He glares at me. “It was to work with and alongside the teachers, as if they were your teammates. Trust them. Teachers and administrators should agree on all major school decisions and school rules and enforce them uniformly across the board, so that there is consistency from to room to room.”
“That seems pretty obvious to me.”
“You would think, right? But in my experience, most administrators view the position as one of power. At least that was the case for the rotating cabal of administrators coming in and out of that school. They don’t want to do any actual work. They just want to be in charge. They want to rule. ”
“So the secret to your success is… collaborative leadership?”
“Among other things. Communication is another. Making sure we meet basic needs, like food and shelter security, before asking students to learn.”
“And organization,” I say, turning the stapler on his desk on its side and shifting it slightly.
“Organization is crucial,” he says, staring at it. “Clearly delineated and consistent teacher rating and classroom environment rubrics—co-created with teachers, of course. Well-written, well-thought outplans,” he says, with a look. “School goals, unit plans, lesson plans, all that.”
“And that’s why you find it difficult to work with me. Because I’m a mess,” I point out.
“You are chaos personified, Georgia,” he tells me with a small smile, picking the stapler up and adjusting it to its original place. “But that doesn’t mean you should change. Maybe it’s time for me to make you your own little box on our evaluation rubric.”
“Good luck,” I tell him. But on the inside, I am blooming.
He smiles that secret smile. “I think it’s your turn.”
I make a big, exaggerated yawn. “You don’t want to hear about my origin story. It’s boring as hell. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.”
“Okay. What would you be doing if you weren’t a teacher?”
I run my tongue across my teeth, thinking. “Good question. A party planner.”
He nods. “I can see?—”
“—for pets.”
He stares at me.
“Bubble wrap quality control.”
He blinks.
“A fortune cookie writer.”
“Hm.”
“Professional line stander.”
“Something tells me you’d be awful at that one.”
I think about it. “You’re right,” I admit.
“Tell me my fortune cookie,” he commands.
I pause.
Do I lean in to whatever is happening? This Thing, with acapital T? It must be a Thing, if Oliver had to tell me that had to be a secret. Is this what I want? To be someone’s secret? I think about this man. Serious, sturdy. Someone who makes me want to rip my hair out but also feels like a weighted blanket on a cold day.
I decide to lean in. “At the farmer’s market this Saturday, among the ripe and inexplicably non-red tomatoes, someone beautiful awaits—if you know when to look.”
He cracks first, eyes crinkling at the corners, front tooth on full display. “And when should I look?”
I shrug. “Fortune cookies are meant to be mysterious.”
