“As you can see, I’ve received fives across the board in all categories—students, fellow teachers, and parents. I was honored to be named Teacher of the Year, but I haven’t received a raise since I signed on to teach here three years ago. I’d love to bring my salary in line with my performance.”
I waited.
He didn’t open the folder.
Just drummed his fingers across it.
“There’s at least one parent who’s not all that happy with your performance.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Our dean of students received a call from Cara Detweiller. She was very agitated. Something about you advising her son that he didn’t have to go to university if he didn’t want to and could live his life however he chose.”
“Well, those weren’t my exact words.” I tried to figure out how to convey Jonas’s situation without breaking the self-imposed teacher–student confidentiality. “He was…”nearsuicidal because of the pressure his parents kept piling on top of him.
I opted for, “…extremely anxious about the life path already laid out for him. I just wanted him to understand that he has choices.”
“Does he have choices?” Principal Awlridge took off his glasses and pressed his fingers to his forehead, as if I were giving him a headache. “I know this is often hard for those who grew up middle class or below to understand, but not everyone is free to be their own person. Some are born into a life plan, and it is not fora lowly teacherto tell those students what they can and cannot choose.”
“But Jonas is a human being, with a mind and heart of his own,” I felt compelled to point out. “Shouldn’t he get a say in how his life unfolds?”
Mr. Awlridge’s lips thinned. “As I said, you couldn’t possibly understand. And it doesn’t matter whether or not you do. Parents do not pay to send their children to Barrington Prep so they canfind themselves. They pay forexcellence. Advising a student against that excellence is several points off your so-called stellar performance report.”
This was why I preferred working with kids.
Their brains weren’t fully developed yet, and as chaotic as their behavior might seem to neurotypical adults, it was often driven by predictable patterns of autonomy-seeking and emotional dysregulation due to hormonal fluctuation.
But grown-ups?
With them, it was harder to tell. I couldn’t be sure where Principal Awlridge’s conveniently oral feedback was coming from. The isms were piling up—racism, classism, maybe a dash of sexism—along with capitalism-inspired greed. Or maybe I was misreading it?
Not for the first time, I wished my twin sister Robin weren’t out on maternity leave. Over my last three years in Canada, I’d become far too accustomed to checking in with her while working to confirm whether I was perceiving things correctly—or if this was justBob, our code name for the emotional dysregulation I had to navigate in order to keep the job I loved.
People often assumed I went along with Robin’s plan to move to Canada because of our twin bond, and that certainly factored in. But it was also the way she told me how to feel about the often contradictory things other adults said to me.
Unfortunately, Principal Awlridge wasn’t done.
“You’ve actually cost me unnecessary time and money,” he continued. “I had to spend several hours convincing Jonas’s mother not to pull both of her children out of Barrington, and I doubt the Detweillers will be giving us nearly as generous a donation at the spring fundraiser.”
He glared at me from his high-backed leather chair. “Perhaps, if you return to your previous level of care with your appearance and conduct yourself in ways that align with our school’s vision, we can revisit the possibility of aslightbonus at the end of thenextschool year. But for now…”
He stood to look down his long, patrician nose. “No, Ms. Bird. You will not be receiving any additional remuneration for yourpoor performance.”
He sneered the last two words. At least, it felt like he did. I wasn’t sure—and it didn’t matter because my legs were on fire.
I stumbled to my feet and left—just ran out—without another word. Legs on fire was the trigger warning. It meant GO.
Gonow, before I said or did something I regretted. Before I got myself fired.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way as a student teacher after losing my temper when my lead berated a sixth grader without accommodations for asking for more time. It had only taken anunfair “Well, maybe you should have studied harder” to set me off, and Robin had to intervene to keep the department head from kicking me out of the program.
But Robin wasn’t here. And all I could think to do was run.
One moment I was inside Principal Awlridge’s office. The next I was dashing across campus, only managing a quick wave to the students calling out to me.
It was springtime in Canada. Many of them were sprawled on the lawns, basking in the rare sunshine, playing disc golf, and flirting with each other before study hours.
Study hours.
