The Love Simulation

Chapter Two

The school’s front doors have opened, ushering in the familiar sounds of kids laughing and shoes scuffing against the floor as I approach the administrative suite where the assistants’ and Principal Major’s office are, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.

I still couldn’t bring myself to meet Roman’s gaze before leaving the teachers’ lounge. It kills me that I was so ready to show up at the upcoming party because it was him who asked, when I would’ve had no problem saying no to any of the other teachers. Nine months of formality should have told me there was something more to his change of attitude. I got my hopes up, and it’s left me feeling low and sad. Like the girl who just got duped by the cool guy. This could be my villain origin story. But as I come to stand in front of Principal Major’s door, I try to block the image of how open and inviting Roman seemed and suppress every last ounce of emotion as I prepare to do battle with his dad.

I knock on the door and hear a faint “Come in.” Steeling myself, back straight and chin up, I turn the knob and walk in.

“Good morning,” says the cheerful voice at the other end of the room, and I narrow my eyes. Even if I weren’t already on edge, Principal Major’s greeting would have been more than enough to let me know something isn’t right. “Just the young girl I wanted to see.”

And now my left eye is twitching. This man just cannot help himself, but I learned long ago that it’s a reaction he’s looking for. He’s like a poorly trained dog who’s learned that bad behavior is rewarded with attention. With each interaction with him, I have to remind myself of that so I don’t slip and say something about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m glad you’re happy to see me, because we need to have a serious conversation.”

“We most certainly do.” He looks too eager as he leans forward, with his elbows on his massive oak desk. “There has been some moving and a few shake-ups with the new middle school set to open in our district for the next school year. I heard from the principal at Angelou School of Arts. She’s still looking for a vice principal. I’m sure you’ve heard how they’ll be doing all that New Age learning. No homework. Classrooms with chairs on the floor instead of real desks.” He barely suppresses rolling his eyes. “It seems right up your alley. Well, I already put in a good word for you, and they’re eager to talk more. You’re welcome.”

I wonder, where did he get his audacity? They don’t have it at Amazon or Walmart. I’ve checked. And yet, he’s got it in spades. So assured of what he’s saying, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Why would I take their vice principal position when I’m perfectly content here? This is my job, and these are my kids, however much you may wish otherwise.”

“Are you perfectly content here, Miss Rogers? Really?”

“Of course,” I bite out automatically.

Everyone seems to be on a roll with the ridiculous questions today. Am I leaving? Am I really content here? The real question is, why wouldn’t I be? This has been the exact change of pace I wanted after I realized that being a guidance counselor wasn’t the fulfilling career I hoped it would be. As vice principal I get to help everyone. Teachers and students. It’s only on the rare occasion that an unshakable sense of wrongness hits whenever I pull into the school parking lot, and that I attribute to the stress of dealing with Principal Major.

It’s impossible to drum up any excitement in working with the man who told me during our first meeting, “You weren’t my choice for vice principal, but don’t worry. I don’t expect you to be here for long anyway.”

The nine months younger, bright-eyed Brianna had no idea why he didn’t like me on sight. Was it that he wanted someone older than thirty? Someone taller? Was it my braids? Come to find out, it was all of the above, plus the fact that I’m not his son. Principal Major wants me gone so Roman can take my place and has been doing all he can to make my year here miserable. Too bad for him my career plans don’t involve getting bulldozed over by a bully. If he wants to be my biggest hater because I’m ruining his plans to rule the school with his precious boy, he can stay mad while I work my way to the top.

“Yes, I am content here,” I repeat. “In fact, I love it.”

Principal Major stares, clear skepticism crinkling the corners of his eyes, and I know he doesn’t believe me. I meet his gaze straight on to prove how serious I am, fighting that uncomfortable tinge I get whenever I have to look at him for too long. He’s not an exact older version of Roman, but the broad nose and honey-brown skin tone they share make the resemblance unmistakable. Seeing Roman makes my heart rate soar, but having anything to do with Principal Major makes me think I need to schedule a doctor’s appointment for high blood pressure.

“Anyway,” I say, and clear my throat. We could face off all day, but I need answers. “What is going on with the library remodel? Mrs. Yates told me it’s been scrapped, but there’s got to be some kind of misunderstanding.”

“Oh, no. There’s been no misunderstanding.”

