Simone
SIMONE
S imone’s Year One classroom had looked different during her first week at Linwood Primary School.
Each teacher was responsible for the aesthetic of their space, and Simone’s predecessor had kindly taken her homemade bunting and garishly colored velvet ribbons with her.
Simone had in turn opted for a minimal design comprising beige and taupe clay pots housing stems of eucalyptus placed on hard-to-reach surfaces, as well as framed artwork depicting sculptural shapes, and neatly labeled cabinets to house neatly labeled folders.
This interior choice lasted only days until several comments, muffled within a cough or spoken behind a cupped palm, were made about Simone’s classroom being a cold and uninviting place.
Naturally, it didn’t bother Simone that her colleagues thought this; it only troubled her to think her students might as well.
So, she’d taken her decorations back home and spent hours on Pinterest, transforming her living room floor into an enviable arts and crafts station.
The following morning, she carried in a giant felt flower, each petal inscribed with positive affirmations and well-meaning lies, such as Good things come to those who wait and If you treat people kindly, they will do the same to you .
She unrolled posters of cartoon animals sitting beside child-friendly motivational quotes, and Simone had even draped fake ivy along the large classroom windows.
She’d replaced the black-and-white rug used for Reading Time with a spongy affair comprising dark-colored puzzle pieces, each one an individual seat that could be detached and rejoined.
She’d requested different-colored workbooks instead of one uniform color and had even brought some books herself to replenish the reading corner’s offerings.
Simone hadn’t been a fan of the result, but the children either loved it or hadn’t been expecting anything less.
“How are we doing over here?” Simone asked Table A.
“Hi, Miss.”
Simone crouched neatly beside Tyler. This morning’s lesson was to arrange words from a pile and sort them into full sentences.
Although Simone and her colleagues had recently read that there was no evidence supporting auditory and visual learning, she’d found that something about not having to think and write at the same time made the task easier for almost every child.
Considering Simone had only been teaching this class of Year One students for a couple of months, she knew them all relatively well.
Five-year-old Tyler had the most difficulty with forming written sentences, despite being an average speaker for his age.
She’d noticed this when he began throwing words together and hoping for the best (in his defense, this allowed him to reach the correct answer forty-eight percent of the time), despite not understanding what the sentences meant.
When this no longer worked, he resorted to deflection by way of asking random questions.
This morning’s was: “Where’s your jumper from, Miss? ”
The truth was, Tyler just really liked Miss Simone, and so anything she said was worth listening to; besides, she always smelled like soap instead of whatever lots of adults wore that made his nose sting.
His teacher also reminded Tyler of his downstairs neighbor who sometimes made him sandwiches and looked at his homework when his mum and dad were making his house noisy with anger.
His neighbor had long black hair and a kind face, just like Miss Simone.
Simone pulled at her jumper. “It’s from Freedom.”
Tyler shoved his tongue between the gap in his front teeth. “I’ve never heard of that shop.”
“It isn’t an actual shop,” Simone said. “It’s an online brand known for sustainable clothing.”
Tyler’s brown eyes morphed into orbs. The children were used to Simone speaking to them like they were her peers, even if they didn’t quite understand what she was saying.
They thought she just used a lot of adult words, words they would one day use when they woke up as adults, too.
But this one was extra big, thought Tyler.
“Sus-sust-bul?” Tyler tried.
“Almost,” Simone replied. “Sus-tain-able.”
Together they repeated the word until Tyler got it right. He said it twice more before he grew bored. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means this jumper has been made in a way that is mindful of the many environmental issues the fashion industry tends to exploit, such as inequitable pay and inhuman working conditions.”
All of Table A stared at Miss Simone until, amused, she added, “It’s better for the planet.”
They all nodded and returned to their work, except Tyler. “Are all your clothes better for the planet, Miss?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why?”
“Personally, it’s not economically sustainable.”
“Miss, what does eco—”
“How are your sentences going, Tyler?” Simone’s tone was patient, but her knees were beginning to cramp.
