“She’s good, isn’t she?” Mia pops her head out of her classroom when she spots me this time, mesmerized, entranced really, by the force that is Georgia Baker. “Weird, but good.”
I grunt.
“Told you,” Mia smirks at me.
“Hm,” I manage.
I’m walking through the Penthouse again when I hear a ruckus coming from 302. Kids screaming, arguing. Max tumbles out of the door and into the hallway, sprawled out like a starfish.I knew it, I think, resigned yet inexplicably disappointed.
I stride up to the door, pulling Max up by his hand. “Where’s Ms. Baker?” I ask with barely suppressed outrage, peeking into the classroom. “I—” Students are standing on desks, students are sitting under desks, several are on laptops. The only thing consistent among them is that none of them are calm. I scan the class, freezing, when I see a frazzled older woman standing in front of the classroom, trying in vain to get students under control.
I clear my throat, just as Lina shows up behind me. “Shit,” I hear Lina whisper.
“Class 302,” I say. Thirty heads whip towards me, and thirty bodies settle in their seats shortly after. “Please take out a book and read independently,” I tell the class, then I whirl towards Lina. “What’s going on? Where’s Ms. Baker?” I ask her, feeling slightly hysterical.
“I heard her puking in the staff bathroom this morning,” she whispers. “She apparently had terrible food poisoning. I sent her home. This was the only sub available on short notice.”
The substitute sits down and puts her head in her hands.
Strangely relieved, I stride over to Chaya and Emmanuel’s classroom. I poke my head in.
“Mr. Jean-Baptiste?” I ask.
“No,” he says plainly.
“No, what?!”
He walks over to meet me at the door. “I’m not covering Georgia’s room and leaving my partner. Look at her,” he says, pointing to Chaya, who has become eighty-seven months more pregnant since I last saw her. “Besides, those kids are out of control. I don’t know what Georgia does with them, but I do know that I don’t currently have it in me. Sorry,” he says, then slams the door in my face.
I sigh. I look at Lina, who is standing with me in the hall. I look at my watch. “I have a meeting with the Department of Buildings in ten. Can you…?”
She sighs. “Sure.” She shakes her head. “Still think that Georgia isn’t the right person for the job?”
“Hm,” I grunt again, for the umpteenth time this week.
Back in my office, after my DoB call, I strum my fingers on my desk and glare at my phone as if it’s taunting me. It dares me to do it.It’s not a huge deal, it tells me,to check in on one of your sick teachers.She’ll probably want an update on her class today. It’s not as if you’re having electrolytes and chicken broth delivered to her house.
Thatwould be nice, butthatwould be highly inappropriate. Why do you care so much? She’s a pain in your fucking ass.
Five minutes later, I’m listening to her tinny sounding voice over her voicemail message. I cough after the beep. “Uh. Hello, Ms. Baker. This is Ol—,” I clear my throat. “This is PS 2, calling to check in and make sure all is well. We—I—Ms. Sanchez and your grade team were quite concerned for your wellbeing after the incident this morning, so this is us calling to check in. If you have a chance, give m—us a call back. If you’re feeling up to it. To check in.”Christ, Oliver, how many times can you use ‘check in’ in one message?“Thank you. Goodbye.”
She’d better be back tomorrow.
I wonder if I can send Gatorade anonymously.
TEN
Georgia
Finally recoveredfrom the food poisoning from hell (I should probably learn the internal temperature of cooked chicken), I find myself sitting with my grade team in Tamika’s classroom, the five of us silently disassociating together after a particularly long day.
The silence is punctuated with the occasional sigh from Chaya, who is slouched in a beanbag chair, bursts of music from TikTok from Emmanuel’s phone, and the violent sounds of a red pen scratching on student work from Tamika. I am fully horizontal on the floor, staring at the ceiling and stretching out my back.
“I hate teaching,” I say aloud, to no one in particular.
“I quit,” Emmanuel agrees.
“We don’t get paid enough for this shit,” says Tamika, slashing her red pen.
