Greta closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, the secretary was bidding farewell to a perm-headed, slacks-wearing middle-aged woman. With a handbag slung over the shoulder of her blouse, she oozed confidence and a blasé attitude. She waved boldly at Greta. “May the odds be ever in your favor.” And then, with a wink and a chuckle, she left the building.
The woman’s parting line was from a YA dystopian novel that Greta had never read. Nor had she seen the movie based on said novel. She couldn’t even think of the title, blanking entirely. The woman who left was clearly in the loop on all things middle school language arts. Then there was Greta, certain she was too good for the job. Too academic and competent to be reduced to simple grammar and weekly spelling tests. And yet, she couldn’t even draw to her memory a blockbuster film that probably every single child in that school building was familiar with.
Did she learn nothing from her elementary subbing gig? Every grade level had its own demands, and there she was, pretending that her secondary English credentials would over-qualify her. She didn’t stop to consider whether she might actually be underqualified. She swallowed past the lump in her throat just as a curvy blonde woman strode out from the hall beyond the secretary’s front desk.
“You must be Greta?” The woman was classically beautiful and dressed to the nines in a pantsuit and hoop earrings. Her voice twangy but her face unfamiliar, she was southern, not local. At least, not that Greta could pin down. The entire prediction of Greta’s experience so far did not ring true. What happened to the lazy rural junior high from her youth? What happened to her idea that this place would be begging for her, not her for it?
“Yes.” Greta rose and stretched out her hand too early, walking like a goofy zombie to meet up with the woman in the passageway to the left of the reception counter. “Mrs. Cook?” Greta managed to squeak out as they finally connected for a firm shake.
The woman nodded and folded her hands in front of herself. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I saw in your C.V. that you’re from Hickory Grove?”
Greta followed her down a stuffy hallway back to the area where Greta, as a child, had always suspected the principal’s office sat. Her previous moment of familiarity and comfort washed away immediately on the short walk to the back offices. Greta felt more out of place than she ever had as an embarrassed pre-teen with a full mouth of braces and pimple-speckled forehead.
“That’s right. Born and raised. I’m...” as she began to comb her brain for an explanation of why she was suddenly back and looking for a job, a white lie formed on her tongue. She hated to fib, but there was no way the interview would go well if Greta confessed that this was all a well-intentioned ruse. “I’m moving back home. To be near family.” She swallowed then added for the sake of her own conscience, “Depending on... some things.” Shaking her head, Greta wanted to crawl inside her little brown satchel and disappear amongst the stubs of Ticonderoga pencils that had surely wedged their way into the bottom folds.
“Well,” Mrs. Cook turned to face Greta, her hand on a doorknob. “We are so excited to learn more about you today. Please,” she opened the door and gestured inside, “come in.”
Her eyes adjusted to the small room. Sunlight spilled in from a long window beyond four other faces, each partially reclined in broad-backed rolling desk chairs. Greta’s eyes passed from three women to one, lone man.
And that’s when the sweat started in. Greta’s throat tightened. Her chest tightened. Her grip on her satchel tightened to the point she thought the skin of her knuckles would crack and burst. At least it would distract from her flushed face.
It was him. The man from the diner. The impossible, dashing man who had locked eyes with her.
Though the other women stayed seated, he stood up, initially shoving his hands into khaki pockets then passing one hand over the lower half of his face.
The others didn’t seem to take notice of the quiet undercurrent throbbing between Greta and their colleague.
“Greta,” Mrs. Cook began, gesturing to the still-seated women. “That’s Mrs. Crabapple, our music teacher; Ms. Randall, our exiting English teacher; Ms. O'Neal, one of our math teachers; and” — Greta could have sworn Mrs. Cook paused for effect — “This is Coach Hart, our P.E. teacher.”