I stare at him for a full minute before finally gritting out, “Come again?” That sour pit in my stomach is back and stronger than ever. I know I’m going to hate whatever comes out of his mouth next.

“Mrs. Yates is correct. We’ve made the decision to scrap the library remodel and go in a different direction. We’re going to upgrade the football field.”

For a few seconds there’s only silence between us as his words register, then all I can do is laugh. Full-on belly-cramping, tear-inducing, breath-shortening, cheek muscle–quivering laughter. I laugh so much that I have to grip the edge of the desk so I won’t fall over. A football field upgrade for middle schoolers in place of a library is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. When I finally get ahold of myself, I straighten up, ready to congratulate Principal Major on finding his sense of humor. Then I get a good look at his face, and the hilarity of this situation is gone. His face hasn’t cracked so much as a smile line.

I wipe away the moisture from the corners of my eyes, hoping by the time I’m done here they don’t turn into real tears. “You can’t be serious,” I say.

“Of course I’m serious,” he says with a frown, like I’m the one being irrational by thinking this is some huge joke. “When enrollment opens for the new middle school and students who straddle the line between our zone and theirs get a choice of which school they’ll go to, how do you think that will go down?” He holds up a finger to keep me from responding. “That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. They’re going to pick the new and updated school every time. There’s got to be some reason kids want to come here, or we’ll lose our funding. Do you think bonds just come along every year? That’s another rhetorical question. No, they don’t. So I’ve decided to keep this school relevant and the money coming in. We’ll be known for our state-of-the-art football field.”

I shake my head. “There is so much wrong with everything you said. I can’t even…State-of-the-art football field? These are middle schoolers! No one is looking to draft them. They don’t even have a choice in what high school they go to. This would be the most ridiculous use of money I’ve ever seen.”

He looks me up and down and scoffs. “Says the young girl in a onesie.”

My face heats, and while I have to admit to myself that having jeans on hand for this conversation would have been immensely better, I don’t back down. “It’s called school spirit, get in on it! Better yet, get a clue. These kids don’t need a new football field. They need a functioning library. They need new books and computers. You said the library remodel was a sure thing. You—” I abruptly stop talking as my voice begins to shake.

Two summers ago, a Category 4 hurricane caused significant damage to the school. Most notably, part of the library flooded and a good percentage of the books were destroyed. I don’t know why the insurance money wasn’t used to fix and recoup what was lost. What I do know is that when I took my position here, they were using part of the library for detention and in-school suspension. They were using the library as a place for punishment. Punishment. I knew right then and there that if I didn’t do anything, I’d never see the library functioning fully and whole. I thought it was a miracle when Principal Major agreed that changes would be done with the bond money. Obviously, I thought wrong.

“I did agree,” he concedes. “But I saw the plans for the new school and had to make the tough decision to pivot. Without kids filling our classrooms, without them wanting to fill our classrooms, we lose funding. If we lose funding, do you know what else we lose? Don’t answer, that’s a rhetorical question.” I glare at him, and his stupid rhetorical question bull. Everything he’s saying is a load of bull. “We lose the ability to pay what teachers we have left; we lose the ability to buy the books and computers that you want to fill a new library with. This is how I’m securing my school’s future.” He offers what I assume must be his attempt at an empathetic smile, but it misses the mark by the length of a football field. “Look, I know the library and the books and all the other artsy stuff is important to you. That’s why I think it’s best you put in for the other vice principal position,” he says with a raise of his barely there eyebrow. Just like his barely there soul. “I believe you’ll find it much more to your liking. But I know you’re stubborn and think you can still get what you want. That’s not going to happen, Miss Rogers. Just so you’re aware, I had a meeting with Superintendent Watts. The football upgrade is a done deal. The contractors have been chosen and paid, and they’ll start working on the field as soon as the kids break for summer. Your energy would be better spent elsewhere, like on, say, interview prep.”

Not only did he go back on his word, but he kept plans for the new football field hidden long enough to finalize everything. And it’s all been so calculated. From the way he dangled the library upgrade in front of my nose like the most delicious piece of cake, only to snatch it away, to his whole shtick about me being a better fit at Angelou School of Arts.

As much as I want to rage and yell and threaten to grab a folding chair from outside, I know I won’t be able to get one word out without my voice shaking from the pressure to cry. And no matter how much my eyes burn and my body locks up, I’d rather walk across hot coals than shed a single tear in front of this man. He is the exact type who would see it as a weakness rather than the most natural bodily response to extreme emotions. And right now, I am extremely full of rage.

