Chapter Seven
Seven
Ms. Jimenez was proud of her holiday gift swap, which had grown in popularity since she’d first introduced it almost ten years ago in the hopes of livening up the staff party held annually at La Casita Bonita. Every year more teachers participated, and sometimes people would start mentioning it to her as early as the week before Thanksgiving.
“Are we having the gift swap this year?” they’d ask her in the lounge or on the walk to the faculty parking lot.
“Well, as long as kids keep giving us shitty mugs and hand creams that smell like baby puke, I’d say yes,” she would answer in her signature snarky tone.
This always got laughs. Ms. Jimenez liked to make her colleagues laugh.
The swap worked this way: On the evening of the last day of school before the holidays, faculty and staff would gather at La Casita before two much-needed weeks of winter break. The PTO paid for appetizers, sodas and seltzers, and chips with queso. If a person wanted booze, they had to pay for it on their own, a fact that often led those teachers who were married to lawyers or executives or people who made real money to share fantastical tales of their spouses’ company holiday parties, where everything was catered from high-end restaurants and the liquor was free.
The exchange wasn’t so different from your usual grab bag, except the gifts were recycled from what the teachers had received, in earnest, from students and parents that year. There were always plenty of “shitty mugs and hand creams,” but what really made the swap a hit were the weirder gifts. They still talked about the year the German teacher contributed a bouquet of fake red roses that ended up being constructed of rolled-up lacy red thong underpants.
Once all the gifts were displayed on a table, Ms. Jimenez would pass out numbers, and the teachers and staff members would take turns selecting gifts. There were complex rules around the stealing of gifts, the order in which you could steal, and how many times a certain gift could be stolen. Before the swap began, Ms. Jimenez would review these rules in her clear, loud teacher voice, using hand motions for emphasis and interspersing funny one-liners that reliably got a reaction from her coworkers.
When the event was over, everyone would applaud and smile and compare gifts. Sometimes, some teacher who had started drinking daiquiris from the moment they arrived would holler, “Let’s give it up for Ms. Jimenez and thank her for organizing this awesome event! Woooo, Ms. Jimenez!” And everyone would cheer for her. She liked the years when that happened.
Angie Jimenez was forty-four and had started her teaching career at Baldwin nineteen years prior, after taking a long, winding path to a bachelor’s degree that included half a dozen part-time jobs, community college, and a few stops and starts at the local university. In her rare moments of vulnerability, she sometimes allowed herself to wonder if her colleagues with more impressive pedigrees thought of her as some sort of fuckup. In truth, she was simply a working-class Mexican American girl who had been the first in her family to even consider college. This had happened after her eleventh-grade U.S. history teacher at her large, underfunded Title I high school had suggested that she could probably pull it off.
“I was on the seven-year plan,” she liked to tell people when the topic of collegiate life came up. “Partied a little too much.” In truth, she had partied very little, and had often fallen asleep trying to study after pulling an evening shift at one of her various minimum-wage jobs. But the partying line got a better response.
On this night, after the chaotic fall semester Baldwin High had experienced, Angie hoped her swap would help lighten people’s moods. As her colleagues walked inside La Casita Bonita and headed to the darkened backroom where their party was taking place—twinkly Christmas lights around the windows added a festive flair—she directed them as to where to place their wrapped presents, mimicking a cruise director or a flight attendant. “Place your gifts on this table, please,” she said, pointing with both hands simultaneously. “We’ll get started in half an hour or so.”
She noticed that the new hire in her department, Ms. Sanderson, had arrived with the biology teacher who always looked like he wanted to cry, but he didn’t seem sad this evening. Soon the two were tucked away in a booth with a few other young teachers. Ms. Sanderson and biology guy seemed particularly cozy, and Angie theorized that they were probably sleeping together. Well, good for them. She’d had less luck in the love department, something she often exploited for a few laughs.
“Hey, Angie,” said Ms. Fletcher, arriving with several members of the English department, including Mr. Williams and Ms. Brennan. Angie was often paired with Ms. Fletcher when it came time to proctor the T-SOAR tests, and they had developed a mutual respect, despite being very different people. “I have a really funny one this year,” continued Ms. Fletcher, holding up her gift and placing it on the table.
“Well, you’d better deliver, now that you’ve got my expectations up,” Angie quipped, “or you’re as bad as my first husband.”