Tyler, admitting defeat, stared down at his jumble of words and said, “Not good.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Simone said, pulling up a chair to sit on. “Let’s work on it together.”
For the next twenty minutes, they sat, rearranging slips of paper until they formed sentences that sounded right when Tyler said them aloud. He beamed up at his teacher, who smiled at him in return.
Things were always easier when Miss Simone was there to help.
Simone rarely entered the staffroom. She was not particularly well liked by Martha and Colleen, combined age of 112, fellow teachers and self-imposed guardians of the school, but Simone rarely took it personally.
She knew they didn’t like any of the young teachers, of which she was one of the newest.
The older women—or as they often referred to themselves, “the experienced ones”—also didn’t approve of the wanton attention Simone drew to herself.
She put far too much effort into her appearance for an educator of young children and it came across as narcissistic and superficial.
Her hair changed monthly, whether it be obscenely lengthy braids, a ballerina’s bun, a puff atop her head, or wavy extensions down her back.
They disapproved of how Simone had wordlessly banned leggings and thin jumpers from her work wardrobe and opted for straight jeans or long silk skirts with fitted tees; linen draped over ribbed tank tops; flattering dresses; and white shirts tucked into structured trousers.
The perpetually clean trainers, heeled boots, closed sandals, or brogues on her feet, the simple but effective makeup applied to her face, and the fact that she wore only gold jewelry.
Costume jewelry, Martha had declared one day, but Colleen had silently disagreed; fake gold did not glint the way Simone’s did.
The two women couldn’t pinpoint what it was Simone did, but they decided it had to be something inappropriate if the male teachers couldn’t help but look whenever she entered the room. Like today, here Simone came, striding in with her head held far too high.
Simone preferred to eat at her desk for two reasons: to prep for her next lesson in between forkfuls of chickpea and feta salad, and to avoid being drawn into a debate she wouldn’t win.
However, the fridge was in the staffroom, and almost everyone was in there this afternoon.
Variant strains of discussion flowed, and Simone dodged open conversations.
She almost made it out, but Martha broke through the noise by saying, “Good to see you.”
Even though Simone stood over Martha, Martha somehow managed to look down her own nose when addressing Simone. “Care to join us for once?”
Glass container in hand, Simone (although far from sorry) apologized and said, “I should prep for my next lesson.”
“It’s easier to have a lunch break if you come to work prepared, See-mone.
” That was another thing of Martha’s; apart from offering disingenuous invitations, she seemed to enjoy sounding out Simone’s name unnecessarily, but Simone could never fathom what level of satisfaction she gained from doing so.
“Very true,” Colleen added, stabbing a lettuce leaf from her own bowl. “When you’ve been here as long as we have, you learn these things. I suppose your generation wouldn’t know, so quick to quit jobs as you are.”
The insinuation that she should spend her weekends prepping for the week ahead may have been unfair, but it was valid.
Unfortunately, there was no other proven way to compete with the workload.
If she were more rigid in her teaching plans like Martha, Colleen, and many of the other teachers, it would undoubtedly assist her in the long run.
Simone’s Year One students were a dream, but Years Four to Six were notoriously difficult to teach.
She imagined herding older classes was something comparable to steering a friendship group with many clashing personalities.
How do you get one friend out of their shell when another sees it as their birthright to dominate?
How do you let a gifted student shine without making a shy, less academically inclined student feel like they’re being left behind?
These were problems Simone dealt with too, of course, but on a reduced scale.
“My generation,” Simone echoed, “leave jobs because of factors like stress, budget cuts, and poor pay.”
“Because you don’t know how to manage your finances,” Martha said with Colleen clucking her approval. “You’re all spoiled… for choice. Due to your constant career flip-flopping you have no sense of stability, no impressive track record anywhere, and ninety percent of you will never own a home.”
Bethany, one of the two other newer members of staff remaining at Linwood, looked stricken, her nose flooding red and a dewy mist floating in her eyes. She fled the room, spilling most of the contents of her coffee mug as she went.