I pull myself together bit by bit, wishing I had a whole-ass towel instead of three flimsy napkins and a prayer. “Hi, Principal Flores. My name is Georgia Baker, and I’m here for an interview?” I cringe as I listen to my voice rise at the end, a terrible habit of mine, forming my statements into questions and making me sound like a vapid, unconfident troll.
“Well, then,” he says, after a moment. “No.”
“Huh?”
“The job offer has been rescinded. We will not be moving forward with the interview process at this time. We are no longer looking to fill the position,” he says, suddenly an adept communicator and a facetious prick.
I frown. “AP Sanchez invited me in for the interview. Respectfully, I demand an audience.”
“This isn’t medieval England,” he says. “And if it were, I would be the king. And I’m denying your request.”
That would’ve been pretty funny if I weren’t so annoyed. But sheer desperation for a new job calls for desperate measures. “Please, Mr. Flores. Can we rewind the last fifteen minutes?”
“You mean when I caught you doing drugs behind my dumpster, rambling incoherent nonsense, your belongings strewn all over the ground?”
Feminist Georgia finally decides that she’sdone being dismissed by this man and steps in to stand up for herself. “I was really hot and sweaty,” I insist. “It’s like, a thousand degrees out, and I was taking a moment to dry myself off before coming in here. I put my backpack down. I didn’t realize it was open, and all my stuff fell out. Then you came and startled me. I was having a rough morning, but I wasn’t doing drugs.”
The walkie talkie clipped to his hip beeps. “Principal Flores, you’re needed in the schoolyard,” a tinny voice says.
He picks it up. “Copy. Be there in a moment.”
He eyes me.
My heart climbs into my throat.Well, goodbye teaching career; it’s been a great seven years, but I’ll be fired and lose my license the moment I step back through the doors of my current school?—
“Go inside and wait for Lina. I’ll meet you shortly.” He turns on his heel and walks back the way we came.
I blow out a breath.
This school better have air conditioning.
It doesn’t.
But I peer through the sweat running down my face, eyes burning, look around the lobby, and smile. It is decorated with artwork, student self portraits, colorful explosions of construction paper, crayon and marker streaky and uneven in that way that crayons and markers color paper. It is warm, both temperature and vibe-wise, comforting, directly in contrast with the Sims monstrosity outside. I cough a laugh at what appears to be the school creed painted on several consecutive banners stretched across the top of the lobby.
I AM AMAZING!
I AM RESILIENT!
I BELIEVE IN MYSELF!
I AM PROUD OF MYSELF!
I CAN DO HARD THINGS!
I LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES!
I AM ENOUGH!
It’s nice to know, so far, that regardless of the bridge troll guarding the school entrance, that the school appears to have values similar to mine. Student centered, with positive affirmations and student artwork. And according to the website, hands-on and project-based. But honestly, anything would be a step up from the military industrial complex my current school is currently contributing to.
I walk over to the safety desk to check in. The school safety agent is dark-skinned, hair gray and cropped close to her head, approximately ninety pounds soaking wet, and maybe one hundred years old. Her uniform hangs slightly loose on her, as if even the smallest size possible was still too large for her tiny, withered self. Her badge identifies her as Agent Ethel Anderson.
“Good morning,” I say. “My name is Georgia Baker, and I’m here for an interview?” I cringe again at the question in my voice.
Agent Waters smiles warmly, eyes cloudy with cataracts, and says, “If you’re just dropping off a student lunch, you can head straight to the main office and give it to Ms. Madge.”
“What?” I start. “Oh, no, I’m here for an interview?” I try to mime the concept of “interview”, looking like one of those old boxing toys as I pretend to hold a microphone in front of myself and in front of her.
