Chapter 8
Emma
I’ve rearranged the curriculum handouts three times.
Once by the door where parents walk in, then by the smartboard where I’ll be presenting, and now back by the door because that actually makes more sense.
Curriculum night starts in twenty minutes and I’m second-guessing every decision I’ve made about tonight, which is ridiculous because I’ve been teaching for months now and I’m good at this.
I know I’m good at this.
But this is my first curriculum night as an actual teacher, not a student teacher hiding behind someone else’s lesson plans, and I spent two hours last night practicing my presentation in front of my bathroom mirror like some pageant contestant preparing for the interview portion.
The classroom looks good though. Student work covers every available surface—art projects pinned to bulletin boards, writing samples displayed on the walls, math worksheets with gold star stickers arranged in neat rows.
My presentation is loaded on the smartboard, tested twice to make sure it won’t glitch mid-explanation.
The reading corner is tidied, beanbags fluffed instead of their usual deflated sad lumps.
Everything is perfect. Professional. Ready to prove I know exactly what I’m doing.
I’m wearing my navy blue dress, the one that makes me feel like I have my life together. Like someone who definitely belongs at the front of a classroom and isn’t secretly terrified of being exposed as a fraud.
The door opens and Principal Erickson pokes her head in. “Looking great in here, Emma. You ready?”
“Absolutely.” My voice comes out steady, which feels like a minor victory.
“Good. Don’t be nervous. Parents love enthusiasm.” She smiles that encouraging principal smile, the one that’s been perfected over decades of managing anxious first-year teachers. “Just be yourself. You’re great with the kids, you’ll be great with the parents.”
She disappears and I’m left standing there wondering if I should have asked for more specific advice. Like what to do if I forget how to speak English, or if my presentation spontaneously combusts, or if a certain parent walks in and I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.
Not that I’m thinking about any parent in particular.
Parents start arriving around six. I position myself by the door, shaking hands and greeting everyone as they come in.
“Hi, welcome! Thanks so much for coming. Feel free to look around at the student work displays while we wait to get started.” Smile, handshake, gesture toward the walls covered in first-grade masterpieces.
Mrs. Buckley arrives with the same dramatic hand gestures as her son Jordan, which suddenly explains everything about why he can’t tell a story without full-body choreography and sound effects.
Mr. and Mrs. Lopez bring Sofia’s grandmother, who doesn’t speak much English but absolutely beams when she spots Sofia’s artwork on the wall, reaching out to touch the edges of the paper like it’s something precious.
The room fills steadily. Parents cluster around the bulletin boards, pointing out their kids’ work to each other, murmuring praise and snapping photos on their phones. I keep greeting people at the door, watching the clock tick from six-ten to six-twelve to six-fourteen.
The door opens again and Theo walks in with Chloe.
My pulse kicks up about three notches before I can stop it.
He’s in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—does this man own shirts with sleeves that stay down?
—dark hair slightly mussed like he came straight from the restaurant.
Chloe’s bouncing beside him in her light-up sneakers, wearing a backpack almost as big as she is.
Professional. Be professional. This is school. This is your job. Stop looking at his forearms.
“Mr. Midnight,” I greet him, and the formality feels wrong in my mouth, too stiff for someone I spent an entire Saturday with, someone whose laugh I can’t stop thinking about.
But we’re surrounded by parents and students and Principal Erickson is probably watching from somewhere, so formal it is. “And Chloe! So glad you could make it.”
His mouth does this thing, this little twitch at the corner that might be amusement, at my sudden professionalism. “Miss Hayes.” He emphasizes it just slightly, matching my tone, and something sparks in his eyes. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
“I know I saw you this morning but it feels like forever!” Chloe completely abandons any pretense of appropriate classroom behavior and throws her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my dress.
I laugh, warmth spreading through my chest as I hug her back. “I missed you too, kiddo.”
“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing at her overstuffed backpack as she pulls away.