The English teachers grinned in response and headed to the bar, and slowly the room continued to fill. Angie spied grumpy Mr. Fitzsimmons chatting with Ms. Jackson, the head guidance counselor, both of them drinking sodas. They’d probably leave the party relatively early. Neither of them ever participated in the exchange, but they seemed to enjoy observing, at least.
By focusing on arranging the gifts on the table and greeting those who were entering, Angie avoided mingling and small talk, which was fine with her. She knew she had a big personality, and she knew she had a reputation for being loud and irreverent. She had enough insight to recognize that she could overwhelm people. But that was just who she was, she often told herself. That was her, like it or leave it. When conversations got too quiet or too serious, Angie didn’t like how they made her feel. They exhausted her somehow.
Finally, the swap began. She delivered directions with her usual fanfare and received a warmer than normal reception, which pleased her. One by one, as their numbers were called, teachers put down their Coronas or cocktails and shoved the last bites of tacos into their mouths before making their way to the table in the center of the room to select a present. The stately Nurse Honeycutt had drawn number one and went first, unwrapping her chosen gift methodically.
“Come on, Nurse Honeycutt!” Angie said, clapping her hands. “No need for formality here. Just tear into it!”
Finally, the school nurse put aside the paper, revealing a Funko Pop! in the form of an owl.
“What is this?” she said, holding her present up in the air, her expression curious.
“Oh,” said Mr. Williams, “that’s from me. From a kid in third period. I guess an owl symbolizes education?”
Nurse Honeycutt peered at the object in her hand. “I understand that, but why is his head so darn big?” she asked.
“Have you never heard of Funko Pops?” asked Ms. Fletcher.
“Happily, until this moment I had not,” responded the nurse somewhat dryly, and the room erupted in laughter. They were already off to a good start, thought Angie.
The exchange continued apace as enthusiasm built (and drinks were poured). There was a bottle of pink perfume in a scent called Passion (“Why does this teacher gift feel against the law?” cracked Angie), bottles of generic hand cream from the drugstore, and an assortment of dumb mugs, including one with a cartoon chicken painted on it.
“Why a chicken ?” asked the young Ms. Sanderson, the recipient of the gift. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to steal it,” said Angie, and she did.
Scented candles that emanated dubious odors, a pair of socks covered in apples, a plastic key chain that read i love teaching! , and a large, smooth rock on which was painted the words stay stoned in bright yellow all made appearances that evening.
“That painted rock is my contribution,” said Ms. Brennan, when a math teacher unwrapped it and held it up for all to see. “Joseph McManus gave it to me. He said it was a paperweight.”
“That kid is high all the time,” came a voice from the back, followed by murmurs of agreement from several teachers.
“Well, it’s nice that he’s creative,” said Angie with a shrug.
“God bless these kids and their parents,” added Mr. Williams, “but I would be happy with some cold, hard cash.”
“Only then we wouldn’t have the swap!” said Angie, smiling. She was having fun.
Just then, she noticed Principal Kendricks arriving. Administrators didn’t always show up to this event—they knew the teachers wanted to cut loose and have a little fun—but Kendricks often did, although he usually stayed briefly, just long enough to have one drink and make the rounds. The only other member of the administration that Angie could spy was the AP Ms. Garcia. In fact, she’d walked in not long after Principal Kendricks. It was unusual to see Mr. Kendricks at a function without Ms. Baker by his side.
“Hello, all,” the principal said, waving, and the crowd—relaxed by now from the food and the drinks and the festivities—responded with warmth and shouts of hello. Principal Kendricks was well liked, and for good reason. He was sensible and he cared, and whenever he could, he tried to protect his hardworking faculty and staff and treat them like human beings. Angie would never forget the year her mother had been very sick and she’d used all her district-provided days of paid leave to drive her to doctors’ appointments. When she’d needed to take off one more day in May for her mom’s last round of chemo, she’d shared her dilemma with Mr. Kendricks. He must have guessed (without her having to say it) that she wasn’t the sort of employee who could afford to have even one day of pay docked from her check. He had told her to take her mother to the doctor and not to worry about it. She had, and her pay hadn’t been cut, either.
“There’s one more gift!” someone shouted, once Principal Kendricks had been appropriately welcomed. A longtime PE teacher who had the final number made his way up to the table to open the only present remaining.