Instead, I stalk back to the door and slam it on my way out.

“Heyyy, Miss Rogers,” a student yells when I step out through the glass doors of the administrative offices. “I like your pajamas!”

I let my head fall as I smooth down my outfit with still-shaking hands and do my best to hide any traces of anger and disappointment. The hall is full of students, and right now I need to be present in welcoming them.

“Thank you, I got it from…” I trail off when I realize the student speaking to me is wearing the same one-piece pajama set as I am.

I blame social media for this. I’d planned on coming in some simple plaid pants and a white shirt. But after searching for “Pajama Days Ideas for Teachers,” I kept getting bombarded by ads of the footed pajamas. In the ads, the lady wearing them always looked comfortable and stylish. I couldn’t help but be influenced. To keep it VP-appropriate, I ordered a size up and paid extra for overnight delivery. Unfortunately, I don’t think it gives “grown, comfy, and stylish” so much as it gives “kid whose mom ordered a larger size so they can grow into it.” I would have stuck with my original outfit, but I was running late after dealing with my dog, Sheba’s, morning shenanigans.

“Oop! Not you twinnin’ with the vice principal, Jaz,” a student in red-and-white-polka-dot pants with a white top and a black bonnet says to my “twin” with a snicker. She looks at me then ducks her head to hide a smile as she hurries away.

Considering how brutal these kids can get with their jokes, I’m counting it a win she went light on us.

“Good morning, Trenton,” I say to one of our quieter sixth graders passing by. His Miles Morales pajamas match his black-and-red Jordans. “Nice shoes.”

He smiles shyly, though his shoulders straighten. At the little boost to his ego, my spirits lift as well.

I continue greeting the students coming in. Smiling to let them know that even though the year is almost over, I haven’t checked out and we’re glad they’re here. That they’re more than simply bodies we need to show up and fill quotas for funding.

I notice Monique, a seventh grader who loves spending time in the library (the part not used for detention), standing in front of her open locker. She seems lost, with a confused scowl reflecting from her small locker mirror, so after a few seconds I walk over to her. “What’s going on, sweetie? Do you need help?”

She shakes her head as if coming out of a daze before turning her bright brown eyes to me. “Miss Rogers! I’m glad you’re here, because I have quite the quandary.”

I love everything about this girl. From her juicy twists to her vocabulary.

“I was the only one who did the extra credit in English,” she says. “So I get to take home a book from Ms. Pierce’s library. I already know I’m going with Angie Thomas, but which one should I get? My brother said The Hate U Give is too grown for me, but I’m not a kid,” she says indignantly, stomping her sparkly unicorn slippers. “Then again, Nic Blake and the Remarkables has dragons…Ugh, what should I do? This will be my first read of the summer. It’s a very important decision.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Not that I would be laughing at her but at how seriously she’s taking the matter. Then again, what am I talking about? Books are a serious matter, and Monique reminds me of how excited I was when it came time to decide what books to read as a young girl. Back before I had full control of my own funds and my Tbr pile wasn’t high enough to reach the moon. But back then, I went to a school with a sizable library, so whatever books I couldn’t get my parents or older siblings to buy, I could check out.

“Well?” Monique prompts, as clearly I’m taking too long.

“That’s a hard one. The Hate U Give is a classic, but on the other hand…dragons.” I move my hands like two sides of a scale. “You really can’t go wrong with either of the two.”

She lets out the biggest huff she can while attached to a backpack that’s at least 20 percent of her weight. “Thanks, but that doesn’t help me.” I snap my head back as she slams her locker shut and sets off, her twists bouncing with each step. These young teens. I swear.

At the same time as Monique turns right to go around the corner, Roman comes from the opposite direction and turns down the same hall I’m standing in. He wears pajamas like everyone else, but his unmistakable male form is clearly distinguishable in the sea of still-growing boys.

“Hey! Save the moves for the court,” he yells to a student so busy bouncing an invisible ball and crossing over anyone in his path that he almost runs into Roman. But Roman’s got that deep stern tone that seems to reach kids on a primal level, so at his words, the student immediately falls in line.

