24. Penelope
twenty-four
penelope
One of the absolute stupidest practices in education history is the formal observation. It’s just a bunch of boxes that administration has to check off, but at this point, we all know we’re playing a game. And if we all know it’s a game, why do we even have to play it?
Principal schedules observation. Teacher plans a softball lesson with their best class, and asks softball questions to their top students. If the kids behave, they all get candy or a free day on Friday. It’s a waste of time, especially when there are three different meetings involved in the process. I’m not sure why the superintendent insisted that Nathan still follow through with all of the teacher evals this year when our building is a literal clusterfuck, but here I sit, in his office, fifteen minutes before my observation, because that’s when he could squeeze me in. Ant is running the class until we’re finished, at which point, he will take over for Nathan while I teach my students how to prove congruency of two figures.
“What strengths do you possess that you believe will make the lesson successful?” Nathan asks, reading from the script on his computer screen. He types in my cookie-cutter answer, the same one I’ve used every year since I started teaching, tweaking bit by bit to be what they want to hear.
We continue on like this: I answer, he types, and then he falls back in his chair and grunts.
“Sorry. I know this all sounds so formulaic.”
“Not your fault,” I shrug.
He cleans his glasses with a lens cloth, then replaces them on his face.
“It’s something I didn’t consider when taking over for Don: how often the administrative tasks are meaningless. I could pop into your classroom just as easily to watch you teach. Why the paperwork trail for someone who is clearly competent?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying for years. But we’re all just cogs in the system, right?”
Nathan hums through his amused smile.
“Well, let’s go learn some geometry, shall we?”
He takes his laptop, notepad, and pen, and follows me to my classroom.
What I expect to see is my class doing their daily warm-up.
What I do not expect is the utter pandemonium that we can clearly hear from four doors down the hallway. My blood is boiling before I even reach for the door handle.
My students are in two lines, running at the board to fill in answers to a multiplication wheel that Ant has projected onto our SmartTV. It’s utter chaos. They’re running, cheering, throwing the styluses at each other. We must come in at the end of the game, because someone shouts, “It’s a tie, Ellis!” and Ant pulls a basketball and a mini hoop out of nowhere and says in a deep, menacing voice, “Sudden death!”
“ Or ,” I shout, “How about we get back to math ?”
It’s so quiet in my classroom, you could hear a mouse fart. Half the kids’ heads drop as they sulk back to their seats, and the other half actually try to argue with me. It’s half-hearted attempts of, Come on, Ms. Barker! and, Can we just finish the sudden death?! before they realize that I mean business. Once they’re all seated, I take a deep breath, and take my place at the front of the room.
By the looks on their faces, you’d think I just murdered someone’s puppy. They’re clearly pissed that I stopped their game. They keep looking to Ant to take over, but he grabs his walkie and keys from his table and slips out the door. Someone actually boos when they realize that he’s leaving. It’s like he’s the fun parent and I’m the one who drops the hammer.
Needless to say, my lesson is hot trash.
Well, in the sense that no one is engaged, they barely answer my questions, and the life has been sucked out of learning. But, to be fair, I didn’t do the tried and true “the principal is coming in to watch me teach so if you’re on your best behavior I’ll get everyone Dunkin’ Munchkins” trick. I didn’t think I had to. I thought this class, being my best of the bunch, understood the game by now. Teacher observations are all a game.
Except for today. Today, the game was played by Mr. Ellis, and then Ms. Barker was left to pick up the pieces instead of giving a flawlessly executed lesson.
By the time I get home, I am drained. Ant was in and out of class all day because Nathan stacked up his other observations, so I barely had to deal with him. Between a throbbing headache and the dull ache in my wrist, I wanted nothing more than to come home and drown myself in a bowl of popcorn and a good Netflix show.
Except, I have a second job. One that has deadlines. One that, for all intents and purposes, I’m supposed to love more than the one that I drive to every day. Not when I can’t write a scene to save my life though. Not when writer’s block is a Mac Truck careening toward me on a slippery highway.
I’ve been sitting at my computer for forty-five minutes, and all I’ve typed so far has been, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing . Is that my main characters and their unrequited love talking, or just a little breaking of the fourth wall?
I rest my head on my keyboard and groan.
“Everything okay, Ms. Layne?”
And then immediately shoot up out of my seat, because Anthony Ellis has snuck up on me.
I wish he’d stop doing that.
Luckily, I don’t have to let my heart pitter-patter, because it’s currently annoyed. I scowl, my brows knitting together like the front lines of a battlefield.
“Why are you here?”
“Uh… Because I live here?”
“No, Anthony, I meant here as in, in my office .”
“Because the door was wide open and you were talking to yourself.”
His eyebrows lift all the way to his hairline as he smiles sheepishly. I forgot that I talk to myself when I write. I call it “part of the creative process.” Claire called it “time to get out of the house” during those few weeks when I lived with her and Nathan.
“Thanks for the reminder to shut and lock the door,” I say, crossing my arms as a signal for him to get out.
“These doors don’t lock.”
I scowl, doing that thing with my eyes where they turn into slits like a viper’s.
“You are literally not helping your case for me being pissed at you today, Anthony.”
I swivel in my chair and scroll up to the last chapter I wrote—at least nine days ago—and start to reread, hoping that sparks an idea for where this next chapter should go. Except, Anthony is still in my office. In my space . There’s a window over my computer, and I can see him in the reflection, but more than that, I can feel his presence. It’s as if our body chemistry is wired, neurons awakening to buzz when the other gets close enough.
Damn, that’s good. I should put it in the book somewhere.
“Can I help you?”
My gaze flits up to the window, and I realize he’s gone quiet, his face impassive.
“I’m sorry I messed up your lesson today. I should’ve known better than to start up a game. I’ll uh… I’ll get out of your hair.”
He’s gone before I can turn around. What I do catch of his departure, aside from the flick of his blonde hair as he combs his hand through it in what seems to be frustration, is the buzzing in my veins seeming to diminish with each and every step he takes in the opposite direction.