7. Nathan
seven
After yesterday’sissues in sixth grade, I decide to do a more thorough check-in on all of the long-term classrooms today. Surely, if half of our students are teaching themselves, I can step in and help out. Don may have dangled teach sixth grade in front of me as a threat to an alternative, but I was a classroom teacher for twelve years before using my administrator’s license became a monetary necessity, so I’d at least go in knowing a thing or two. Besides, I’m here for the kids. For their education. If I need to step in for a few class periods because the substitutes we hired are truly just “warm bodies in a classroom,” I’ll do it.
I’m both surprised and relieved to find that the majority of the classes are going decently. When a large chunk of the staff and students go to lunch, I decide to pop into the staff break room. I spent so much of my shadowing time last year trying to learn the ropes of the building, that I didn’t get to know too many staff members outside of administrators and our guidance counselor.
Stepping into the break room, I take a deep breath and brace myself.
I wouldn’t ever consider myself socially awkward, but I’m not the most approachable person in the world. I don’t trust or open up easily. At least I’m self-aware. Riding on the coattails of my inhibiting personality is the fact that I am about as old, if not younger than, a majority of my subordinates. Being a thirty-five year old assistant principal nowadays isn’t uncommon at all. But after my interaction with Carol yesterday, I’m suddenly well aware that the people I’m technically in charge of have more years of experience than I do.
And then, there’s the whole “I’m the boss” perspective. I’ve seen The Office. I know that the gossip stopped once Michael entered the break room.
With my lunch in hand, I step up to a table that’s about half-full. Luckily, I spot Lucy Greene, the guidance counselor that I was able to get to know a little last year.
“Hi everyone. Mind if I join you?”
A few sets of eyes seem tensely wary, like prey just noticing an invasive species entering its ecosystem, unsure of if it’s friendly or threatening.
“Sure!” Lucy says, gesturing at an empty seat on the corner of the table beside her. “How are things going, Mr. Harding?”
“Nathan, please.”
Though I do admire a level of decorum in my position, I’d like to relieve the tension line of admin to teacher during the lunch hour. Maybe letting the “Mr.” title go is the first step.
“Nate, my man! How’s it shaking?” Aaron asks with a huge grin.
“Things are going well. I thought I’d have lunch with you all today.”
I begin unpacking my lunch sack, laying my fruit and yogurt on the table.
“How are you liking the official role of AP?” Aaron asks. “You were a classroom teacher before you shadowed Don last year, right?”
I nod. “It’s a bit of a change. I’m enjoying it so far.”
“What did you teach?” Lucy asks.
“Eighth grade English. I had a few stints in history and math as well. I actually triple minored in history, English, and psychology, along with getting my Master’s in administration leadership.”
“Oof! How long were you in college for?” Aaron asks.
Not long enough. But it was a nice distraction while it lasted.
“Six years. I took a few winter courses.”
“What made you want to move out of the classroom into administration?” Lucy asks.
I swallow a huge lump that appears in the shape of the secret I’ve kept all to myself—the mountain of bills buried in my desk drawer. It is quickly replaced by the canned answer I’ve formulated for situations just like these. It is the same one I used in my interview.
“I wanted to make a larger impact on all students—not just the ones in my classroom.”
They seem satisfied with that answer, which helps me breathe easier. We’re in the middle of trading standard undergrad information when suddenly, a hurricane blows through.
Claire Benson all but flies into her seat, her curtain of blonde hair following behind like she just got caught in a storm. An oversized Stanley cup clangs against the table, her iPhone following.
“Whew! Damn, some of these kids think they’re hot shit, don’t they? The nerve on some of them! What kind of balls do they think they?—”
She pauses the disheveled unpacking of her lunch to look up at the sea of faces, and on her third inappropriate word, her eyes land on me. Cotton candy pink coats the apples of her cheeks as the rest of her face fades to a pale white.
“Oh. Mr. Harding. I am so sorry.”
With my brows pinched, I simply nod. She isn’t a student I can write up for swearing. She’s an adult—at least, her paperwork says she is—that probably didn’t expect her superior to be joining her at the lunch table.
“So, anyway,” Aaron interrupts. “We were talking about where we went to college…”
At this, she perks up.
“Oh my God. Best four years of my life.”
I hold in my eye roll at that statement. This girl who is easily ten years my junior is still in the phase of life where partying every weekend is a social norm. I never saw the appeal in drinking or night clubs, but Claire Benson seems just the type.