“I brought all my sleepover stuff!” She twists around to show me the clear compartment on the side where I can see pajamas and what looks like approximately seventeen stuffed animals crammed in together.
“I have my toothbrush and snacks and Olivia’s mom said we can stay up until ten, which is really late, like really really late, and we’re going to make friendship bracelets and watch Encanto for the millionth time and Olivia has a trampoline in her backyard and it’s going to be the best night ever. ”
“That sounds like a great night,” I say, standing back up and trying not to laugh at the absolute avalanche of information.
I glance up at Theo and find him watching Chloe with that patient affection I’ve come to recognize, the one that makes me like him even more than I already do.
“Why don’t you show your dad your desk?” I say to Chloe. “We’re going to start in just a couple minutes.”
“Okay!” She grabs Theo’s hand and drags him toward the back row, already chattering about which artwork is hers.
I turn back to greet the last few families coming through the door, trying to get my pulse back under control.
Once everyone’s arrived, I move to the front of the room.
Parents naturally start settling into position, finding spots along the walls or leaning against desks.
Theo’s standing near Chloe’s desk in the back, hands in his pockets, and I make myself look anywhere but at him.
“Good evening, everyone!” My voice comes out bright and confident, teacher-mode fully activated. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. I’m Emma Hayes, and I’m so excited to share what we’ve been working on this year in first grade.”
I click to the first slide and launch into the presentation: daily schedule, reading curriculum, math strategies, science units, homework expectations. I feel myself relaxing into the rhythm of it, finding my groove. This is my classroom, my domain, and I know this material inside and out.
The presentation flows better than I expected.
I show examples of student work, pulling up photos of projects we’ve completed.
I explain our approach to differentiated instruction, walk through the field trip schedule, outline my communication policy.
Mrs. Buckley asks about spelling test frequency and I answer confidently.
Mr. Lopez wants details about the gifted program screening process and I walk him through the timeline without missing a beat.
I’m good at this. The realization settles over me like a warm blanket. I actually know what I’m doing.
“Alright,” I say when we’ve covered everything, “now please feel free to walk around and look at your child’s work. Everything is labeled with names on the displays. I’ll be available if anyone has specific questions.”
The room erupts into movement and I’m immediately surrounded by a cluster of parents asking follow-up questions about reading levels and homework support strategies. I answer each one, trying to be helpful and thorough. Over Mrs. Johnson’s shoulder, I can see Theo at the writing display with Chloe.
She’s pointing at her story, the one about the dragon who’s afraid of flying, my favorite thing she’s written all year. Her hands are moving as she talks, animated and excited, and Theo’s reading it with his full attention.
“Miss Hayes?” Mrs. Johnson says, pulling my attention back.
Right. Parents. Questions. Job.
I spend the next twenty minutes circulating around the room and chatting with parents, and every time I glance up, Theo’s moved to a different display with Chloe—the art wall, the science corner, the math station—giving each one the same careful attention.
Parents start trickling out around seven, collecting their kids and thanking me for the presentation.
Just a few stragglers remain as kids show off one last project.
I spot Theo talking with Olivia’s mom, Mary, near the reading corner while Olivia and Chloe bounce around the book bin, clearly already in full sleepover mode.
Theo catches my eye across the room and I turn away quickly, heat rising to my cheeks like I’m fourteen instead of twenty-four.
A minute later I hear footsteps approaching. Theo’s walking toward me with his hands in his pockets, Chloe practically skipping alongside him.
“Bye, Miss Hayes!” Chloe throws her arms around my waist for the second time tonight. “See you Monday!”
“Have the best time at your sleepover,” I tell her, squeezing back. “I want to hear all about it.”
She’s already taking off toward Olivia, which leaves me standing next to Theo in front of a wall of first-grade artwork.
The room has mostly emptied out now, just a few parents lingering by the door, none of them paying attention to us.
The space between his shoulder and mine feels charged with something I probably shouldn’t be noticing at a school event.