Her eyes are frigid now, and for just a moment I wonder ifI’ve pushed too hard, if my often unreasonable tendencies to remain uncompromising and maintain control are rearing its ugly heads (don’t be such a dick, Ollie, my sister’s voice rings in my head), but it’s too late to unpack this because she stands up and silently storms out of my office.
I stare at the door for longer than I care to admit.
EIGHT
Georgia
I feel…well, not great, after that. I am putting the last “Getting to Know You” worksheet down on the final desk when there is a knock on my door. I look up.
“WELCOME TO THE PENTHOUSE, BITCH!” Emmanuel screams. Chaya, Mia, and Tamika are all smiling, standing behind him in the hallway.
I’m uneasy, suddenly, like this isn’t real. “I… this is a lot, guys. I know it was a lot of work. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything?—”
Mia rolls her eyes. “Please,” she says, as each of them comes up to hug me and thrust a tiny gift in my hand.
A fresh pack of dry erase markers. Multi-colored Post-Its. A can of coffee. An individual serving of Frosted Mini Wheats and a string cheese, clearly taken from the school cafeteria. Gifts only a teacher would give, pilfered from somewhere in the school, free to low in cost, yet full of meaning and love.
“My gift is worth the most,” Emmanuel says as he hands me the cereal and string cheese. “The way I had to fight the lunch ladiesfor these.”
Everyone agrees. “It’s a dictatorship down there,” explains Tamika.
My eyes tear up as I hold on to all of my presents in both arms. “Thank you. So much. And for setting this classroom up for me. You seriously saved me so much time this morning. But please don’t keep doing things like this for me; it’s seriously insane—” I can’t help but press.
A conversation with my therapist pops unbidden into my head.Georgia, you have what I like to call “self-destructive testing” tendencies. You’ve been burned in the past, so now, as a coping mechanism, you “test” people’s loyalty and kindness to you.I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“We’re happy to have you here,” Chaya shoots back. “It’s a nice feeling to have someone in this room who feels like the last piece of our puzzle.”
“We have some things to update you on,” Mia says, looking up at the clock, “before the kids come in. Which kids to look out for, which are the neediest. Who shouldn’t sit next to one another. Whose parents are the most annoying. That kind of stuff.”
The third grade team goes into Planning Mode, taking out a clipboard containing a class list, writing notes, discussing animatedly, making contributions. I glance at the clipboard, seeing notes such as “diabetic - read 504 plan asap*****”, “responsible - make your assistant”, “leader of the classroom - get him on board and the rest will follow”, “DO NOT PUT NEXT TO MAX”, “Dad batshit - do not engage”.
Tamika helps me make the finishing touches on my classroom, reorganizing some desks to reflect some notes on the clipboard.
We hear sounds of little footsteps and children’s voices echo down the hallway.
“Well,” Tamika says, clapping her hands. “Time to boogie. Our classrooms are all clustered around yours, Georgia, if youever need anything. I’m right across the hall. Mia is on one side of you, and Chaya and Emmanuel are on the other side.”
“We’ll hear your screams,” Emmanuel confirms.
“Thanks again, guys. I’ll pay you all back at some point,” I am telling them as they walk out of the room. Another intrusive thought enters my brain.They’ve passed the test.I make a note to bring this up with my therapist the next time I see her.Stop testing people in the meantime, Georgia. They wanted you here.
Chaya scoffs and waves it off. “Stop it with that,” she says, confirming my thoughts. “Although, maybe when I go into labor and Emmanuel has to drive me to the hospital, we’ll take you up on that and throw all 30 of our kids in here.”
“What…” I begin, but she is already out of the classroom. “How many months along are you?!”
The first student who walks into my classroom is the little boy with locs and glasses, clutching onto a different yet similarly sized fantasy book as last week’s. He looks at me and beams. “I remember you,” he says.
“I remember you, too,” I tell him. “My name is Ms. Baker. What’s yours?”
“Kyrie,” he says, as he walks to his seat and begins diligently and meticulously unpacking his backpack.
“Nice to meet you, Kyrie. What are you reading?”
Kyrie stops what he is doing, makes eye contact, and is about to begin on what could be a two-hour sermon on the plot devices, rules of magic, world building, and character development of the fantasy universe he has embarked on, when the freckled, red-headed girl walks in the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she tells me, unimpressed.
“Oh, it’s you,” I reply, matching her deadpan tone. Asmirk threatens to break through her face. “I’m Ms. Baker, your new teacher. What’s your name?”
