Mr. Flores makes a noncommittal noise.
I surge on. “But that doesn’t mean my students are suffering. In fact, they’re thriving. I have virtually no send-outs in my classroom, no egregious behaviors. I believe in restorative justice, and we all take accountability for our actions in our classroom community. Meanwhile, admin are suspending other kids in the school left and right. These kids are eight years old! I want them to come to school, not bebannedfrom school, so I try to protect them from that. Also, my test scores are superb. I believe in project based, culturally affirming instruction, and it seems to be very in line with what is happening at your school.”
There is a long pause, as if Mr. Flores is ruminating overmy comments. Because he seems like a ruminator. One who ruminates. He doesn’t ‘think’ like the rest of us plebes. He ruminates. “All right, Georgia,” he says, in a voice that sounds like it, in fact, is not all right. “Well, I’d like to offer you the position of the new teacher of Class 302,” he says, voice devoid of any emotion.
I freeze, taken aback, because the words he says are so at odds with the tone in which he says them.
I process.
I’m about to break into a screeching ‘thank you’ before he speaks again. “Just know that this is out of sheer desperation to fill the position,” he tells me point blank, and then my heart drops and I’m suddenly very glad I didn’t genuflect at his feet.
“What?”
“We need a teacher for that room,” he shrugs. “But I’m still entirely unconvinced that you’re the best teacher for the job.”
I sputter.
“But before you accept, I have one caveat,” Mr. Flores says, his tone clipped and icy.
“Okay?” I think I’m in too much shock to acknowledge his rudeness.
“I am personally invested in the success of class 302,” he begins, his voice hard. “They’ve had a rough start to the year. I will be directly responsible for you as your direct supervisor. This means I will be the one conducting all of your observations and evaluations. I don’t want this to be a bait and switch, so know that I will be in your classroom a lot, should you accept.”
I pause, feeling the weight of his words.Fuck. “Define… a lot.” I ask.
“It could be anywhere from once a month to once a week, especially considering you will be new,” he answers, annoyance in his tone. “But as someone under my supervision, you willbe under a constant microscope. At least until you prove to me you don’t need it. If you, in fact, don’t.”
I am silent, not sure I can handle that amount of micromanagement from an arrogant asshole, regardless of how handsome he is. But fuck, it’s either him or the shitshow I’m currently in.
Mr. Flores fills in the silence. “Believe me when I say that I am an excellent coach, and I truly care about the success of my staff and my school. The third grade team, in particular, respects the hell out of me. I’ve coached them all at one point.”
“Will you be my direct supervisor, like, forever?” I manage not to roll my eyes at his arrogance.
Mr. Flores laughs, but there's no warmth in it. “No, Lina and I like to switch it up every year. We split the supervision in half evenly, and we make sure we see different teachers every year. I would be out of your hair next September, and then it will be you and Lina.”
“Okay…” I stop and try to think this through. Just nine months with this jerk. I can handle it. I am confident. I am a good teacher. I will prove it to him. He will leave me alone after I do. He will give me my independence. “Okay,” I tell Mr. Flores. “I’m in.”
“Good. We’ll see if you can handle it.”
I smile, feeling excited despite the hiccup.
“Finish this week at your current school, and we’ll get all your paperwork transferred over. Be here next Monday, bright and early. I’m usually in by seven o’clock most days. Then you can set up your classroom the way you want.”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds good. Hey Mr. Flores, thank you for this opportunity. I’m honored and excited to be a part of your team.”
Mr. Flores grunts. “Welcome to PS 2, Ms. Baker,” he says begrudgingly.
FIVE
Oliver
“We’re fucked,”I tell Lina, who has spent the last fifteen minutes trying to convince me that I haven’t made a terrible mistake and that Georgia Baker won’t burn the school to the ground.
I think back to this morning, at the journey of emotions, the perplexing ups and downs and ebbs and flows that this woman pulled from me.
Irritation, walking up the stairs, knowing I would have to hire the beautiful garbage woman.
Confusion, in the hallway, approaching the door to Class 302 and hearing the alarming chaos of children arguing.
