Page 1 of Working for the Teacher

1

CHARLOTTE

If you'd told me a year ago I'd be diagramming sentences in the same room I once passed notes in, I would have laughed and then immediately started crying. Which, to be fair, is also how the last few months have gone.

I line up the desks in neat rows, even though I know they'll be crooked again by second period. I write the day's objective on the whiteboard in my best handwriting, because I once read somewhere that legible handwriting builds classroom authority. I check the clock.

For a few minutes, before anyone else arrives, I let myself pretend I’m okay.

Two students push through the door early, backpacks half zipped, talking over each other about a group project neither of them started. They ask if we're still doing the debate this week. I tell them yes, and one of them groans in a way that makes me laugh, because I remember being fifteen and thinking public speaking was a personal attack.

“You're actually a good teacher,” the other one says, like it surprises her.

“Thank you,” I say. “I think.”

She shrugs and drops into her seat, already scrolling through her phone and forgetting she said anything at all. But I don't forget it. I hold onto it the way I've been holding onto small good things lately, turning them over like stones, looking for proof that I haven't lost the thing I used to be good at.

Because at Forge Creek High School I almost feel like myself again. Not the version of myself who packed a U-Haul while sobbing in the rain outside my Brooklyn apartment. Just Ms. Hayes, who is good at this and doesn't need anyone to tell her that.

I check my email once, out of habit more than hope, and delete the notification without reading it. Old instinct from my days in New York, where a missed message could mean a missed opportunity for a better thing. There is no better thing waiting for me here. There are eight periods and lunch duty and a stack of essays I haven't finished grading.

I glance at the photo taped inside my top desk drawer. Me at my old school, standing in front of a mural my students painted, smiling in a way I don't recognize anymore. I close the drawer before the bell rings.

The halls at Forge Creek High School are exactly the way I remember them from seven years ago, down to the scuffed linoleum and the faint smell of industrial cleaner that never really covers whatever they're serving for lunch. The only difference is that now I’m allowed through the door I spent four years walking past.

The teachers’ lounge.

I push inside and spot Deb at a table, grading something with a red pen clenched between her teeth. The coffee smells burnt, and I have the strange thought that maybe this room hasn’t changed at all. I’m just finally seeing the inside of it. I pour myself a cup and add too much vanilla creamer, hoping it’ll disguise the taste.

“There she is,” Deb says, setting down her pen. “How are the little delinquents treating you today?”

“They're sophomores, Deb.”

“Exactly.” She grins. “I always had a feeling you'd end up back here.”

I laugh because it's easier than the alternative. “Did you now?”

“Forge Creek pulls people back. Always has.” She says it like it’s a law of nature. I take another sip of coffee and try not to think too hard about what that means for me.

Across the room, Priya looks up from her crossword. “How long were you in New York again?”

“Six years.”

“Do you miss it?”

I think about Sunday mornings at the coffee shop where I graded papers. Drinks with the other teachers after work. The little Italian place around the corner from our apartment where Daniel and I ordered takeout every Friday night. Walking home with groceries tucked under my arm, the city loud and alive around me. I even miss the subway at rush hour, which is how I know things are bad.

I miss almost all of it, really. Everything that belonged to the life I had before I lost my job and my fiancé in the span of one week.

“Sometimes,” I say. “Mostly I miss the pizza.”

They laugh. I pretend to laugh. It's the right answer. It's the answer that lets the conversation move on to something else, to Priya's daughter's dance recital and Deb's opinion on the new copier. I sip my too-sweet coffee, nod along, and think about how exhausting it is to be fine in front of people all day.

No one in this room says the word failure. Nobody would ever say it out loud. But I hear it anyway, underneath every question about New York, every well-meaning smile. I hear it in the space between what people ask and what they actually want to know, which is how does a woman go from teaching at one of the best schools in Brooklyn to moving back to the town she swore she'd never live in again.

I finish my coffee before the bell rings and tell myself it doesn't matter what they think. I almost believe it.

Deb catches me at the door on my way out, her hand light on my arm. “For what it's worth,” she says, “I think it's brave. Coming back. Starting over somewhere everyone already thinks they know your story.”