“Shit,” I mumble, emerging like a trash siren from between the dumpsters, wet and holding a wad of disintegrated napkins resembling a lump of chewed gum in front of me like an offering. “Sorry. I do my PAP out loud sometimes. You weren’t supposed to hear that. I’m not very good at it. And sometimes I get frustrated and yell at the end.” I’m rambling as I step out to the sidewalk, dismayed when I see a Very Attractive Man, his thick and wavy dark hair pushed back from his face, tall body filling out a navy suit, staring back at me.
He blinks.
“PAP, as in, Positive Affirmation Playlist. Not like the smear. Although, I don’t think I would be very good at that either,” I continue. “Do you have any napkins? Or do you think you could help me pick up my things?” I glance down his body. “Actually, I don’t want you to ruin your suit. But do you have any napkins? Or a handkerchief? You seem like someone who would carry a handkerchief.”
He is silent, thick eyebrows furrowed, full mouth and pillowy lips slightly agape. Confused. Likely horrified.
“Actually, just hold this,” I tell him, depositing the dissolved napkins into his outstretched hand. He looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect himself to extend the courtesy. His face is a slow transition into disgust as he realizes his mistake, and he drops the lump into a nearby dumpster. I use my arm as a rake and scoop my things into my open backpack.
We look at one another for a beat or two.
“The methadone clinic is just a few blocks away,” he suggests, in a voice like sandpaper, gesturing down the block. “Do you need...”
I stare, cringing at the dampness on my hand after scooping the last of my fallen items, mind whirring, when it clicks. “Oh! Oh. No. I’m okay. That’s not me. Or for me. But it’s okay if it’s for you, or for anyone else, for that matter.” I start to move away, zipping my backpack this time. “Well, have a great day!”
His head tilts as I pass him to walk towards the main entrance of the school. Sighing, I don my blazer and hope the school is air-conditioned.
PS 2 is one of those nondescript New York City public school buildings, likely built in the early 1900s. The school is a giant, uninspiring, rectangular prism (a vocabulary word I learned during my one year of teaching 6thgrade; thank you middle school, but never again), spanning half the block, three floors high. The original first floor is a worn brick, but the top two floors clearly came later on, made of cinderblock and stacked on top, making the whole thing look like a Sims house after you finally switched to exterior mode and realize you forgot to change the facade.
I make the turn towards the main entrance, about to walk up the steps, when someone clears his throat behind me. “Where are you going?”
The voice is familiar.
I whirl around.
Very Attractive Hot Suit Man is standing behind me. He repeats his question, this time with impatience, thick eyebrows still furrowed. He may as well have his arms crossed, may as well be tapping his foot.
“Why are you following me?” I ask instead of answering.
“Again, do you need help getting somewhere? Do you have a social worker I can call for you?” He doesn’t answer my question either. We both seem to be lacking the basic foundational skills required for ‘communication between two parties.’
I decide to be the conversationally adept one of the two of us and answer his question. “This is where I’m supposed to be,” I say, gesturing to the words PUBLIC SCHOOL 2 engraved into the stone above the main entrance.
“I don’t think so.” He takes a step closer, carefully, as if he is approaching an angry, cornered bear and not a twenty-eight-year-old teacher with an anxiety disorder and ADHD.
“Why not?”
“I would be highly concerned for the safety and well-being of my school if you were.”
My school. Blood rushes through my ears.
I think back to last night, when Eloise and I did extensive Google searches (“DEEP DIVE!” I yelled, when we opened open our laptops) on PS 2 and its administration.
In District 13, which stretches from Brooklyn Heights all the way over to Bed-Stuy. Almost 1000 students. Pre-K through 5thgrade. Diverse student body. Diverse staff, similar demographics. Test scores went up significantly since the current principal took over the school.
Interviewing for a 3rdgrade general education classroom. School website claims their instruction is “rigorous” and “student-centered” and “hands-on” and “project based”, whichmeans they are doing what every other school in the city claims they are doing, which really means nothing at all.
Assistant Principal: Lina Sanchez. AP Sanchez is the one who emailed me to come in for the interview.
Principal: Oliver Flores.
I cough.
He waits.
“Principal Flores, I presume?” I attempt weakly.
He has the aura of someone who is generally unimpressed. “Yes.”
