table, pulled out a chair. “How are you? How is this going for you?”
“It’s a great group of kids,” I said, setting aside my lesson plans for next week. “I think we’re off to a strong start.”
She crossed her legs, fiddled with her lanyard. “You know what you’re doing. The children like you, the team likes you. The parents from the other second grades are already complaining that they didn’t get a chance to harass me into putting their kids in your class.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you,” I said.
She leaned back in the chair, clasped her hands around her knee.
“Here’s the story, Shay. I don’t want to lose you.
I don’t want my counterpart over at Prudence Elementary to realize I have a veteran teacher in a long-term subbing role.
” She gave me a conspiratorial grin. “She’ll poach you right out from underneath me. ”
Never would I have guessed that I’d entered into the high-stakes world of teacher poaching. “Okay,” I said.
“Adelma Sanzi is going out in December for a knee replacement,” Helen said. “She’s saying she’ll be back in January but I doubt we’ll see her again until February.” She gave me a wide grin. “How do you feel about third grade?”
“Third grade.” I blinked down at the plans.
Grace could explain everything about third grade to me.
It was the only year she’d ever taught and she swore she’d never move because those kids were her people.
But— December . That felt like a million years away.
And February. My god. It was like doing advanced math in my head.
Did not compute. Still, I had to stay through next summer if I wanted to inherit Twin Tulip.
And I was mostly certain I wanted that. “I love that age.”
“Good, good.” Helen nodded. She wore running shoes and wrap dresses every day, kept her hair a slightly unnatural shade of burgundy, and if I had to guess, I’d say she was somewhere between forty-five and sixty.
“Hildi Lazco, down in kindergarten, will be going out for maternity leave. She hasn’t announced it yet and I know she won’t until June because of the screwy way we handle paid leave but she won’t be back until that kid is ready for school.
I know kindergarten is your sweet spot and I want you in her classroom next year. ”
“Next…year,” I choked out.
“It’s crazy to talk about the next school year when this one is still getting out of the gate.
Think about it for me, okay? Good, good.
We’ll talk again before Kelli comes back and before Adelma goes out for the knee.
And if you need me, you know where to find me.
” She stood, pushed in the small chair. “You don’t have to make any decisions today but I don’t want to lose you, Shay.
Good, good. Now, get out of here while the sun’s still out. ”
I tried to respond but it was no use. The idea of teaching in this school, in this town, next year grabbed me like a hand around the throat.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. What had started as a low-commitment subbing gig was now leap-frogging into the future with long-term assignments and permanent placements.
And what had started as a hazy idea of living out this year at Lollie’s farm had leapfrogged into a fake marriage and rough drafts of a business plan.
A small knock sounded. I glanced over and found Gennie in the doorway. She waved though cast a wary gaze at Helen. “Come on in,” I said. To Helen, I explained, “Gennie and I are neighbors. She catches a ride home with me on Wednesdays and then we practice reading together.”
In our second conversation in as many weeks, Noah and I decided that I’d take Gennie with me on Mondays and Wednesdays.
That way, he wouldn’t need Gail to meet her at the bus stop and wait until I arrived.
For now, we were pausing our Friday sessions.
Gennie needed that time to unwind from being back in school, even if we were cautiously optimistic about this year for her.
After a pause, Gennie scurried across the room, stopping beside the table. “Hi,” she whispered, her voice tiny as she stared at her shoes.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Helen murmured. “Gennie’s lucky to have you, Miss Z.”
I smiled at Gennie. “It goes both ways,” I replied. “I’m lucky to hang out with such a radical reader.”
Helen nodded, moving toward the door. “Think about next year,” she sang.
“What does she mean about next year?” Gennie asked. “What’s happening?”
I forced a smile though I still felt that tightness closing in around my throat. “Nothing important. Teachery stuff.”
She glanced at the papers and folders spread out on my table. “Are you going to be a teacher next year too?”
“I—I’m always going to be a teacher,” I said carefully.
She ran her finger along the edge of the table. “Will you be a teacher here?”
I watched her for a minute, wishing she’d meet my eyes so I could get a sense of her feelings.
She didn’t allow me that. “I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“I’m helping out Mrs. Calderon while she’s with her new baby, and I’ll help out some other teachers while they are away from school.
I’m not sure who will need me next year. We’ll have to wait and find out.”
She tipped her head to the side, her lips twisted as if she didn’t like my response. Then, “Okay. Can I have a snack when we get home?”
I chuckled. “We can definitely get you a snack.”
* * *
“Where is my door holder?” I called at the back entrance to the playground. A student waved his arms, darted forward. “Thank you, Emmanuel. All right, let’s remember our walking feet as we go outside.”
While the class filed past me, the gym teacher jogged over.
He was a younger guy, probably late twenties, and filling in for the regular gym teacher who was recovering from a jet ski accident.
It was always the gym teachers getting into accidents with their toys.
You never saw an art teacher with her arm in a sling after going wild with the oil paints.
“Hey, Miss Z,” he called, the whistle around his neck bouncing as he approached. “How are we doing today?”
“We had a great morning, Mr. Gagne,” I said, pitching my voice in the way all teachers did when gently warning their students to keep it together. “We practiced taking turns with materials and staying inside our body bubbles. I’m sure we’re going to keep doing that during gym.”
“I’m sure we will. Go ahead and sit on your squares.” He stationed himself beside me, his feet spread and his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the kids wandering around the numbered grid painted onto the pavement. To me, he said, “You’re coming out with us for happy hour, right?”
I didn’t remember Mr. Gagne’s first name but I knew he coached lacrosse and a few other high school sports and covered for gym teachers across the school district as needed. He also came with the familiarity of someone who considered all of his acquaintances to be close friends.
“I haven’t thought much past dismissal,” I said with a laugh. It was the straight truth. Things were going well but the first weeks of school were a flat-out sprint. Most days, I walked into the house, face-planted on the closest soft surface I could find, and slept for ten solid hours.
“A bunch of us are circling up for drinks,” he said. “Are you in?”
I’d never met a happy hour I didn’t like and there once was a time when I was the teacher rallying everyone for a Friday afternoon gathering, but I could only manage mild enthusiasm for this one.
Mostly because I wanted to flop down on my bed and stay there for the next twenty-four hours but also because Mr. Gagne seemed like the kind of guy who used the words brewskies and bruh in ordinary conversations and I knew I couldn’t hang with the brewskies and bros crowd for long.
Especially when sportsball was involved.
We weren’t meant to be companions. It went against my nature.
“—and some of the foreign language teachers are coming too,” he said. “Good people. You’ll like them. I’m putting you on my list, all right? You can catch a ride with me and Valdosta. She coaches girls’ volleyball.”
“Where does everyone go for happy hour?” I asked, trying to come up with a bar in the area and failing. There was a semi-famous oyster bar in town but that wasn’t a bar in the happy hour sense. And it was much too posh for a teacher outing. “Are there bars in town? I don’t know any.”
He laughed. “Nah, we go a couple of towns over. Better that way. No chance of running into parents.” He blew his whistle, instructed the students to do ten jumping jacks. “Come on,” he teased. “We don’t bite. Promise.”