As she looks at the diploma, I let my gaze roam around the office. The decor is mostly muted blues and grays, as one would expect at an old private school, but one wall features a display of student art. My eye is caught by a painting of a red-haired girl standing in a meadow of flowers, with a mischievous expression in her eye. Below it, there’s a poster of Mark Twain, with a quote: “I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
“Honors Computer Science, With High Distinction,” Carole murmurs. “Impressive. You should frame it.”
“Thank you,” I reply, as I roll up the diploma and replace it in its tube. She’s right; I should frame it, if for no other reason than to keep it from getting lost. Until I found it yesterday, in a box of odds and ends, I wasn’t even sure it had survived the move from Toronto.
“So you never worked in computer science?” Carole asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “I had a summer job with a startup after third year university, but I had my first child a few weeks after I wrote my final exams. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for the past nine years. And as I explained on the phone, I don’t have a teaching degree.”
She nods thoughtfully. “A teaching degree is preferred, of course, but since we’re a private school it’s not technically required. One of our math teachers had to take medical leave with very little notice, and so far we haven’t found a replacement. We’ve always struggled to recruit women who can teach math and science at the senior level.”
Hardly a surprise, I guess. Men outnumbered women by more than five to one in my computer science program, and I guess not much has changed in the past decade.
“Who’s teaching the classes now?” I ask.
“I am,” Carole says wryly. “I was a math teacher before I became a principal, but it’s not a long-term solution. I have far too much admin work.” She pauses. “I looked up the course requirements for your computer science degree. You took first and second year math courses with the math majors?”
“Yes.” Over ten years ago.
“And Helen Carlton mentioned you have tutoring experience?”
“Yes, I worked part time as a high school math tutor while I was in university.”
“So you should be able to teach grade eleven vector algebra and grade twelve calculus, and they’re both morning classes. It should work with the time you’re available. Can you start next week?”
“You’re offering me the job?” I blurt out.
She raises an eyebrow. “You look surprised.”
“I thought you’d have more questions,” I admit. I’d expected that when Carole met me, she’d realize I wasn’t suitable.
She shrugs. “Helen Carlton speaks highly of you, and I trust her judgment.”
“That’s nice to hear.” I feel a blush creeping over my cheeks.
“And as you’ve probably guessed, we’re desperate,” Carole adds briskly. “I’ll email you a contract to review and some forms to fill out for HR. It’s a temporary position for this academic year, since we’re hoping the other teacher will return next fall.”
“That’s fine.” Considering I didn’t expect to get a job at all, I can’t argue with a temporary contract.
Carole nods. “I’ll send you the curriculum and a summary of what we’ve covered so far. We have extracopies of the textbooks, you can ask my secretary on your way out. Can you start Monday morning?”
“This coming Monday?” I ask numbly. Today’s Friday, and since I haven’t thought about math in nine years, I’ll need a lot more time to prepare.
Then I remember Claire’s follow-up appointment with Luke. “I have to take my daughter to a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday morning. Maybe I could start next Wednesday?”
Carole agrees, and just like that, I have a job. I’ll have to spend every spare minute between now and Wednesday studying math.
My first adult job. I float back out to my car, but my happiness fades a little when I realize I have no one to celebrate with. I could call my mom, but given the way she reacted to the news of my interview, I doubt she’d be as excited as I am.
I’m tempted to text Luke, and I have to remind myself that we’re not actually friends. He’s been kind to me because my daughter’s been sick, but I shouldn’t read too much into it.
So I text Sophie Kaminsky and invite her to come over for a drink tonight after I put the kids to bed. As soon as I send the message, I start to second-guess myself: maybe Sophie was just being polite when I ran into her in the hospital. Even if she was serious about being friends, she’s probably too busy for a last-minute drinks invite.
But I drive to the grocery store anyway, and buy some wine and fancy cheese. As I’m checking out, my phone pings with a reply:
Sophie: Would love that! Where and when?
“Good news?” the cashier asks, and I realize I’m grinning like a loon.
