Then I glance down at my desk. I’m relieved to see the parent feedback forms stacked neatly in their manila folder.
“I just came by to congratulate you,” he says. “More than a few parents stopped by my office. They told me how much their children have learned and improved under your care.”
“Well, I try my best.”
I fiddle with Gretchen’s apple through the canvas of my bag. Its smooth, perfect round shape grounds me.
“Good, good.” He nods, scanning the room, taking in the drawings on the walls as if seeing them for the first time. “Do you mind if we have a seat?”
The fluorescent light above my desk flickers. An almost imperceptible buzz most people tune out. Yet the kind that has burrowed into my nerves over the school year.
“Sure,” I say, gesturing to the adult-sized chair I keep for parent conferences. “You don’t want to set something up in your office? For tomorrow or later this week?”
“No,” he says quietly, lowering himself into the chair. “It’s unofficial.”
I pull my chair out from behind my desk. The metal legs scrape against the linoleum floor.
Unofficial.
That word drops like a pebble into my stomach. I bet he doesn’t want me to be seen entering his office and create gossip for his nosy secretary to spread around.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I sit.
“Maddie,” he begins, his voice dropping into something almost confidential. “The board considers you exceptional. Your classroom innovations, your rapport with the children…”
He clears his throat. “I’ve fought for your proposals behind closed doors. And I'm glad the after-school sensory program you suggested is a success.”
I nod slowly, fingers tensing around Gretchen’s apple again. “I appreciate that.”
"But I'm here to share something before you take off for the long holiday weekend. Something off the record?—”
“About what exactly?”
His eyes lock with mine for a brief second before flicking toward the door. As if he’s afraid someone might overhear.
“Rumor has it the autism program here won’t continue past June,” he says quietly. “The children will need to be bussed to a larger facility. Budget cuts.”
The hum of the fluorescent light grows louder in the pause that follows.
“Why tell me if it’s not official?”
“It’s just a suggestion at the last board meeting. But I see the writing on the wall.”
“This program matters,” I say, my fingers tightening around the apple. “These families can’t afford private schools or specialized services.”
The words tumble out steadier than I feel.
“That’s precisely the issue,” he replies softly. His expression folds into something between apology and resignation. “With the new administration…”
He trails off, shakes his head. “Well, the short of it is that it’s best to start scouting around for your next position. Any school would be lucky to have you. I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I say, though my voice sounds faint. As if someone else is speaking from far away.
He gives me a quick, fatherly nod before slipping out of the classroom. The door clicks shut behind him.
I’m left alone with the buzzing light.
For a long moment, I don’t move.
