5. Theo
Theo
The ache in my lower back is the only reason I step away from my desk.
Setting my glasses aside, I stand and stretch, trying to loosen the tension gathering between my shoulder blades, rising up my neck.
I’ve been holed up in my office all day, looking over projected costs for the fall fundraiser.
I need to keep a tight rein on the budget this year, especially with all eyes on me.
“Don’t forget you’re meeting Eleanor Hart in the conference room at four,” she reminds me.
“Thanks, Margaret. I’ll be right out.”
I step into the private bathroom attached to my office. After relieving myself, I wash my hands, thinking about the meeting. I still don’t know which cause I want to support, which cause will result in the least fallout. And I still don’t know if having the new hire on board will help.
As I examine my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I can’t help but notice the dark circles under my eyes.
Sleep has eluded me for months, and it shows.
I splash some water on my face, rake my fingers through my hair, and straighten my tie.
With a sigh, I leave the bathroom. Can’t avoid this meeting forever.
Margaret has already taken my files and glasses across, so I slip my phone into my pocket, pull on my suit jacket, and head to the conference room. It’s an unpleasant space, lit by fluorescent bulbs and windows that don’t open, but it will suit us just fine.
Eleanor hasn’t arrived yet, so I settle in at the table, pouring a glass of water from the carafe Margaret put out.
And in the silence, I find myself wondering about what Eleanor will be wearing today.
I haven’t seen her since she crawled on her classroom floor, for reasons I still don’t quite grasp.
After yesterday’s polka dots and sunflowers, along with the dress I saw in her file photo, I’m expecting her to enter the room in something colorful.
The sort of thing you’d imagine the host of a children’s TV show to wear.
But when she walks in wearing a slim-fitting knee-length dress in a dull charcoal gray, I’m taken aback.
No flowers, no birds. No rainbows in her hair, no colorful fruit dangling from her ears.
Is it possible I completely misread her yesterday?
The faint hint of disappointment I feel makes no sense.
I rise from the table to greet her. She’s taller than I remember.
When she bumped into me in the hall yesterday, she barely brushed my shoulder, but now she’s closer to my chin.
I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to her feet, where I find red heels.
Seeing them makes something that feels strangely like relief flicker in my chest.
“Miss Hart,” I say, extending my hand.
She sets her bag down, overflowing with colored paper and what appear to be pipe cleaners, and lets my large hand engulf hers.
“Headmaster Wright,” she responds, not meeting my gaze. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, sir.” She seems to cringe at this, shaking her head, then regaining her composure.
I release her hand, motioning for her to sit opposite me, and she does so stiffly, as if she’s never sat at a table before and isn’t sure where to put her limbs. A sweet, floral scent wafts toward me, something fresh yet classic. Peonies and roses. I lean away.
“So—” I begin, reaching for the files I’ve prepared, but she cuts me off anxiously.
“I’d like to explain about yesterday.”
I pause, genuinely curious about what I witnessed, but we need to stay on track. “There’s no need for that.”
“Please,” she insists, studying the woodgrain in the table.
I bite my tongue, gesturing for her to continue.
She laughs sheepishly, two red circles dotting her cheeks. “I’d made a sort of obstacle course as an ice-breaker activity to get the students out of their seats and the energy flowing after I’d talked about class rules and expectations. Balance the serious stuff with something fun, you know?”
I don’t know, but I nod anyway.
“And, well, they all did great.” Eleanor pulls a strand of hair over one shoulder, fiddling with the end as she speaks. “But then Amy said that I should do it too.”
I lean forward, clasping my hands. “Why?”
She smiles to herself as if remembering the conversation.
“She pointed out that since I’d said we were a team, it was only fair that I participated.
And I realized it was important to show her—to show them—that I meant what I’d said, about us being a team.
I want them to trust me, to see that my words match my actions. So…”
“So you crawled on the classroom floor to impress them?” I ask skeptically.
She winces. “Not impress, more… to show that I respect them.” She lifts her gaze to mine for the first time since entering the room. “I can’t ask them to do something I’m not prepared to do myself, can I?”
I scrape a hand over my chin, absorbing her words. On the one hand, that’s a lot of what teaching is: you lead, they follow, but you don’t get down in the dirt and crawl with them. On the other hand, there’s something almost admirable about her words.
Jesus Christ. Listen to me.
I suppress the smile inexplicably tugging at my lips, fixing my brow. “I see your reasoning, Miss Hart, but perhaps we could keep the crawling to a minimum, yes?”
Her face falls. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
And even though that’s the correct response, it lands like a lead balloon in my chest.
I turn to the files on the table between us. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
She nods, pulling out her own file. Only, it’s not a document; it’s a three-ring binder in chartreuse, of all colors, with phrases in typewritten font taped all over it. From here, I can make out the line, The world belongs to optimists. Pessimists are only spectators - Francois Guizot. I frown.
“Ignore the binder,” she mutters, attempting to shield it from my eyes. “I’m only using it to organize my ideas.” Then she flips it open, paging through several sheafs of paper, switching between tabs, before looking up at me. “I kind of, um, assumed there would be more people on this committee.”
I glance around the room. “Committee?”
“Yes. More volunteers.”
My jaw tightens as I drag a hand through my hair. Now is not the time to tell the new teacher I botched last year’s fundraiser so badly no one wants to go near it again.
“We’re keeping it streamlined this year. No committees. Just the two of us, for now.” The words just the two of us don’t sound quite right, but I decide to leave them. I’m the headmaster, for God’s sake. I don’t need to explain myself.
