I call on Aanya, who works through the problem carefully, the whole class following along.
I love this part—the spark in their eyes when they get it, the way even the mouthiest kid forgets to posture when the answer clicks. It’s proof I’m good at what I do. But I also know what the parents see: the pink shoes, the glitter pens, the jokes. Not serious enough. Not thereal teachertype.
Then the room goes still when the door swings open without a knock. Heels click against linoleum, and every spine straightens. Even Dylan snaps upright, eyes wide.
Principal Delacourt.
“Backs straight,” she barks, surveying the room. “Eyes on the board.”
“Morning, Principal Delacourt,” I say, turning with a smile I refuse to let waver.
“Good morning, Ms. Parnell.” Mrs. Delacourt glides up to me with perfect hair and a perfect smile—the kind that never quite reaches her eyes. “I just thought I’d check how you’re coping.”
Coping.Like corralling a room of preteens is surviving a natural disaster.
“We’re doing great, thanks,” I say brightly, motioning to the class, who are instantly on their best behavior.
Her gaze lands on the board, narrowing at my constellation of equations. “Stars?”
“They’re placeholders for X and Y,” I explain easily. “The kids are learning to translate between symbols and numbers for algebra, so we’re starting with stars before moving on to letters.”
Delacourt’s eyes sweep the room. “And this is effective?”
I nod, gesturing at some of the recent test results I’ve marked, filled with As and Bs.
“Well. Just be sure they’re ready for standardized testing,” she says coolly. “Creativity is all very well, but results matter.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, before turning to the class, sensing there’s more she’d like to talk to me about. “Please take out your algebra textbooks and work through page thirty-two.”
Principal Delacourt lingers near my desk, softening her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “Career Day is next month. We’d love to see some familiar faces.” She pauses. “I already checked the Storm schedule, and there are no away games, so your brother should be free. Wouldn’t that be fun for the children?”
There it is. The smile that saysI’ve done the hard work for you,when really, she’s just pressuring me to dangle Eli like a party trick.
“I can… ask him,” I say, forcing a polite smile.
Instantly, her whole demeanor shifts—warm, approving, almost maternal. “Wonderful. I knew you’d be on top of it.”
The door clicks shut as she makes a hasty retreat, and the class exhales in unison.
“Dragon,” Marcus whispers.
I clap my hands. “Survived another sighting. Now, back to the stars—what’s two plus three?”
With a tap of a marker against the board, I watch the kids lean back in, their chatter bubbling up again.
By three o’clock, backpacks are zipped, sneakers squeak, and the room empties in a chorus of “Bye, Ms. Parnell!”
I crouch to tie a shoelace, high-five Marcus, and remind Dylan about his detention happening tomorrow. He groans like I’ve sentenced him to life, but perks up when his mother arrives at the door.
Pamela.
Head of the PTA, sunglasses perched on her head, lips already pursed. Dylan straightens instantly, his “innocent son” act snapping into place.
“Ms. Parnell,” Pamela says, sweeping into my classroom. “We need to talk about this so-called detention tomorrow. Dylan tells me you’ve assigned one?”
“Yes,” I say, meeting Dylan’s eyes first. “Because Dylan thought throwing paper airplanes during a test was a good idea.”
Pamela cuts in before he can answer, voice smooth and patronizing. “He was expressing his creativity. Surely that doesn’t warrant keeping him after school. He hassoccer.”
