I get off the train in Clerkenwell, where Rory’s school is located. Just one neighborhood south of Islington, it’s an awkward blend of characterful taverns and corner shops, juxtaposed beside dodgy-looking apartment buildings jutting obtrusively into the sky to spoil the old-world illusion.
Hendrick Primary School is the name of the school, and it’s a handsome building, or at least looks as if it might have been once. Multiple turrets twist up to the third story, giving the grounds an air of importance. But the brick is in need of a power wash, and the undersized windows are foggy and chipped. Something tells me this isn’t where the royal family sends their offspring.
Making my way inside, I register in the front office, where I’m pointed in the direction of Mr. Cooper’s classroom, one story up. The halls are narrow, with low ceilings and dim lights. Everything feels a bit sloped and scrunched. Still, there’s a certain tidiness that’sdistinctly British, plus the universal optimism of an elementary school.
Rory’s voice spills out into the hall from the classroom at the end of the hall. The door is ajar, and I stand outside watching him. He’s at the front of the classroom, dressed in khaki pants and a checkered button-down, doing some odd kind of jig—bending his knees, then reaching up toward the ceiling, then fluttering his hands down like snowflakes.
There’s a chant that goes along with it too. The kids are repeating the words back, mimicking the dance as they stand beside their chairs.
“Condensation, precipitation, runoff, evaporation,” everyone says, the kids’ British accents far overwhelming Rory’s American one. And then it starts over once more. “Condensation, precipitation …”
They’re acting out the rain cycle, and it’s pretty adorable, especially with the English inflection and school uniforms—prim purple jumpers with collared blazers, and a mix of trousers and pleated skirts with knee-high argyle socks. The kids look like they’re having the time of their lives.
Rory catches sight of me in the doorway. He doesn’t look abashed to be caught doing a silly dance—he just grins that big Rory grin and waves me in.
“Look who it is,” he says to the students. “Our first special guest!”
Lively applause ushers me into the classroom, reinforcing that sinking feeling that I don’t deserve to be welcomed here.
The walls are painted robin’s-egg blue, and they’re covered with construction paper stars, large-print spelling words, and a projectorscreen. Rory’s desk is at the front of the room, and then the students are gathered around a few long tables that are positioned in an inclusive U shape.
“What do you want the kids to call you?” Rory asks me.
“Um, Miss Kat, I guess?” I say.
In a louder voice, he addresses the students. “This is Miss Kat,” he says. “She’s one of our Career Day speakers.”
The students pepper me with all sorts of questions: Did my parents think I was going to be a cat when I was born? And can I talk to animals or jump from tall places without getting hurt?
It makes me smile, how inquisitively their brains work and how freely they fling their questions out into the open.
Finally, Rory interjects to say they have to get back to the water cycle for a few more minutes.
One of the little girls trots right up to me. “Miss Kat?” she says, black-brown eyes wide and wonder filled. “My name is Mala, and cats are my favorite animal, if you must know.” She tugs on her shiny black hair, tied into two long braids with mismatched bows. “Would you like to come stand by me? I can teach you the dance. It’s rather tricky, but not to fret.”
So I follow Mala back to her table, and with great earnestness, she shows me the exact technique of how I’m supposed to wiggle my hands for the rain and stomp my feet for the runoff part and make a swooshing motion for evaporation.
Following her lead, I join in with the class. Oddly enough, I’m having fun.
I say “oddly enough” because kids and I don’t exactly mesh. I love my nephews, but they are exceptions to the rule. Friends’ babies have never taken to me, and vice versa. It’s made me wonderif maybe I’m not actually destined to be a mom. I like the idea of having kids, of being the badass CEO/supermom whohas it all, but picturing the dirty-diaper-and-colicky reality makes me wonder if it’s actually compatible with my career goals. I wouldn’t want a nanny to raise my kids, but I can’t picture giving up the time to be there myself.
The truth is that I’m terrified of losing myself to kids, of putting my ambitions on the back burner to care for other people. Maybe this makes me a horrible, selfish person. Or maybe it just means I’m a new-age woman who isn’t content being a martyr to motherhood.
“You’re meant to sing too, Miss Kat,” Mala chides. “Don’t be shy now.”
No one seems to notice that I’m tone deaf, and it’s unexpectedly liberating, the ability to completely butcher a melody without any kind of judgment.
But the best part is watching Rory. He lights up in action, bringing the shyer students out of their shell and keeping the boisterous ones in check without curbing their enthusiasm. It’s so clear that this is where he’s meant to be, and I feel a bout of anger toward his ex for pressuring him to take a higher-paying job just to fund her lifestyle.
The other adults on the panel start arriving. They all seem to be parents of kids in the class. Mala runs up to a woman in a custodial uniform, joyfully throwing her arms around her legs. “My mum is a caretaker at the British Library!” she proudly announces to the class. “She cleans the bookcasesevery night.”
The students look enthralled, like this sounds like the coolest job ever. It gets me a little choked up as I think about how proud I used to be of Dad’s social work job when I was little. “My daddyis saving the world!” I’d brag far and wide. But somewhere along the way, I became embarrassed by how little money he made and how Mom had never worked at all, unless you counted the jewelry parties she hosted, which I didn’t. By the time I went off to college, I told people that both my parents worked in business and left it at that.
The Career Day lineup also includes a doctor, a chef, a construction manager, and an electrician. And me, the corporate sellout/consultant. Rory gives an introduction, and we all go around explaining what we do. When it’s my turn, I tell the class that I’m a consultant, which means that I try to help businesses fix their problems. Looking down at the bullet points on my note card, I explain that I have different projects that each last a few months, and I explore ways for companies to grow bigger and get better.
“So you’re like a doctor for companies?” one of the students pipes in.
“That’s giving me too much credit,” I say. “But I try to help.”