“Hang on—are you sure you don’t want to steal?” asked Angie. She did this for every participant, because the stealing added to the enjoyment.
“I’m good,” said the PE teacher with a shrug. He picked up the small package, wrapped in red paper.
“Oh, that one’s mine,” said Ms. Fletcher.
“You promised us it would be a good one,” Angie reminded her.
Suddenly, a panicked expression descended on Ms. Fletcher’s face. Angie wondered what could be the cause of it.
“Wait!” said Ms. Fletcher, standing up from her chair. “I just thought of something and…”
But the PE teacher had already ripped off the red paper, revealing a small, cream-colored jar with a black lid. There was writing on the side.
Many in the teaching profession, including those at Baldwin High, were familiar with jokey teacher gifts. They had all seen mugs with the words tears of my students printed on them, or candles labeled my teacher’s last nerve! The small jar in the coach’s hand was in this same vein.
But this year of all years!
“ ashes of problem students ,” the coach read, and loudly, too, holding the jar up for all to see.
A few people in the room erupted in genuine laughter, momentarily forgetting the courtyard incident or the uncertainty that still hung over Baldwin High. Those who laughed loudly were quickly cowed by the nervous reactions of their colleagues—anxious chuckles or pained expressions exchanged across the room. The PE teacher, who had clearly forgotten the problematic nature of ashes at least temporarily, suddenly realized his error and shoved the jar into his pants pocket, disappearing into the crowed.
“Oh God, I wasn’t thinking when I chose that one,” said Ms. Fletcher, briefly covering her face in embarrassment. “Principal Kendricks, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she added, lowering her hands and peering at her boss.
Mr. Kendricks shook his head and laughed. In truth, it was maybe a little bit of a forced chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.
“Hey, if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry, right?” he added, looking like he’d rather move on.
“Yeah, I think Shakespeare said that,” Angie cracked, and this broke the awkwardness. Clapping her hands, she announced that the exchange was over, and she thanked those who’d participated. No one cheered her name this year, but she decided she wouldn’t let that bother her.
The party would continue for at least another hour, but Angie did not plan on staying. She’d had her fill of free chips and salsa, and running the exchange had zapped her of her energy. She gathered her chicken mug and waved good-bye to several colleagues, not stopping to linger in the margarita-fueled conversations. She overheard some of her coworkers talk about getting together over the two-week break, or at least checking in via text. A few were even hugging each other. That wasn’t Angie. She’d had her fun tonight, but she also preferred to keep the line between her work life and her life life well drawn. That felt safer somehow.
Slipping out the front door of La Casita Bonita, she crossed the parking lot and slid into her 2014 Mazda hatchback, a trusty friend who rarely let her down. As she pulled out onto the street, she slid her cell phone out of her coat pocket. Her mother answered on the third ring.
“Mami, it’s me,” she said, speaking loudly. Her mother was losing her hearing and refused to admit it.
When her mother responded, Angie told her that she was on her way home. She had to shout this twice. Her mother finally understood, then asked her how the swap had gone.
“It went so good,” Angie answered. “Everybody really liked it.” The night before, Angie’s mother had helped her number and fold the slips of paper for the exchange while the two watched television. Her mom was a fan of true crime stories on cable, and over the years she’d gotten Angie into them, too. They liked to try to guess the murderer, and usually they were right. Angie didn’t mention the hiccup with Ms. Fletcher’s gift while on the phone with her mother. Better to pretend it had never happened.
“Have you taken your pills?” Angie shouted as she drove. In addition to being hard of hearing, her mother was also forgetful. No matter the response, Angie knew she would count the pills when she got home, just to be safe. But her mother insisted she had taken them.
“Okay, I’m getting off now, but I’ll be there soon, Mami,” Angie said before hanging up. She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and settled in. The drive home would take a little over twenty minutes, giving her plenty of time to reflect on the party and what a success it had been. As she merged onto the highway, she dialed up the heat in her cozy little hatchback and turned on the radio. Ms. Angie Jimenez, U.S. history teacher and coordinator of the Baldwin High holiday gift exchange, had two weeks of winter break ahead of her, a big blank space on the calendar that would allow her to relax and unwind. Surely it was a vacation well deserved.
As a small smile ventured across her face, she wished herself a very merry Christmas.