He grins, the Dimple popping out. I greet it like an old friend, too. “Yep.”
“Let’s do that one, then.”
“Great,” he says, clapping his hands, and I pray to all the deities in the world that his towel stays wrapped. “Do you need help setting up your classroom today?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. For the towel staying put, and for the offer of help. “Yes, please. Do you not need to set up the gym?”
“No?” he responds, looking at me like I asked him if the Apocalypse has begun.
“You know, there are some really cool things you can do in that gym, and some good P.E. unit plan ideas I saw on this teaching blog I read?—”
“Okay, Ms. Best Practices,” he says, standing up and walking out of the room. I don’t look at the movement of the muscles in his Prometheus back. He flexes them anyway. I throw a pillow at him. “Let’s leave in forty-five.”
Elias stares at the giant stack of color coded labels in his hands. “Did you buy these yourself?”
“No,” I mumble.
“Meems.”
“I didn’t.”
“These are professionally printed labels for literally every bin, bulletin board, vocabulary word, name tag, any piece of print in your classroom. And they are all in the same color scheme.”
“I wanted to go with a sunset theme this year,” I mutter.
“And what is this? Specially colored anchor chart paper?! These are like forty bucks a pad!”
“Red is math, orange is ELA, pink is Social Studies, and lavender is Science,” I whisper.
“And you had these made? On Etsy or some shit? Or bought it? What did I tell you about spending your own money on school supplies?” he asks me, outraged.
“Usually I make them myself, but Thomas didn’t let us into the building early this year! I knew I’d be crunched for time, so I had them made!” I explode. “It’s just one school year. And look,” I say, flexing the labels. “They’re built to last! They’ll last all year! The kids deserve it!”
“That’s not the point, Meems. You can’t afford to be doing this. You care way too much about this shit.”
I’m extremely irritated. “Just because you don’t care at all doesn’t mean that all teachers feel the same way,” I shoot back. “If you’re just going to complain, then you can go.”
“I care about the kids, not about the color scheme and typeface of my classroom!”
“I’m about to kick you out of here, Elias?—”
“Do you at least put stuff on that donor website so you can get some of this stuff donated?” he demands to know.
“Sometimes, but I couldn’t for the beginning of the school year. Just get the fuck out?—”
“I’m just trying to help?—”
“So then help me hang up the bulletin board paper, and then you can go?—”
There’s a knock on my door, and the rest of my third-grade team comes filing in.
“Oh look,” I grumble, “Teammates who won’t judge me for my classroom environment choices,” I say, mostly to Elias.
He sighs, exasperated.
Emmanuel Jean-Baptiste, one of my favorite people alive, glides in and sits next to me, crossing his legs elegantly. “Girl, I learned many years ago to just let you have your neuroses.”
His co-teacher, Chaya Ackerman, no longer pregnant, walks in behind him. “I think it’s nice to have organization,” she says.