“Hart,” Greta murmured. Her face flushed even deeper, to the point where Greta wanted to sink into the hardwood floors, seep between the cracks like dust. Her mortification caused her to nearly miss the chance to take his hand in a warm, heartachingly warm, shake. “I mean Hart,” she tried to recover. “Hart, like...” her brain floundered around until she thought of someone—anyone she knew named Hart. There were dozens of them in town. It was more prominent a family than any, probably. “Like, um. You’re a Hart?” Greta’s eyes fluttered closed and her fingers drifted to her forehead, covering half her face as it melted into humiliation.
Fortunately, he was able to fill in the gaps. “That’s right. I didn’t grow up here, though. My dad was Kurt Hart. My mom’s name is May. She’s out in Louisville, though.”
The way he said it, that one word that only Kentuckianan’s could say just right, with the syllables flopping from three to two and sliding off his tongue, co-mingling into a soft landing in the air between them... it turned her knees weak, and she plopped into the chair Mrs. Cook had gestured to.
Turning her focus to the other women and then Mrs. Cook, Greta tried her best to shake it off. Heat slid down her neck and settled on her collar bones, turning from a sheet of red into splotches. Thank goodness her neckline rose high above her chest. She could at least pretend, now, to be the professional she felt like just ten minutes before. Nodding to Coach Hart now, she replied that she went to school with some Harts.
He didn’t take his eyes off of Greta, and she could feel it, but she refused to meet his gaze as he answered, “My cousins, probably.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Cook cut in. “It’s so great to have a real local. Several have retired recently, and we hope to bring a little of that flavor back to H.G.M.S. Isn’t that right?” She smiled warmly around the table. If the words came out of the mouth of any other principal, they’d fall flat, like insincere schmoozing. But Mrs. Cook was as genuine as they came. Dedicated, to be sure. Happy, too. Greta saw little bits of herself in the woman. Someone who felt passionately about education.
“Let’s begin with more about you, Greta,” Mrs. Cook continued, settling into her own seat between Coach Hart and the math teacher.
Taking a deep breath, Greta forced her attention on the principal and answered, surprising even herself with candid descriptions of her journey back to Hickory Grove.
After Greta finished her personal overview and fielded ten generic questions, she found she was back in place. More at ease. Comfortable.
Mrs. Cook smiled again at the group then at Greta, lacing her fingers on top of the white pages in front of her. “All right, Greta, one more question from us.” Greta swallowed, finally flicking a quick glance to Coach Hart. His eyes were on her, still. Had they ever left? She thought not.
She braced herself, and just as could be expected, Mrs. Cook asked the question Greta had danced around earlier. “So why Hickory Grove? Why your old stomping grounds?” The woman made a fist and swung it across her chest in an old-fashioned gesture of solidarity.
Greta took a deep breath. She had to be honest, above all else. No more half-truths or white lies. No, it wouldn’t do to admit that her top choices weren’t hiring (or, at least, they weren’t hiring her).
Swallowing and glancing around the table, Greta raised her palms. “You know? H.G.M.S. was not initially on my radar. I would love to teach high school English, and the allure of the bigger cities is hard to resist for someone my age. Someone—” she threw a quick look to Coach Hart (what was his first name! She was desperate to know!) “Someone who hasn’t settled down yet,” she went on, blinking past him and finding the right words. She had their atte
ntion. You could probably hear a straw of hay land; the round oak table was so quiet. “But my brother lives here, and so do some close friends. Some, er, some people I’ve grown close to. Maggie Devereux and her family.” She looked up, catching flickers of recognition among their faces, but still they kept quiet and waited.
“Well...” Greta paused to let out a long breath. “Well, the other night over supper, Maggie’s son, Ky, told us about Ms. Randall, and they asked if I might apply. Well, you see, I wasn’t too certain at first, since I really love teaching novels and poetry. I wasn’t sure if middle school would be the right fit, you know?”
Doubt swelled in her chest. Was she wrong to be so forthcoming? Was she going to shoot herself in the foot? Oh, what did it matter? She was not sure it was a good fit. The only reason she was feeling nervous now was because of the dashing stranger. He wasn’t so much a stranger. He was a quiet middle school P.E. teacher. Her eyes flashed to his hands, which, like Mrs. Cook, laid patiently on the pages in front of him. Big tanned hands folded on each other. His left was resting on top of the right. On his fingers, Greta detected no rings. No ring.
