4. Eleanor
Eleanor
By the end of the day, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated. I’m almost sad to come home to my quiet house by the beach after the excitement and activity of the classroom, though I know I’ll fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow.
Shutting off the engine, I haul my bags inside.
I grabbed a pizza from The Salty Slice on the way home through town, and I set it on the counter beside my tote, overflowing with the art projects the students made this afternoon.
They’re posters about themselves, with drawings of their favorite things.
I’ll laminate them tonight and hang them in class tomorrow.
Before I do that, I need to eat. Today was so busy that I skipped lunch, using my break to tidy the room and set up for the afternoon’s activities. Now, my stomach rumbles loudly in protest.
I grab a slice of pizza and lean against the kitchen counter, looking around at my new home as I chew.
It’s a carriage house set back from the main house, with a cobbled walkway and weathered shingle exterior.
The space isn’t much larger than the one bedroom I rented in New York, but the high ceilings and exposed beams make it feel more open.
The oak floor creaks when I walk, and the old barn-style door sometimes sticks, but at least here I can breathe.
Instead of the sound of sirens and the rattle of the subway under me, I get the briny sea air and the distant crash of waves.
The kitchen is a little smaller than I’d like, but the location is perfect; minutes from school, close to the center of town, and, best of all, the beach.
Perhaps most importantly, my landlady, Hettie, is kind and lovely.
She’s a retiree whose husband passed a few years ago, and keeps to herself.
Plus, she has a sweet border collie called Skye that she lets me walk on the beach in the evenings.
Tonight, though, I’ve got work to do.
Finishing my pizza, I wipe my hands and pull out the student projects, setting up my laminator.
There’s something oddly soothing about laminating, both in seeing the work sealed and finished properly, and the rhythmic movement of placing the sheets together, sealing them, then setting them aside to start over.
My mind wanders as I work, thinking of the day.
It started out well. I have eighteen students, which is half as many as I had in the city.
That alone is a complete luxury. And then there are the kids themselves.
Polite, respectful, and adorable in their navy blazers and pale-blue shirts.
They’re hardworking too, not that we did much work today.
The focus was on bonding and settling into the school year.
And it was going so well… until I looked up to find Headmaster Wright watching us through the door.
I cringe as I recall his towering figure, hands squarely on his hips, face twisted in a scowl. The way he’d turned to talk to Mr. Fells with obvious contempt, the embarrassment I felt, as if he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
But I wasn’t. The students were so quiet and shy when they arrived, and I wanted to help them relax, help them see that my classroom—our classroom—is a safe space, a place where we can have fun and trust each other. True learning is about taking risks, and without trust and safety, it can’t happen.
It also can’t happen with an uptight headmaster scrutinizing your every move.
When I spotted him spying on us through the glass, I couldn’t help my instinctive, automatic reaction: shame.
The kids noticed it—noticed him—too. It shut down any feelings of playfulness or connection, and I had to think on my feet for a way to create safety and calm again.
Thankfully, settling in for a little quiet reading did the trick, and it was a relief when he was gone.
I think back on what my colleagues said about Headmaster Wright. Mr. Fells, who told me, You’ll get used to him, and Juliana, who said, He takes things way too seriously. How can they work like that? How can anyone thrive in an environment with no sense of fun and play, especially the kids?
Shaking off the thought, I line up the laminated projects from my students with a smile. They look fantastic. Putting them up on the wall is a great way to show these kids that this is their classroom, that their feelings matter. That’s what I need to remember.
Besides, it’s not like I have to work directly with the headmaster.
I don’t even report to him. We might bump into one another in the hall, but otherwise I’ll have little contact with him.
I can focus on my class and their learning, even if he finds my methods unorthodox.
Once he sees my students’ test scores, he’ll be singing a different tune.
My phone dings on the counter and I grab it, finding a new email.
Subject: Fundraiser Planning Meeting
Dear Eleanor,
Please meet with Headmaster Wright in the conference room tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. to begin preliminary planning for the fall fundraiser.
Let me know if you have any scheduling conflicts.
Kind regards,
Margaret Pierce
I stare at the screen, my heart drumming.
What?
Why am I meeting with the headmaster to plan the fundraiser? Unless…
Surely he’s not planning it himself? He must have other things to do. More important things. More… headmasterly things. And even if he doesn’t, planning a fun, student- and parent-focused event hardly seems like his cup of tea. From what little I’ve seen, charm isn’t his area of expertise.
I reread the email again, wondering if I’ve misunderstood, but there isn’t much to misunderstand. Maybe he’s simply there to give the instructions before handing it over to the committee to plan it. Maybe it’s a formality, him signing off on things before stepping away.
Or maybe, as I sense deep down, he’s there to keep an eye on the proceedings. On me.
Shit. Is it too late to pull out? I could say I over-committed, or that, as Margaret mentioned, there’s a scheduling conflict, but even if it were true, I couldn’t do that. Not only would it make me look flaky and unprofessional, I’d let the students down.
I chew my bottom lip as I set my phone on the counter. There’s no way around it. I have to meet with the headmaster tomorrow afternoon. My gut ripples with nervous anticipation as I think of the handsome older man’s face. Despite myself, I want to make a good impression.
Without thinking, I cross to my small closet and throw open the doors.
Tomorrow I’d planned to wear my emerald-green A-line dress that swishes around my knees, but suddenly, that feels like a bad idea.
I remember Headmaster Wright’s assessing gaze in the faculty meeting, the look of rebuke in his eye when he saw me in my class, and swallow.
I want to appear professional. Serious. Like someone whose ideas count, especially when they benefit the students.
And there’s only one dress for the job.
Digging in the back of my closet, I pull out my slim-fitting, knee-length charcoal dress.
It was my job interview dress in the city, and it’s a dark enough gray that it doubles nicely for funerals.
It’s the only item I own that I can see Headmaster Wright approving of, even if it makes me feel a little dead inside.
I drape it over my bed, making a mental note to iron it, then consider what to pair it with.
Not my yellow flats, or my purple boots.
The most sensible match is probably my burgundy Mary Jane heels.
Probably a little too colorful for the headmaster’s taste, but I’ll keep my feet hidden under the table.
Plus, they have the added benefit of making me a few inches taller.
I could use that beside his formidable frame.
Next, I move to the bathroom, examining my accessories.
Simple silver hoops and a plain hair elastic should be fine.
I remember Juliana and her sleek, sophisticated jewelry, wishing for a moment I owned more accessories like that, then shake the feeling off.
I’ve never been that kind of woman, and couldn’t afford to be even if I wanted to.
Placing my shoes and earrings beside my dress on the bed, I survey the ensemble with a deep sigh. It’s the outfit of a proper, serious teacher. It’s what I should wear.
Anyway, my outfit is the least of my problems. If I want him to take me seriously, I need to show up prepared.
I pull out my notebook from this morning’s faculty meeting, casting my gaze over my notes. They’re a good start, but I need more. I need details, vendors, proposed budgets. It occurs to me that I don’t actually know what the fundraiser is for, so I’ll have to research broadly at this stage.
My neon-yellow three-ring binder sits on my desk, full of old teaching plans, and I remove them and set them aside.
This will be perfect to house my fundraiser notes, plus it’s covered in these fun and uplifting quotes that always make me smile.
Then I grab my laptop, and spend the rest of the evening researching fundraiser ideas.
I’m going to prove to Headmaster Wright that I’m a valuable asset to this team.