Chapter 11 #2
“Look, Maya,” he says, leaning forward and dropping the pretense of politeness. “My hands are tied here. Brenda Albright is the head of the PTA. Her husband’s construction company makes very generous donations to public works all over town. They are… influential people.”
There it is. The rotten, cowardly core of it all.
It’s not about education. It’s not about the students.
It’s about not pissing off the right people.
The rage that has been simmering all morning—at my mother, at my own traitorous body—now finds a clear, singular target.
It’s a white-hot, righteous fury, and it burns away the fog of pain in my head.
“And what is it you want me to do?” I ask, my voice clipped.
“I saw you have some of last year’s booklets pinned up on the walls of your classroom as examples,” he says looking down his nose at me.
“Zachary helped me put them up yesterday,” I hear myself say, the mention of his name a petty, desperate attempt to make Trevor see this as a violation of a human being’s work, not just a policy adjustment. Trevor doesn’t even blink.
“You’ll need to take them down. Especially anything of Jason’s.
And I think it would be best if we replaced that lesson this year with something a little more…
palatable. Something less likely to raise eyebrows.
” He smiles again, that same empty, corporate gesture, then sits back in his chair and refocuses his attention to his desk. Apparently, the meeting is over.
I stand up on shaky legs, my entire body thrumming with impotent anger.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod curtly and walk out of his beige, soulless office.
The walk to my trailer feels like a mile.
I am a teacher. My job is to teach children about the world they are inheriting.
A world of rising tides and warming oceans.
A world of inconvenient, complicated truths.
And my new boss, in his first official act, has just ordered me to lie by omission to appease a wealthy donor.
When I finally reach the trailer, I slam the door behind me, the sound echoing in the empty space.
I’ve grown to love the trailer and its riot of color and creativity, mixing Zachary’s scientific decorations and props with my artistic flair.
Student paintings and drawings cover every available surface.
Shelves are loaded with clay, paint, paper, beakers, safety goggles, and magnifying glasses.
It smells of turpentine and possibility.
But today, the vibrant colors and eclectic decor seem to mock me.
My eyes immediately find the display wall Zachary and I so carefully arranged.
There, among a dozen other wonderful, imaginative booklets, is Jason Albright’s.
His lobster is a cheerful, crayon-red creature, floating in a deep blue sea.
Next to it, the hand-drawn thermometer is a stark, almost feverish red.
It’s a child’s interpretation of a scientific reality, honest and clear-eyed. And I have to take it down.
My gaze drops to my desk, and I see it. A single sheet of white paper, folded neatly in half, sitting directly in the center of my desk. It wasn’t there yesterday. I know it wasn’t. My heart gives a strange, heavy lurch. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and unfold it.
The text is typed, stark and black against the white paper. No signature. No salutation. Just a few chilling words.
Your lessons are poison. Watch yourself.
A cold shock, entirely separate from the pain in my kidney, sluices through my veins.
This isn't a phone call from a “concerned parent.” This is different. This is aggressive. This is a threat. Who would leave this? Mrs. Albright? It seems too direct, too menacing for a PTA mom. I look around the empty trailer, at the windows facing the deserted playground. A prickle of fear crawls up my spine. For a moment, I can’t breathe.
My first instinct is to run back to Trevor’s office, to slam the note down on his desk.
But what would he do? Tell me my lessons are “raising eyebrows?”
Without thinking, I shove the note into my top desk drawer, burying it beneath a pile of old grade books. I’ll deal with it later. I have to deal with it later. I can't process it right now.
Trevor’s cold, stern voice comes over the school-wide intercom, stating that the buses have started arriving.
In a few minutes, the hallways will be flooded with the chaotic, joyful energy of children.
They will pour into this classroom, their faces a mixture of excitement and first-day jitters, their minds open and hungry for knowledge, for truth.
The rage from my meeting with Trevor and the cold confusion from the note are a bonfire in my gut.
They burn so brightly, so intensely, that they consume everything else.
They are a shield, a distraction, a different kind of pain to focus on.
As the first students begin to crowd through the door, chattering and laughing, their backpacks slung over their shoulders, I force a smile onto my face.
The pain in my kidney is still there, a low, insistent hum beneath the surface. But for now, it’s just background noise.
The final block of the day is my favorite.
It’s quiet. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
The third graders currently in my art class are bent over their desks, crayons and colored pencils clutched in their hands, their faces screwed up in concentration.
Their assignment is simple: draw the most exciting thing you did this summer.
It’s a classic first-week-of-school activity, one that requires minimal instruction from me and gives me forty-five blessed minutes to catch up on paperwork. Or, in this case, to watch Zachary.
Our classrooms are separated by a retractable wall, which we’ve agreed to keep open for the first month to make the space feel bigger and less isolating.
It means I spent most of the day with my back to him, the sounds of his science lessons a low, ignorable murmur behind me.
My own lunch and planning period fall during his core teaching blocks, so this is the first time I’m actually seeing him in action.
