Chapter 12
Subject: Planning Period
Ms. Thomas,
Please come to my office during your planning period. I’d like to discuss your after-school program.
Thanks,
Principal Stanback
I don’t care who you are—adult, teen, or child—nobody, and I mean nobody, likes being called to the principal’s office.
You can be ten years old, expecting your grandmother to check you out for your dental appointment, but when you’re called to the office you still get a sinking sensation in case you’re in trouble.
That’s exactly how I feel looking at this email.
And it’s the start of my planning period, so there isn’t even time to mentally prepare myself for this.
What about my after-school program could he possibly want to talk about?
It’s been running like a well-oiled machine with the help of the counselor, Angie.
She refers students, they show up, I see progress.
We’ve both seen amazing growth in the kids I work with.
A tenth grade boy came to me with anger management issues last year.
With some inner mind work with oil pastels, a bit of nature journaling, and biweekly therapy, he slowly began to recognize his triggers and self-regulate.
My colleagues all noticed the difference, thanking Angie and me for our hard work.
I slip my paint-splattered smock over my head, place all the water cups on the drying mat, and power walk to the principal’s office, tail between my legs. Might as well get this over with.
When I push through the door to the office, the secretary doesn’t even look up. Mrs. Archer is so old she was the secretary way back when I was in school here. She’s also deaf as a fence post.
“Mrs. Archer!” I call, raising my voice for her to hear me. Still nothing. “Mrs. Archer!” I call louder this time, waving my hands in the air.
Finally, she looks up, and I point a finger toward the principal’s office.
She smiles and nods, and I walk down the short hallway where the counselor and principal’s offices are.
Angie is out today, so there’s no one to overhear our conversation.
Mrs. Archer certainly won’t. My stomach sinks in dread.
Coach Stanback—Principal, I mentally correct myself—originally grew up here, and about five years ago moved back to be our athletic director.
I knew he’d been working on his Administrative Degree, but when the previous principal retired last year, I was still surprised he was hired for the position.
Degree or no degree, in my not-so-humble opinion, he’s not principal material.
He was a great coach and he’s still mostly concerned about athletics.
Coaching is where he should have stayed.
Also, when he was in athletics, our paths rarely crossed, which is how I like to keep it.
Before he was principal, coach, or even a grown man, he was Ian, one of my many high school boyfriends.
We enjoyed plenty of weekends in the back of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, but it had a swift and messy ending when I overheard him telling his buddies he didn’t really like me, he just felt sorry for me.
Rather than confronting him, he received the full wrath of my silent treatment.
The next day, I showed up to school armed with two cans of sardines and the knowledge that he never locked his Jeep doors.
I put both cans under the hatch where the spare tire was kept, and watched his face every afternoon as raw sardines baked in the parking lot, stinking up his car.
He did eventually find them, but I never knew if he suspected me.
Given I avoided him at all costs from then on, he probably did.
Upon moving back to Singing River and becoming my co-worker, he got wind I was divorced.
This news prompts him to periodically ask me out, to which I always politely decline.
We may have been young when he wronged me, but in his case, once a jackass, always a jackass.
Plus, he’s a terrible conversationalist only ever wanting to talk about himself.
Trying to appear unruffled, I take a bracing breath, smooth a hand through my hair and hold my head high. His office door stands open when I approach, and he looks up, motioning me in.
“Josie, close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”
I grit my teeth. “Actually, I do mind. I’ll leave it open,” I reply, entering further to take the seat across from his desk.
He shrugs, like he’s saying suit yourself, and stands rounding his desk to lean his weight on the edge, much closer than I’d like.
My chair is positioned so my knees nearly brush his, and though it makes me uncomfortable, I refuse to move them even a millimeter, lest he realize he has the power to make me uneasy.
“What’s this about, Ian?” I ask patiently.
He exhales sharply from his nose. “Josie, I won’t beat around the bush. Funding is tight. The board asked for suggestions for programs to cut, and I suggested they cut your ArtStrong program. They’ll be voting on this at the next school board meeting after the new year.”
Panic accompanies my developing anger, the world around me ceasing to exist, only his words echoing in my mind. Cutting ArtStrong? I’ve worked tirelessly, building something special with those kids. And I’ve watched each and every one of them make incredible progress, dang it!
“Hasn’t Angie been sending the reports for each student? The data is there to back up the quality of my program, Ian.”
I think about the kids I meet with each week and the growth I’ve seen. Angie has the teachers fill out progress reports showing my program works. I haven’t had a student yet who didn’t show improvement either with morale, social anxiety and depression, or outbursts in class. Not one single student.
“She has. But sometimes hard choices have to be made when it comes to cuts.”
Hard choices, my ass. Athletics never see cuts.
I see the value in athletics, absolutely I do.
I’ve watched how a sport means the difference in a kid getting into god knows what after school or having something to give them a skill and confidence.
I value athletics for what it can mean to a student.
My own son benefits from athletics every day of his life.
But art can and does mean the same thing to my students.
“It’s probably easy to make as long as the football team still has their fancy field house, huh?” I retort, before I can bite it back.
He raises his eyebrows, but I steel my spine and never break eye contact.
“Josie,” he drawls, “the Athletic Committee did fundraisers. Surely you were aware.”
His condescending tone does nothing but piss me off. Of course I’m aware. I don’t even know why I said that, other than sheer pettiness. But that does give me a brilliant idea. It’ll be a lot of work, but I believe my little group of kids is worth it.
“What if I apply for grants? There’s gotta be money sitting out there somewhere. Then it’d be paid for.”
He doesn’t react, ignoring my suggestion altogether.
Instead, his eyes drop from my face to my breasts and hover there before jumping back up to my face.
What a disgusting asshole! If that’s not sleazy enough, he leans in, pitching his voice low even though we both know dotty old Mrs. Archer out there wouldn’t hear us if we were sitting in the chair next to her.
“I know one way you could convince me to keep your funding.”
His face is smug from the innuendo, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention.
If ever a person was my villain origin story, it’s the man in front of me.
I wrestle down the impulse to channel an immature teenager and remind him how very little I desire his pencil dick.
The thought is nothing short of repugnant.
I can quite literally feel my blood pressure spike and my stomach turn over, yet I miraculously ignore this knee-jerk reaction.
“I could get you fired for saying that,” I hiss as low and menacing as I can force my voice.
He shrugs, leaning back on his palms. “Who’d believe you? It’s your word against mine.”
Being a card carrying member of the badass club, I refuse to shrink in on myself at his words.
Ian has always been the town golden boy, coming from a prestigious family in Singing River.
His father is the bank president and his mom sits on multiple town councils.
I have no issues with either of them, despite the fact they managed to raise a snake of a son.
But he’s right. Somehow he has the school board wrapped around his finger.
Rising to my full height of five foot three, I inhale sharply and let it out as evenly as possible. Anger will get me nowhere in this situation.
“I will find the money. Mark my words.” And with that, I spin on my heel, marching from his office without looking back. The walk from his office to my classroom feels exceptionally long, but when I make it to my room I spend the remainder of my planning period googling education grants.
The rest of my day goes by well, all things considered, which helps to slow my racing thoughts.
My last class of the day has been studying the work of Van Gogh, recreating his works with their own flair.
One of my seniors did a piece he titled Van Gogh 2025, in which he painted his own version of Bedroom in Arles, but with anything a young man in this day and age might have.
Instead of a teapot on the desk, there’s a gaming system, and the floor is scattered with dirty clothes.
Another student piggybacked off that idea, painting Café Terrace at Night, but every chair is occupied by a patron looking at a phone.
The first time I saw it, I felt rattled to my core.