I whirl around and see a second grader from our school, his mom a familiar face behind him.Board, I think.She’s on the PTA board.
“H-hi?” I squeak.
“What are you doing at Principal Flores’s apartment?” he asks, in that blunt manner that is so typical of seven-year-olds.
“I-uh-we-we’re… grading papers.” I say weakly.
“Cool. Bye!” he skips away and gets in the elevator. His mom follows behind, giving me a strange look.
I use my forehead to bang on Oliver’s door.Bang. I fucking hate this shit.Bang.This fucking day.Bang.This is so fucked up.Bang.What the fuck is happening? I’m about to fucking lose my fucking shi…
Oliver swings open the door.
Oh look, the perfect target.
“You—” I start, storming in.
He holds his hands up, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?!”
Wait. I stop and take deep breaths, in and out, focusing on Oliver’s beautiful, alarmed face.I am calm. I am in control. I love Oliver. I will not scream at him.I decide that the healthiest thing to do right now is to kick over the stupid fucking umbrella organization structure next to his door. So I do.
Oliver raises an eyebrow at me.
“I feel better now,” I tell him. “What’s for dinner?”
THIRTY-FIVE
Oliver
Georgiaand I are in another coaching meeting after school in her classroom, but today we’re forced to sit side by side to look over some of the student work she’s collected.
I’ve just taught Georgia a data analysis strategy that begins with sorting her student work into three basic piles: ‘didn’t get it’, ‘got it’, and ‘got it plus’. Our arms cross as we reach across one another to sort work into various piles. We’re play fighting, shoving each other’s arms out of the way. I am biting a stray finger as it flies past my mouth, when I see movement through the window of the door to her classroom.
I freeze for a half a moment. Then I shift my chair over, way over, the chair screeching across the floor.
Georgia finally looks up at her door. Superintendent Daniels’s greasy face pops into the window.
“Oliver…” she whispers, horrified.
“Just keep quiet. Keep sorting those piles,” I say, forcing my face into a mask of calm control and striding towards the door.
Mr. Daniels’s face is smug when I meet him in the hallway.
“Well, well, well,” he says, like a comically bad movie villain.
“How can I help you, Mr. Daniels?” I am cool, calm, collected.
“You two are looking mighty comfortable in there.” He sneers. “Not sure that’s a good look for the situation we’re in right now.”
“That is patently false, Mr. Daniels, and I’ve warned you already about speaking about my staff?—”
“Whatever you’re doing to her to keep her in line isn’t working though,” he cuts me off.
My answering stare is blank.
His smile turns sinister. “Oliver, tell me why, after my explicit directive to keep this class and their teacher out of my line of sight, I get a phone call from that same irate parent? Accusing that teacher in there,” he says, pointing a grubby finger towards her classroom, “of physical and verbal assault?”
I feel my heart rate pick up, hear it pounding in my ears. “That man wasarrestedfor the way he attacked my staff and my families; I don’t even know how he could file such a complai—” I trail off as I remember what Max told me before the break.
