by Noree Kahika
“Umm…yes, that’s correct. With the current economy being the way that it is, I’ve found it difficult to get a full-time position in the local school districts where I live, so I’ve decided to expand my search for permanent teaching positions—”
“And you have been coaching underprivileged children gymnastics for the past three years, I see,” she continued, cutting me off.
Oh man! Was that sweat dripping from my armpits?
Her intense gaze was unnerving. “Yes,” I managed to squeak.
“Very commendable.” She glanced back down at her paperwork.
Another weighted silence descended as she continued to peruse the documents on her desk and I tried not to fidget as my stomach churned with apprehension. Even in my limited experience, I was positive this was not the usual interview process. Everything about this was a little bizarre and uncomfortable. The sudden urge to bolt and catch the first plane home to LA overcame me but then I sternly reminded myself that attaining a permanent teaching tenure was my dream. Not to mention that if I was appointed to one of the country’s exclusive private elementary schools, it would be an amazing coup for my career.
I’d come all this way, initially out of curiosity, but now that I was here, I’d fallen in love with the distinguished character and charm of the school itself, and along with seeing the happy children bustling to and fro from their classes, I really, really wanted to teach here.
Finally, pushing the papers aside, she raised her head and unnervingly held my gaze with hers, and then proceeded to ask me several customary questions regarding my degree. Thankfully, I answered each one with a level of confidence, despite her continual silent evaluation. Mrs. Henderson’s face was a mask of impassivity—the woman had the best poker face I had ever seen.
At last, she dropped the mask and gifted me with an approving smile. “Well, you have excellent references, Miss Gilmore. But—”
My stomach lurched.
“Are you willing to move to New York, away from your family and friends indefinitely? The position would require a commitment period of no less than two years.”
“Yes, Mrs. Henderson, I’d be more than willing to commit to two years, longer even. After years of studying in college and finally achieving my degree, I can honestly say, I want nothing more than to be putting that degree to good use. I’m extremely eager to have a class of children of my very own to teach—it’s my dream. And if achieving that goal means I have to move to the other side of the country or to Alaska or wherever the opportunity arises, I am one hundred percent committed in doing so.”
“I like you, Miss Gilmore. I truly do,” she finally said, and I exhaled a sigh of relief.
“And I am an exceptional judge of character,” she continued. “However, I will also warn you, we here at Whitfield Academy have exceedingly high expectations of all our staff but especially our teaching staff. As by now I’m sure you understand, students who attend Whitfield are from some of the most affluent and prominent families in the state. These parents pay a small fortune for an exceptional education for their offspring and we guarantee that happens. That being said, a teaching career at Whitfield Academy is frequently challenging and often demanding but I can assure you, it is also extremely rewarding.”
Despite the precarious beginning to the interview and with every fervent word she continued to speak, my heart beat faster and faster in anticipation—I just might have been successful in scoring my first teaching tenure.
“I understand.” I nodded to her in agreement. “But I can assure you, Mrs. Henderson, I take my teaching career very seriously and if given the chance, I promise you, I will exceed all your expectations. As long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to become a teacher. I believe children are the most precious and greatest gift we have to offer humanity and to be entrusted to guide and educate a child through the crucial informative years is a grave responsibility, and a profound honor that I take very, very seriously.”
She slid a glossy-white folder across the desk to me and smiled. “This is your employment contract and a copy of the school’s handbook. I trust you will find the salary both fair and generous. Please read it through thoroughly, sign the appropriate forms, and return it to my assistant by close of the week via email.”
As I opened the front of the folder, I quickly glanced at the first page, which appeared to be a standard offer of employment and whoa…holy moly! The startling number of zeros typed at the bottom of the page had my eyes bugging and my jaw gaping.
Ohmigod!
The figure was almost double the national average teacher’s salary. This couldn’t be right? Surely it had to be a typo.
“The position you will be filling is one of our first grade classes,” Mrs. Henderson said, drawing my attention back to her. “You will be replacing Mrs. Walker, who has unfortunately decided to take early retirement due to a serious medical condition. So we will need you to start this coming Monday if that is possible.”
What!
“T-This coming Monday? You mean a week from today?” I stuttered. First the staggering salary figure and now this…it was all happening so fast.
“Yes, Miss Gilmore, this coming Monday. Will this pose a problem?”
Her emphasis on the word pose made it very clear to me that it had better not be a problem. As did the perfectly raised eyebrow and thinned lips as she stared back at me in question. I immediately knew this was a test of my commitment. But how on God’s green earth would I be able to pack up my life in California, move across to the other side of the country, find an apartment, settle in and be ready to start a new job in less than seven days? This was crazy, even by my standards of late, but somehow I would make it work because I wanted this job enough that I was prepared to jump through hoops to get it.
My shoulders straightened and I lifted my chin in a display of confidence. “Ah…no. No, Mrs. Henderson, it will be no problem. I can be here next Monday.”
Good thing I’d had practice of being certifiably crazy in the past month.
“Excellent.” She clapped her hands together and rose from her chair.
“Welcome to Whitfield Academy, Miss Gilmore. I know you will be happy here. Now, before you go, Mrs. Miller will give you a tour of the school and answer any questions you may have.”
