Page 2 of Working for the Teacher

It's the kindest thing anyone has said to me since I got here, and my throat tightens before I can stop it. I look away before she notices my eyes going glassy.

“Thanks, Deb.”

“Also your creamer to coffee ratio is a public health concern,” she adds, and I laugh for real this time, grateful for the deflection.

The hallway is a river of backpacks and bodies moving between classes. Mr. Castellano claps me on the shoulder like we're old war buddies. “Heard you had a big fancy job out east,” he says.

“Uh, yeah. I did.”

“Nice having you home where you belong.”

I smile at him the way I've been smiling at everyone since I got here. Home where I belong.

I don't feel like I've come home. I feel like I've been sent backward, like someone reached into my life and hit rewind. And somehow I'm supposed to be grateful for it. Grateful to be back in the hallways where I once carried textbooks and worried about getting a date to prom.

I keep walking. I keep smiling. By the time I reach my classroom, my face aches from the effort of it.

A junior I don't recognize stops me near the science wing to ask if I'm the teacher who used to work in New York, and when I say yes, she looks at me with the kind of wide-eyed wonder usually reserved for celebrities. “That's so cool,” she says. “Why'd you leave?”

I give her the answer I've been giving everyone. Personal stuff. Wanted a change. Neither is technically a lie, which makes them easier to say. More importantly, they fit into the two minutes between classes without getting anywhere near the truth.

She seems satisfied and heads off to class. I watch her disappear into the crowd, wishing I could be as satisfied with the answer as she is.

Fourth period is the class that tests me every single day, and today is no exception.

They're loud before I even finish taking attendance, restless in the way that fifteen year olds get when the weather starts to change and their bodies haven't figured out what to do with all that energy. I try to start the lesson on persuasive writing, but Mason Delgado has other plans.

He interrupts my opening question with a comment about a video game. He talks over me while I'm mid sentence, loud enough that the kids around him start laughing. He makes a joke about how boring persuasive essays are, and I watch the laughter spread through the room.

I try to keep the lesson moving. I ask a question about audience and tone, and before anyone can answer, Mason leans back in his chair and announces that persuasive essays are pointless because nobody actually changes their mind about anything. A few kids laugh. I feel the thread of the lesson slip a little further out of my hands.

“Excellent argument,” I say. “Now persuade me.”

That gets a few more laughs, this time at his expense.

Mason grins. “Nah. Too much work.”

“Then I remain unconvinced.”

More laughter. For a second, I think I've got him. I turn back to the board and keep going. But he keeps going, riding the wave of attention he's built for himself.

Finally I have enough.

“Mason. Hallway. Now.”

A chorus of oooohs moves through the room before he even gets out of his chair.

“Thank you for your concern,” I say. “Pages fifty-six through sixty while you wait.”

That kills the fun pretty quickly.

Mason rolls his eyes as he gets up, but he goes. In the hallway, I keep my voice calm.

“What's going on with you lately?”

He shrugs, arms crossed, doing his best impression of a kid who doesn't care. “Nothing.”

“You interrupted me six times in ten minutes. That's not nothing.”