I expect to be bored. It’s a science lesson, after all. Plants. How exciting can it be?
I’m wrong. I find myself completely riveted.
Zachary isn’t just standing at the front of the room lecturing.
He’s moving between the tables, a wide, genuine smile on his face.
On a cart near the whiteboard is a collection of mismatched pots and trays, each filled with small, fleshy-leafed plants.
He’s showing the kids the sedum cuttings they’ll be taking care of for the next few months as they learn about plant structures.
“These are pretty special,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the now-quiet room.
My own students have paused their drawing, their attention snagged by the promise of a living thing to care for.
“I spent the last few weeks visiting different gardens all over the island, and people gave me cuttings from their own plants to share with you.”
He holds up a small terracotta pot. A single, sturdy stalk with pale green, star-shaped leaves reaches for the light. “This little guy is from Mrs. Gable’s garden, over on the west side. She’s had the mother plant for almost twenty years.”
A chorus of “whoas” ripples through his side of the room.
He looks as excited as they do, his eyes bright as he starts handing out the individual pots.
Each student gets their very own sedum. He explains that they’re a type of succulent, which means they’re hardy and don’t need a lot of water. Perfect for elementary-aged botanists.
“Your job,” he continues, his tone conspiratorial, “is to be a plant scientist. Every morning, you’ll come in and check on your sedum. You’ll write down any changes you see in your observation journal. Is there a new leaf? Has it grown taller? Is it leaning toward the light through the window?”
He crouches down beside a small girl with pigtails, pointing to the soil in her pot. “You’ll need to check if the soil is dry. We’ll only water them once a week, but you have to be the one to decide if it’s time.”
The responsibility settles over his students like a solemn cloak.
They gaze at their little green cuttings with a newfound reverence.
I watch, mesmerized, as Zachary manages to turn a simple botany lesson into an epic quest. He’s not just teaching them about xylem and phloem; he’s teaching them about patience, observation, and care.
A knot of unease tightens in my stomach.
I think about my own lesson plans for the year.
The dioramas, the field trip to the tiny art gallery on the island.
They’re solid, time-tested plans. Trevor, our principal, loves them.
But are they… exciting? Do my students ever look at an art history chapter or lump of clay with the same rapt attention that Zachary’s are giving these humble succulents?
Suddenly, my carefully planned curriculum feels stale, like day-old bread.
I see it for what it is: a collection of assignments designed to meet standards and produce measurable results, all for Trevor’s approval.
I’ve been so focused on checking the boxes that I’ve forgotten the point is to ignite a spark in the kids. To make them want to learn.
I watch Zachary for the rest of the lesson, a slow burn of professional envy and inspiration building in my chest. I need to do better.
Not for Trevor, but for the twenty small faces currently focused on drawing their summer vacations.
I need to rewrite my lessons, inject them with the same passion and life that Zachary brings to a pot of dirt and leaves.
The dismissal bell rings, jarring me from my thoughts.
As the kids pack up, a chaotic symphony of zippers and chatter, I think back to my early morning meeting with Trevor.
Between that, watching Zachary with his kids, and my pain, it’s been a long day.
I need to think on how to redo my lesson plans, but I’m wiped.
What I’d love to do is knock on Zachary’s door later and ask him if he’d like to grab takeout and talk about teaching.
But I know that won’t be happening tonight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, halting my spiraling thoughts. It’s a text from Alexis to the crafters’ group chat.
Hey gals, I have an emergency and need to see if someone can babysit for a bit tonight? Noah burned his hand pretty bad on one of the ovens at Rye Again. We need to go to the ER and the sitter is unavailable.
Multiple text bubbles appear.
Hannah: Sorry, hon. First day of school for Katie. But I hope Noah’s okay.
Devin: I’m out too. Sorry. Late work night for me. Tell Noah we’re thinking of him. Let us know how everything goes.
Alexis: Maya? Flick? Can either of you?
My fingers hover over the phone, deciding what to type. Seeing Hannah and Devin decline and no answer from Flick, I feel obligated to say yes. But it’s been a long day and with my pain... I can’t bring myself to confirm.
Just as I’m about to suck it up and say yes, I see Flick’s reply and breathe a sigh of relief.
Flick: Sorry, had my hands in dye. Sure, I can do it. Sebastian is still at the clinic and I’ve got some time. I’ll be right there.
Knowing it’s under control, I type back: Sorry, was wrapping up first day. So sorry to hear about Noah, let us know how he’s doing.
I feel a pang of guilt for waiting so long to reply.
But with the way this day’s gone, I just need to be home.
In my safe, cozy sanctuary. I love being around Sterling.
It’s a strange comfort. The weight of her in my arms, the milky scent of her hair, the gummy, trusting smile she offers.
I know with a certainty that has settled deep in my bones that I don’t want a baby of my own.
The responsibility, the sheer, life-altering permanence of it, isn’t for me.
But I love borrowing them. I love being Aunt Maya, the one who gets all the cuddles and none of the sleepless nights.
It’s the perfect arrangement. Just not tonight.