“Okay,” she says, puzzled, then thankfully moves on. “So, I have some ideas”—she motions to her binder—“but I was thinking, the theme of the fundraiser should really be based on what the money is going toward, right? Sorry, I should probably know this, but what are we actually fundraising for?”
Of course she’d ask that.
I reach for my glass and take a long sip of water, Eleanor’s inquisitive gaze on me as I swallow. Her eyes are clear and bright, hazel with a little more brown than green. I clear my throat. For Christ’s sake, I’m her boss.
“T.B.D.,” I say at last.
Her brow dips, and she opens her mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it.
“Now,” I say, wanting us to move on. I open my file, realizing I’ll need my glasses, but I don’t want to put them on in front of this woman.
It was a few years ago that I finally caved and admitted I needed them, after several migraines from long hours at my computer.
Margaret was the one to push for the appointment, and as much as I hated it, she was right.
Simple square black frames, they’ve made a huge difference, and I never read or work without them.
But as I push them up my nose and meet Eleanor’s gaze, I feel a lot older than my forty-seven years. Why do I even care? I’ve never hesitated to put them on before, and I have to brush the ridiculous sensation away.
Eleanor, however, seems to appear flustered. I raise my brows in question, but she buries her nose in her binder, and I return to my notes.
“I have a list of potential donors,” I begin, leaving out the part where most of them have one foot out the door after last year.
“A proposed event budget, sample timelines, and some catering options.” I spread the files across the table, but instead of leaning in to read them and actually participate, Eleanor gnaws on her lower lip, hesitating.
“What is it now?” I snap. Shit, I didn’t mean for that to come out so harshly. I’m speaking to her as I would a recalcitrant student. I inhale slowly, trying to remain composed as I try again. “Is there a problem, Miss Hart?”
“It’s just…” She wrings her hands, looking apologetic. “This is great, sir, but if we don’t know what we’re fundraising for…”
For fuck’s sake. She’s like a dog with a damn bone.
“I haven’t decided yet. There are many factors to consider.”
She nods, still worrying that bottom lip between her teeth. “Of course. But… maybe I could help?”
I snort a derisive laugh. How on earth could she help?
Hurt colors her expression, and I grimace. I’m being a jerk, but she doesn’t understand the circumstances, the pressure to get this right. What the cost will be if I don’t.
Then tell her, a tiny voice in my head reasons. It sounds suspiciously like Danny’s voice.
“Look, it’s… a little complicated,” I begin, absently loosening my tie.
It’s a noose around my neck. “Last year there were some issues. Things didn’t go entirely according to plan”—that’s putting it mildly—“so I need to be a little more particular this year. I need to ensure it goes off without a hitch.”
“Right,” she says, realization dawning on her face. “So that’s why no one else wanted to volunteer.”
“Something like that.”
She’s quiet for a beat, looking at her folder. “Well, I have some ideas, if you’d be open to hearing them.”
I force my breath out through my nose, gazing at her. No matter how much I push her away, she pushes back. I have to admire her persistence.
“Go ahead.”
A smile flits across her lips. “What about partnering with the Wetherly Cove Public Library to create a children’s literacy program?”
“A worthy cause,” I agree, “but I don’t want the board asking why we’re raising money for a public resource instead of our own programs.”
She tilts her head, considering this. “Fair enough. Then maybe something in mental health? A crisis line or teen counseling network?”
I wince. “Too tricky with the board.”
She takes my rejection in stride. “Then we could help a local shelter, or children in foster care, or—”
“We’re not a social services agency, Miss Hart.” I’m almost enjoying this now. Each rejection only makes her more determined, but as much as I’d like to consider any one of them, I’ve already done it and ruled them out.
“What about raising funds for marine life conservation off the cove, or shoreline cleanups?”
I shake my head. “It looks good on paper, but doesn’t reflect the school’s priorities.”
She pauses, taking this on board. “So maybe something with a more direct link to the students.”
I wait, curious to see how she pivots.
“What if the fundraiser started with something for the school? A program that helps our students. Something completely new, and one aspect of it could be reaching out to the community or another outside cause that complements it?”
I exhale warily. “That sounds complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” she says, sensing her opportunity. “In fact, this makes a lot more sense. We should invest back into the school—the kids—first. Once we’ve done that, they’re in a position to give back to the community. It flows outward, like a ripple effect.”
“We can’t—”
“What do the students actually need?” she says, half to herself. “They need support beyond academics, right? Things you can’t measure with a test score. We could create a student wellbeing program, or peer mentorship initiative—”
“Miss Hart.” I slide my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose. “These are all noble causes, I’m not denying that. But this isn’t only about what we need, it’s about optics. I need to satisfy the board, the donors, the parents. If a cause doesn’t look good to them, we don’t stand a chance.”
She sinks back into her chair with a frown. I should have known this meeting would get us nowhere. She has no shortage of ideas, I’ll give her that much, but she’s too young, too idealistic, to see how easily it could all go wrong.
A knock at the door breaks me from my thoughts. It’s Margaret, looking apologetic.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wright, but there’s an aggravated parent at reception demanding to speak with you.”
I drag a hand down my face. Just what I need. Glancing at my watch, I notice it’s already after five.
“We should leave it there, Miss Hart.”
Her lips part in surprise. “Really?”
“I don’t think we’re going to get any further tonight.”
Her brow dips, but she says nothing. I don’t look at her as I leave.
It’s a relief to get out of that room.