Young. Objectively attractive with her blonde, windswept hair, petite figure, and high fashion sense. I’m sure she goes out every weekend and paws off men and free liquor until bar close.
Not that I should care.
I shake out that thought. It’s this statement that hits me square in the face with the disparity at this table. I am the administrator. They are the teachers.
Regardless of my attempt to fit in, I do not belong here. I am making them uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be here.
I gather my things and tuck them into my lunch bag, then abruptly stand.
“I forgot about a meeting. I’ll leave you all to enjoy your lunch.”
“See ya, Nate! Join us anytime!”
To his defense, Aaron waves me off in genuine friendliness. But I won’t be joining them again.
My afternoon calendar is more open than I’d like, so I use it to check in on the rest of the long-term subs from my list. As I round the corner to seventh grade, my body tenses.
It’s like Claire Benson is destined to grind on every single one of my gears today.
This part of the hallway comes to a corner with a short wall and a window that overlooks the courtyard. There is a table pressed up against the wall below the window for students to have a quiet hallway space. And yet, students aren’t working at the table. Instead, Claire Benson is sitting on top of it, her legs tented, while she passes a football to Rocco Thatcher. Pop music streams from the cell phone on the table next to her. She smiles. He blushes. They pass the ball lightly back and forth. Not a book or worksheet in sight.
I straighten my tie, dip my head, and press forward.
“Ms. Benson,” I say, a little more sternly than I had anticipated, but still annoyed nonetheless.
Her cheeks pink, and her arm pauses mid-toss, knuckles whitening around the faded Patriots football.
“Sorry. Am I interrupting an impromptu football practice?”
Slowly, her feet slide from their place flat on the table, dangling there before she slinks off of it completely. I register for only a moment that she is petite enough that her feet don’t touch the ground, but shake that nugget of information away.
“Rocco and I were just taking a little break.”
She puts her arm around Rocco and hands him the football, which he cradles against his stomach tightly.
“And where is the rest of your class?”
She hitches her thumb over her shoulder.
“Inside the classroom, last I checked. Although, they could be running around town by now. The lock on the window is a little loose. I actually caught Rocco halfway out in the middle of reading The Outsiders, which is why we had to come out here and cool off.”
Her cheerful, close-lipped smile is warm, bright, and expectant. If I weren’t so annoyed already, I may have laughed at her joke, Instead, I smash my eyebrows together to kill it.
“Do you think this is funny, Ms. Benson?”
I cross my arms, my scowl deepening.
“Uh. See, well, I did, I mean, until you went all angry-elf on me, and now I’m actually kind of second-guessing going the joking route. Heh.”
She shifts forward and backward on the balls of her feet, staring nervously at me as I give her the same stare down I recently gave to Sawyer Bruning.
“Why don’t you go back in the classroom so I can talk with Mr. Harding in private, Rocco. Do you know what needs to get done?”
“Yeah, I think so. I can ask Tyler for help?”
“As long as your answers don’t magically look just like his, then yes.”
“Alright, bet.”
Rocco scampers away from us and into the classroom. I sneak a peek when the door opens, and though I do see several students at their desks working, I’m still agitated. Claire’s lips part, but I sneak in first.
“Do you think this job is a joke?”
Her cheerful demeanor squashes, her brows bunching as her eyes do the same.
“I— what?”
“When you took the position as a long-term substitute, did you think you would be taking a vacation for the school year?”
“Mr. Harding, I?—”
“Playing catch in the hallway with a student who has been in my office four times since Monday, and who, for all intents and purposes, should have had that ball taken away from him on the first day of school when you took it from him the first time.”
I can’t tell if her face is trying to pale or inflame.
“Mr. Harding, Rocco and I?—”
“While I understand that you are a guest teacher in this building, I expect you to take the role seriously. I certainly hope that your students are getting the assignment done while you and one of our repeat offenders play football in the hall. You are meant to be more than just a warm body in a classroom, Ms. Benson.”
With that, I push off on my toe and head toward the other end of the hall. Steam bellows from my ears and braids with my conversation from Don. My words to Claire may have been harsh, and may have been lingering from agitation, but in an administrative position, I cannot stand the thought of these students receiving anything less than everything we have to offer them.
If I have to play the role of English teacher again, so be it. I won’t let Claire Benson and her flightiness run our students into the ground.