The groans grow louder, a chorus of discontent. I, however, remain unfazed. I’ve spent the summer meticulously planning my classroom layout, scouring Pinterest for creative storage solutions, and taking multiple trips to the craft store for supplies. As long as I have a space to call my own, a corner of the world to organize and decorate to my heart’s content, I’ll be fine.
Trevor begins to read out the trailer assignments, his voice a steady drone against the backdrop of grumbling teachers. My name is called, and I feel a small thrill of excitement. A trailer. A blank canvas. The possibilities are endless.
“And you’ll be sharing with…” Trevor pauses, consulting his list. The suspense is surprisingly thick. “Maya Gershawn.”
Still fine. I look up, a smile already forming on my face. This could be fun. A chance to get to know her, to see if the connection we had that night was real or just a product of the moon and the alcohol. But the smile dies on my lips when I see her face. She’s pale, her jaw slack, her eyes wide with what looks suspiciously like horror. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.
My own smile falters, a wave of disappointment washing over me. So much for this being fun. Before I can process her reaction, Trevor’s phone rings, a shrill, insistent sound that makes him wince. He apologizes and ducks out of the room, leaving a vacuum that is quickly filled by the buzz of gossip.
“Hey, man. Dave Anders,” a friendly-looking guy sitting on my left says, extending a hand. “I’m the head of the science department so we’ll be working together a lot. Don’t mind the grumbling. We’re a good bunch, I promise.”
“Zachary Becker,” I say, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, what brings you to Pine Island?” he asks, his voice friendly and open. “And what’d you do this summer to prepare for the impending doom?”
I’m about to answer, to tell him about quitting my job in the tech industry to do something that actually makes a difference, and about my obsessive-compulsive classroom planning, when I overhear Maya’s voice. She’s talking to another teacher, a woman with a severe-looking haircut and a sour expression.
“It’s the blessed lack of trier-outers that I’m most looking forward to,” Maya says, her voice laced with a cynicism that I haven’t heard before. “I’m so sick of meeting these bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new teachers at this first meeting, only for them to be gone by next school year because they couldn’t cut it.”
The words are a punch to the gut. Is that what she thinks of me? A “trier-outer”? A temporary placeholder, destined to burn out before my first year of teaching is even over? A cold knot of dread forms in my stomach, a stark contrast to the nervous excitement I’d felt just moments ago. I think about my meticulously planned lessons, my carefully curated classroom decorations, and for the first time, I wonder if it will be enough. I wonder if I have what it takes to survive in this world of jaded veterans and cynical art teachers. I wonder if I’m destined to become another one of the teachers who couldn’t cut it.
Trevor returns and calls the meeting back to order, but I have a hard time focusing on what he’s saying through my swirling thoughts. It’s already an interesting start to my first year of teaching.
The meeting ends in a cacophony of scraping chairs and buzzing conversations. I feel a light tap on my shoulder and turn to see Maya, her expression carefully neutral. The look of horror has been replaced by a tight, professional smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Trailer-mate,” she says, her voice a little too bright. “Shall we go inspect our new kingdom?”
I just nod, my throat too tight to form words. We walk out of the school’s main building and into the oppressive August heat. The air is thick and humid, sticking to my skin. A row of identical, beige trailers sits to the side of the playground, a sad little colony of educational displacement. Maya leads the way to the one marked ‘T-4’, the metal steps groaning under our weight as we ascend.
She fumbles with the key for a moment before the lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing a space that is both largerand smaller than I’d imagined. It’s a long, rectangular room with scuffed linoleum and wood-paneled walls. It smells faintly of sawdust and stale air.
“Well,” Maya says, breaking the silence. “It’s not the Louvre, but it has… potential.” She attempts another joke, a weak effort to slice through the tension. “At least we’ll have a killer view of the playground. We can start a running tally of scraped knees.”
I don’t smile. I just stand there, frowning, my mind racing. All summer I’ve been dreaming of my classroom. I spent evenings using the craft room at Tim’s camp, designing and building custom shelving and interactive displays. I have a three-foot model of the solar system, a periodic table made of hand-painted blocks, and a series of posters illustrating the scientific method that I designed myself. My plans were meticulous, every square inch of my future classroom accounted for. Now, I have to cut those plans in half.
It’s not just the space. It’s sharing it withher. A more seasoned teacher who already knows the ropes, who already has her place here. And worse, she’s the woman who has occupied an unhealthy amount of my brain space for the past several weeks. That night on the beach, the easy connection, the spark—it was all-consuming. I’ve been trying to tamp down the memory, to file it away as a one-time anomaly. But how am I supposed to do that when she’s going to be three feet away from me, eight hours a day? How do I dampen the constant, low-grade hum of attraction when she’s right there?
“Okay, so,” she says, clapping her hands together, all business now. “I was thinking, if I put my main worktable here in the middle, it could create a natural divide. And I could use this back wall for drying racks and student work displays.”
I stare at the wall she’s pointing to. It’s the largest, most visible wall in the trailer. “No,” I say, the word coming out sharper than I intend.
Maya blinks. “Oh. Okay. Well, what were you thinking?”
“That wall is the best spot for my whiteboard and the solar system model,” I state, crossing my arms. “It’s the first thing the kids will see when they walk in.”
“Right,” she says slowly. “But my students need a lot of wall space to display their projects. It’s a huge part of building their confidence, seeing their work valued.”
A bitter, irrational annoyance bubbles up inside me. “My displays are part of the curriculum, Maya. They’re educational tools. They’re not just for show.” I know it’s the wrong thing to say the second the words leave my mouth. Her face falls, the professional mask crumbling to reveal genuine shock.
“Just for show?” she repeats, her voice barely a whisper. “You think my students’ art is just… decoration?”
I immediately try to backtrack, stumbling over my words. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean… my lessons are more supply intensive. I have models and lab equipment. It’s only fair that I get more of the storage and floor space. We can split the wall space evenly, of course, but I need the bulk of the room.” I’m digging myself into a deeper hole, and I can’t seem to stop. “All your kids need is drawing paper and crayons, right?”
The silence that follows is deafening. Maya just stares at me, her hazel eyes wide and unreadable. The spark we had, the easy laughter, the shared secrets—it all feels like a distant memory from another lifetime. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t fight back. She just… deflates. The energy and life seem to drain out of her, leaving her looking tired and small.
“You know what, Zachary?” she says, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Fine. You take the space. Set it up however you want. I’ll make it work.”
Before I can say anything else, before I can apologize for the crater I’ve just blasted into our first day as colleagues, she turns and walks out, the trailer door clicking softly shut behind her.I’m left alone in the empty room, the smell of sawdust suddenly suffocating. I stare at the blank, wood-paneled walls and wonder if it’s too late to go back to the principal. Maybe I can share a trailer with another science teacher, someone with Bunsen burners and beakers. Someone who doesn’t turn my mind inside out and make me say things I don’t mean.
Someone who isn’t Maya.
