10. Nathan
ten
It has beenfive full weeks of school, and Claire Benson has finally come to me with a behavior issue.
I was waiting for her to show up. Waiting for her to finally admit that being best friends with seventh graders is the farthest strategy from classroom management. She was in over her head from the beginning.
She signed up for a meeting with me through my online conference scheduler, so I had my document prepared for her arrival last night, when I’d stayed here until seven-forty-five because working was more appealing to me than going home.
She knocks at my door and I straighten my back, straighten my tie, and clear my throat.
“Come in.”
Her cheeks instantly appear wind kissed when she steps fully into the room. I wonder if she’s nervous about presenting me the behaviors. Admitting that she should have taken my advice in the first place and started disciplining those boys right from the very beginning.
Or, the stray thought crosses my mind, could the blush be a result of our interaction at the library?
The thought is both surprising and intrusive. It doesn’t belong in this space. It was absolute happenstance that Claire’s sister found me and demanded a game of chess, and an even lower probability that Claire and I had a small moment afterward. It means absolutely nothing. And yet, that blush seems to be a slow poison, returning from the other day and seeping into my sense of reality.
I shake my head, returning to the present.
“Ms. Benson, please, take a seat.”
I indicate to the twin leather chairs across from my desk. When she sits, the hem of her dress rides up, creating a squeaking sound when she sits. That sound is what draws my attention to her thigh, covered by a nude tight. For a fraction of a moment, I wonder where it ends, but I shake that thought away and dismiss it out the window, along with the shade of blush that seems to be frosting over my vision in rose tones.
She clears her throat and fiddles with the folder she brought along, clutching it in her manicured nails.
Lavender with a silver shimmer on her ring finger today.
Why did I even notice the change?
“So.” She stares at the back of my computer instead of me, clutches the folder, and shakes her head. I can see the conversation happening behind her eyes, like she’s psyching herself up, and almost chuckle.
“As you know, there have been some contemptuous behaviors happening in seventh grade, particularly with Rocco Thatcher and the boys he hangs out with.”
“Yes. And Rocco is the boy you played catch with in the hallway, is he not?”
She tilts her head and eyes me with annoyance, then shakes her head again. I wonder who she’s talking to in there.
“Yes, but that’s beside the point. I’ve been doing some behavior tracking, and I wanted to run an idea by you.”
She opens the folder, and the wind is knocked out of me for several reasons.
The first one being that I am utterly wrong in this situation.
Instantly, I feel like I owe her an apology for everything I planned to say. The way I’d amped myself up to put her in her place has shame careening over me in a tidal wave of tsunami proportions.
But as she opens the folder to an intricate spreadsheet, what fills my veins instead like battery power is the pride and admiration I have for what she brought me. Combine that with the cloud of haze that seems to have followed me in from our trip to the library, and I’m stunned where I sit.
“I’ve broken his behaviors down by class period and day of the week. I ran it by Lucy. Actually, she was really helpful in the beginning, when I was initially having trouble with Rocco. She’s been a really great resource.”
Not only has Claire been handling this all along, but she sought out the counselor, too? Bile churns its way up my throat at how utterly wrong I have been this entire time.
“So, the reason I’m coming to you is that I had an idea—one we could potentially pilot with Rocco, and then use with other students if we find it successful.”
She isn’t even talking to me at this point. She’s wholly focused on the presentation that she put together, and I do my best to be zeroed in on that as well, as she details the mentorship program she wants to implement. A check-in, check-out system. Once during homeroom, and once at the end of the day, with the same male teacher, to build up the relationships that Rocco is struggling to maintain since his parent’s divorce.
I can’t form words. I’m stuck between the rock of praising her idea and the hard place of my misguidedness.
“I’m overstepping, aren’t I?” She interrupts the electrical short-circuit that seems to have happened in my brain. My gaze tics up to her, and her blush has transformed from cotton candy pink to maroon in my silence. I swallow the ball in my throat. My attitude, my nerves, have spurred this feeling of inadequacy on her. Something sharp lodges in my chest, and I rub at it.
“I’m so sorry if I’m overstepping, Mr. Harding. I know I’m only here as a long-term, but?—”
“No. No this is excellent, Ms. Benson. I was just trying to process the information.”
Her cheeks fade back to pink at my praise, and I curse my cock for stirring in my slacks.
“Thank you.”
I nod in an attempt to shake the amalgam of feelings, indicating toward the folder and the fan of spreadsheets. She nods, and I collect them, running them through the copier to make my own set.
“I’ll speak with Ms. Lucy tomorrow, and we can get a meeting set up later this week to choose a potential mentor that we think would suit Mr. Thatcher.”
She nods.
“Oh. We already talked, and we’re thinking of Aaron Russo. He’s on board, but of course, the decision is up to you. Thank you so much for hearing me out. I just want to do well by these students while I’m here.”
Her smile is pursed, like she’s nervous to unveil it wholly to me. I don’t blame her. I’ve been nothing but cold to her. She stands to excuse herself, and it isn’t until she’s halfway out the door that I call after her.
“Ms. Benson?”
She pauses with her hand on the doorframe, and turns back around.
“I’m sorry. For misjudging you at the beginning of our meeting. For making assumptions. For the shortness with which I’ve been treating you. It has been both unprofessional and uncalled for.”
She nods, slowly, her grip tightening on the doorframe, and I have to will myself to look away from her slim fingers, from imagining them from tightening elsewhere.
“Thank you. For the apology. And for the help.”
We’re at a stalemate. I swallow, then inhale, filling my chest to capacity, and she seems to do the same along with me. I nod, and as she returns the gesture, she lifts her smile, her eyes sparkling as it turns up. I don’t know what possesses me, but I have to keep talking to her.
“This project shows great potential. What is your plan after you’re finished at River Valley?”
“Oh, I…” Her shoulders slump, and I have the sudden urge to cross the room and catch her. “I don’t have one yet. I’m still figuring all of that out.”
Part of me tenses with all of the ways I’ve already misjudged her. I tilt my head, indicating for her to continue. Her lips part, and as I feel the universe beginning to shift, her eyes dart to the clock above my head.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, I’ve gotta go. Zoey has cello tonight.”
She rushes out the door, smoke nipping at her heels, leaving me alone to pick up the pieces of whatever just happened here.