I passed out tambourines, maracas, anything small enough for them to manage. Their chaos became music of its own kind, a symphony of childhood rebellion that echoed in my bones.
The older kids were next, their skepticism a thick cloud in the air. They slouched into the room, eyes rolling, and whispers more cynical than curious. My confidence wavered under their indifference.
“Who are you?” one girl asked, suspicion clear in her voice.
“Ms. Galloway,” I said, forcing the name to sound real.
“Where’s Mr. Davis?” another demanded.
“Gone.” A chorus of disappointment. My grip on the lesson plan tightened. “He’s not coming back.” I kept the tremor from my voice, kept my shoulders squared.
“What do you know about music?” A boy with an attitude that matched my own fears.
“Enough to keep up with you.” I stared him down, feeling the first hint of confidence.
My pulse quickened as I showed them the scales, explained beats and measures. Their interest was grudged, a gift they could take back at any moment.
The two rowdiest boys pushed limits, testing how far they could go. “What’s that mark on your neck?” one asked, his tone as defiant as his posture.
“A bite,” I said, surprising myself with the directness. “From my mate.”
“You’re married?” His shock was almost comical.
“Not quite.” I hid my amusement as his demeanor shifted.
“Who’s your mate?”
“Menace.”
The name changed everything. A ripple of recognition passed through the class, the boys suddenly respectful, eager even. I barely knew what to make of it.
My nerves hummed like a taut string, vibrating with the tension of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. But my training kicked in, a steadying force. The familiar routine settled over me, comforting and real.
By the time the bell rang, my head spun with names and faces and the intensity of it all. It was almost too much; the pressure of proving myself, of living a life I didn’t know I could have.
Lunchroom duty was as isolating as I had feared. The cafeteria buzzed with noise and movement, kids shouting and laughing, their voices clashing with the clatter of trays and chairs. I stood by the door, awkward and out of place, unsure where to begin.
The other teachers were nowhere to be seen, leaving me to monitor a sea of unfamiliar faces. The sense of being alone pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.
I watched the children as they ate, their energy unchecked, without any proper authority. The assignment felt like a punishment, a reminder that I didn’t belong. Karen’s handiwork was all over it.
A group of boys crowded around me, their questions fast and relentless. “You Menace’s girl?” “Are you gonna teach here forever?” “Where’d you come from?” I answered as best I could, the noise swallowing my replies.
Their curiosity was exhausting, a constant reminder of the fragile lie I was living.
The lunch period dragged, the minutes stretching into an eternity. My determination burned bright, a defiance against the doubt that threatened to swallow me whole. I would prove myself. I would survive this.
But as I watched the chaos around me, I knew I had to be careful.
The stares cut like glass as I entered the teacher’s lounge, conversations halting mid-sentence to twist into hostile silence. I felt their eyes like daggers, my back tense under the scrutiny. The air was heavy with distrust, suspicion dripping from every corner of the room. I fumbled with my lunch, trying to ignore the weight of their disdain. Sitting alone at a small table, I felt the edges of their coldness creeping in. Then, a pretty dark-haired teacher with curly hair came over to my table. I couldn’t believe she dared to break ranks. She had a wary smile on her face. “Sawyer, right?” She asked, her voice a tentative offering. “I’m Gabby.”
I exhaled, the relief in my voice impossible to hide. “Hi.” My smile was cautious, a fragile attempt at connection.
She sat down across from me, her expression open and genuine. She was a few years older than me, with a warmth that seemed out of place in the icy room. “You’re new, huh?”
I nodded, unsure how much to reveal. “First day.” The words were heavy with more meaning than I wanted them to have.
She looked over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on the cluster of women watching us from the far side of the room. “Don’t mind them,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re Karen’s favorites. Kind of territorial. I literally call them ‘the Karens,’” she said with a quiet laugh. She put her finger to her mouth like she was telling me not to tell.