“Anyway,” she went on, clearing her throat, “The kids were so excited about it. It was feverish, their excitement. I realized maybe there was more to the age group than I had considered. Coming from subbing with elementary, I thought I might be scarred a little. You know, young boys and their talk of bodily functions.” The table roared to life with laughter, and Greta snapped out of her winding, poorly thought out explanation. She should feel embarrassed at her admission about the boogers and bathroom jokes, but some energy inside had taken over. A deep-seated truth that forced its way out. Smiling back at them, she regained her footing. “But my passions are two-fold. I love English, yes, and I love the teaching of it as much or more than I believe in teaching. So, really, as long as I have students and books, well... I’m a happy camper.”
Mrs. Cook glanced at the others, and it occurred to Greta she did not quite answer the question.
“Oh,” Greta interjected, holding a finger up. “May I add one more thing?”
“Please do,” Mrs. Cook replied, waving her hand generously.
“I think I answered a question that you didn’t ask. If it’s not obvious, I’m sort of grappling with my future a little.”
The others kept mum.
“I grew up in this town with my brother. Our parents raised us here. They loved it here. We weren’t a big family, but we were a happy one. Rhett—my brother that is—and I both moved away. I think we believed that happiness existed elsewhere. We wanted to see the world, I suppose. Neither of us got very far, but there you have it. Well, Rhett moved back recently. He reconnected with his old friends, the ones still in town. You know how small-town folks just seem to float away on a hope and a dream. Well, Rhett floated back. And he’s just... he’s just so happy. I don’t know if I can find that here. But, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I know that while I might have more chances to fan out and experience the world in a big city, I know that my first goal is to be a teacher. Have a classroom. Settle in for once. If you’re willing to take a chance on me with all my hemming and hawing, well, I’d love to make a go of it here.”
A smile brightened Greta’s face as the words rang true. Throughout the course of the interview, it all just snapped into place for her. Like through the questions, she found a piece of herself. She couldn’t make any promises, but that was all she needed: promise. There it was, sitting before her. The kind, committed principal, the handsome guy who, even if he alone wasn’t available surely indicated that handsome guys did exist in Hickory Grove. And the promise of working with kids. Reading books like The Secret Garden and whatever that other end-of-the-world teen favorite was (she told herself to head directly to the library and get her hands on it).
By the time Greta wrapped up her answer, she was no longer embarrassed to look up at Coach Hart. She felt like, in some way, she knew him all along. More than that, she felt like she knew herself, after all.
A small sigh fell out of Mrs. Cook’s lips, and she looked to the others. “Are there any more questions for Ms. Houston?” she asked.
They shook their heads, smiling politely. In all likelihood, Greta bombed the whole thing. Maybe she’d be piecing together emails to the principals from various Chicago Public Schools high schools. But at least she’d take away one thing. She could handle middle school. Especially if it came with a cute phys. ed. teacher.
“Great. And how about you? Do you have any questions for us?” Mrs. Cook lifted her eyebrows to Greta.
“Actually, yes. Just one.” Bolder now, Greta met the gaze of each interviewer, landing finally on the window behind them and the neat row of little old farmhouses that sat across the street from the school. “If everything works out, I will need to find a permanent residence. I’m staying with Maggie right now, you see. So, my question is: where can I find teacher housing?”
Chapter 8—Luke
After she left, he whipped his head to Mrs. Cook. “Impressive.”
“Hah!” Ms. O'Neal snorted. “She doesn’t know what she wants. She might leave you high and dry after a year! I vote no.”
“Hey, now,” Luke reasoned, “You never know what might happen in a year.”
“Plus, she’s your only other applicant.” Ms. Randall heaved a sigh and offered an apologetic shrug. “It’s either Greta or the woman who hates where she teaches now.”