Once the student is out of sight, Roman’s head swivels to me. We lock eyes, but the rush of butterflies I usually get when seeing him is missing in action. It will be a long time before I get over the hurt and humiliation from thinking our morning meetings were something special, and imagining that if we were in different roles, there would be a chance to explore just how deep our connection could grow.

Roman’s eyes stay fastened to me as he moves down the hall with purpose. All I know is I don’t want to face him right now.

“I need you to make sure the announcements are on my desk by the time I get back,” I hear Principal Major say to one of the secretaries. He’s about to head out to where I am.

Stuck between the possibility of another showdown with the principal or facing off with his son, I do something a leader should never do. I hightail it out of there.

Rather than go down the hallway in the direction of my office (because of course Principal Major made a point of sequestering me away from the other administrative personnel), I go right out the front doors. I hear Roman’s, “Principal Major, a word,” which sounds no less foreboding than when he told the student to quit messing around, as my feet hit the concrete. I don’t know what Roman wanted to say to me, or if it had even been his intention to talk to me. But now he and his dad can talk all about how their scheme to get my hopes up for the library worked.

It takes another twenty minutes to get to my office. After greeting students getting off their buses and encouraging them to get to class on time, I continue my walk around the campus, going past the band hall and gym, finally making it to my door. It smells like blueberry muffins, and my stomach rumbles even though I already had breakfast. The perks of being located right next to the cafeteria.

My office is remarkably smaller than Principal Major’s and pretty much every other administrator who gets their own space, so I have to squeeze between the wall and my desk to get to my chair. When I land in my seat, I let out a deep sigh. The fact that the library remodel isn’t happening is still sinking in, but I don’t have time to sit with it fully yet. There are still teacher evaluations that need to be completed, I have a scheduled meeting with Principal Major that I may accidentally forget to show up for, and I need to call back two parents who are concerned about the need for their kids to take summer courses. And that’s all before lunches start.

First things first. I pull up my email and see I’ve received thirty-five new messages since checking it while in the teachers’ lounge. One would think that the emails would lessen as the end of the year rolls around, but nope. My inbox stays consistently flooded. While I do a quick scan of the subject lines to see what I can get rid of without opening, a new message from Principal Major with a blank subject line pops up. I have no choice but to open it in case it’s something important, then grind my teeth when I see it’s full of attachments of all the contractor receipts for the football field upgrade.

My mom used to get on my siblings and me whenever we’d use the word hate , but I swear (something else she’d get on us for) there are days I absolutely hate dealing with Principal Major. When he follows up with a link to Angelou School of Arts, at least I get the satisfaction of steering that one right into the trash.

And that’s enough of that.

I exit out of my email. There has to be something I can do to stop this madness about a football field and make Principal Major stick to what we originally agreed on. This calls for a conversation with my mentor. I pick up the phone on my desk and hit the number programmed for Superintendent Watts’s office.

I’m sure most vice principals don’t typically call up the superintendent so freely, but Jeanine Watts has been my mentor for years and went to the same alma mater as my parents. She’s always shown her unshaken faith in my ability not only to succeed in this role but to keep moving up. Principal Major said she already signed off on the football field, but my hope is that once I explain the original plans for the library remodel, she’ll see it’s a better use of the school’s money and make him go back to the original agreement. While I’m at it, I may even ask her to find a new school for him. If anyone needs to transfer, it’s him, and preferably far, far away from here. But the conversation doesn’t happen. The answering secretary lets me know the superintendent isn’t available. I’ll try calling her again, a hundred times if I have to, but as I set the handset back on the receiver, my chest tightens and I know I’m on the verge of giving in to my emotions.

God. If I lose the library, what was even the point of this whole year? I didn’t abandon my old school and position with the intention of battling with my principal every day or floundering my way through disciplinary action meetings or holding off parents from attacking teachers (and sometimes vice versa). I came here to make my mark and make a difference. And now it all seems to have gone up in smoke.

I scrub my hand over my face, then reach for my cell phone to send a message to my sister.

Me: Code Yellow. Can I come by after work?

Code Yellow means one of us is about to have an emotional breakdown. Seeing as out of the two of us, I’m the emotionally volatile one, it’s always me using the code. But my sister never lets me down. Within a minute of sending the message, my phone vibrates with a response.

Camille: I’ll have the wine ready.

Already I feel the weight on my chest lighten. All I need is a good cry and sister time, then I’ll know how to proceed.