Mrs. Cook studied the resumes and her notes, quiet for a minute. Finally, she looked up at the group. “I liked Greta. I liked her much better, actually. But the truth is, she’s young. What you didn’t hear her say was that she’s hesitating because she wants to marry and have children, and where is the dating pool in Hickory Grove? It’s the issue with any younger candidate.” If Luke didn’t know any better, he’d say Mrs. Cook glanced briefly, but poignantly, at him.
As she said it, the other three sets of eyes slowly turned toward Luke. His skin started to grow hot again, but more out of disappointment than the embarrassment from their obvious suggestion. He set his jaw, folded his hands over Miss Houston’s resume, and stared back at each one in turn. “I can testify to the lack of a dating scene. But that’s what Louisville is for. It’s not far. Not for someone dead set on finding her perfect match.” He pushed away from the table and leaned back into his chair. “Your option is either a woman with a track record of job dissatisfaction or a woman who just wants to find the best spot for herself.”
“Same thing,” Ms. O'Neal croaked.
“True,” Luke went on, “but couldn’t you sense it? The first lady—I can’t even remember her name, now—she came in, tossed her bag down, spat out her answers and spent most of her time on that miserable tale of how her kids had to sit through a doggone sex scene in her classroom! Then there was Greta, who was a little nervous. Genuine. She had all the right answers, really, if you were listening. And besides, she’s from here. You don’t get more settled than that.” He threw up his hands, stunned there was even a discussion. The choice was clear.
Mrs. Cook murmured in agreement, but the sigh to follow revealed that reservations lingered in her head. “We have a little time. Maybe we should give a day or two to see if new applicants come forth? I’d hate to jump the gun.”
No one could accuse Danielle Cook of impatience. It was the trait that fortified her in running a school of sweaty pre-teens, each with a penchant for plagiarizing papers and ganging up on the weaklings among them. She was good.
But she was wrong. Luke shook his head. “What’s that expression? A bird in the hand, or something?”
He tried to make eye contact with Ms. Randall. If he could get her on his side, they’d make it happen.
But Ms. Randall had already moved on, her phone out. A message from her fiancé, no doubt, pulling her attention miles and miles away from any silly interview committee.
Ms. O'Neal sniffed, took a sip from her water bottle then passed her notes to Mrs. Cook, irrita
ted or indifferent. Both, probably. The exact opposite of how any one of them should be acting currently.
“Mrs. Crabapple?” The principal directed her attention to the quiet, rotund woman at the far end.
Mrs. Crabapple finished a notation then adjusted her eyeglasses and looked up. “Well, didn’t you hear the young lady?”
Luke frowned. Mrs. Cook lifted her eyebrows, expectant.
The older woman cleared her throat. “She asked about teacher housing. How can you find an ounce of fault with her commitment? You could wait a day, sure. And in that day, your best candidate might slip right through your fingers. She’s obviously looking for a placement. We have one. She has family here. So, what if she doesn’t stay past a school year? One year with a great teacher surely won’t hurt, no matter what buzzwords they throw at us. Turnover this and vertical alignment that. When I was in school, I had one year with a substitute. That’s all we got. Just the one year. It was the year I decided to become a teacher. Hire her and be done. Like Luke said, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” She set her pencil down and tucked her hands beneath her bosom, resting them comfortably on her soft belly.
Luke could have kissed the woman. There was a reason he’d always liked Mrs. Crabapple. Her wisdom alone helped her stand out. Wisdom and affability.
The principal nodded her head slowly, taking in the wisdom from the old guard and pairing it neatly with Luke’s more urgent plea. He was grateful the women maintained professionalism and restrained themselves for calling him out for what he was. A man with a brand-new crush. Anyway, he needed to put out that crush like a lit match that was growing too close to his skin... after all, she was with that man from Mally’s, right? But Greta did seem like the perfect fit for the school. And as Luke knew all too well, better teachers school wide made everyone’s job easier. They’d be crazy not to lock her down, if only for a semester, much less a whole school year. Greta seemed like the type who could really elevate Hickory Grove Middle School. And it wouldn’t hurt to finally work alongside someone closer in age to himself.
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