My head spun as I scrambled to rise from the chair and follow her hasty steps from the office. Everything was happening way too fast—I couldn’t process any of it. Franticly, I tried to think of at least one of the many questions I had meant to ask Mrs. Henderson during our interview, but my mind drew a blank.
Well, almost a blank—one burning question bubbled forth. “Mrs. Henderson,” I blurted, halting her gait. “Why me?”
She frowned at me; the combination of impatience and confusion clouded her features.
I cleared my throat and rephrased the question. “What I mean is—although I am extremely honored to be offered this position, I’m just a little confused as to how you knew I was looking for a teaching position in the first place. How did you get my resume? You see, this school was not one of the schools I initially applied for.”
“Ah,” she murmured, and I swear I saw a flicker of alarm flash through her fawn eyes before she quickly masked it. “Let’s just say that you came highly recommended to us, and at this point, Miss Gilmore, I don’t think it would make a difference…unless you’ve had a better offer from another school? Have you?”
Oh shit! I didn’t want her to think I was playing her off against another school. Because, let’s face it—this was the only offer I had.
“Er, no I haven’t, and let me just say that I am extremely grateful for the opportunity you’re giving me here and I wholeheartedly accept. But…to say I was more than a little curious as to how you obtained my resume would be an understatement.”
“Hmm, well, you know what they say—curiosity killed the cat,” she deadpanned and I felt my jaw drop open at her words.
“Charlotte,” she added softly as h
er hand clasped mine. “As I said earlier, I am an excellent judge of character and after meeting you in person, I am confident you are the right person for this position. Regardless of how we came by your resume, it was your outstanding grades, glowing references, and practical field experience that got you the tenure.
“Congratulations.” She smiled as she released her hold on my hand and turned toward the door. “Now, I really do have to go but I look forward to seeing you next Monday. Seven thirty, bright and early in the morning, Miss Gilmore,” she called over her shoulder as she strode through the doorway.
Chapter Fifteen
Finding myself on yet another airplane for the third time in just under a week was a tiresome experience and let me also just say—flying coach sucked big time!
After flying first class home from Italy, I was ruined for anything less—less being coach class in an overcrowded airplane. The cabin teemed with weary passengers clambering for their seats as the stewardess welcomed everyone aboard. The pungent odor of jet fuel mixed with the stale odor of bodies and the incessant chatter of voices had me curling up in my seat with my nose tucked firmly into the collar of my light cotton sweater. Thank God I managed to get a window seat on the second to last row when I checked in.
Last Monday, I’d flown home on the red-eye instead of staying the night in Manhattan and catching the next morning’s flight as planned. With a sense of urgency and barely restrained panic, I finally made it home, excited to break the news to Courtney and Jake and to start the process of packing up my life. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the interview with Mrs. Henderson and I still couldn’t believe it: I’d gotten the job of my dreams!
If you’d had asked me way back when I first started college what grade I most wished to teach after graduation, my answer would have been first grade… and now, years later, my wish hadn’t changed. I could hardly contain my excitement—my very own class filled with cute, little exuberant six-year-olds, all eager to learn. The things I’d only ever imagined doing I could now put into practice. Things like: how I was going to decorate the classroom with my own personal touches, instating themed days of the week as a learning experience, and the reading and math progress reward charts I would create for each student. The list of possibilities was endless.
Only one nagging doubt plagued my waking thoughts through the week as I packed up my life in preparation to move and those all centered on the mystery surrounding how Mrs. Henderson and Whitfield Academy had initially gotten ahold of my resume to begin with. Her explanation was vague at best and evasively dismissive at worst. The whole conundrum left me feeling somewhat discombobulated. And although I briefly considered the only person I knew of who’d have the kind of influence to pull a favor of that magnitude, I just as quickly dismissed the idea.
The chances of Roman using his influence to get me an interview at Whitfield Academy was too bizarre to even consider. Since he’d abruptly left me in Venice, in the dead of the night weeks ago, I hadn’t heard a single word from him—no phone calls or texts. And he’d made it abundantly clear during our time together in Europe that he was not a man who did commitment. No, Whitfield Academy must have been forwarded my resume from another school I’d applied to, because the alternative was far too ridiculous to consider.
In less than a week, I had managed to pack up all my worldly belongings, which amounted to six large boxes—the furniture I owned would stay with Courtney and Jake in their condo in LA—and arranged to have them shipped to New York. I spent time saying my good-byes to Uncle Mike and the rest of the troupe, who were back in Los Angeles between performances, and I finished up my last day of coaching at the local gymnasium on Thursday. It had been bittersweet saying good-bye to all the kids at the gym, and I would miss them all terribly, but I was also excited to begin the next phase of my life.
Luck seemed to be on my side as the third shared apartment for rent I looked at on Craigslist was perfect. Samantha Andrews was a recent transplant to New York, only having lived in the city for two months. Along with a friend, she had rented a two-bedroom walk-up in SoHo; however, the friend turned out to be flakey, barely staying a month before ditching out on Samantha almost four weeks ago and leaving Sam to pay all of the rent herself.
The apartment was a whopping $3,800 per month, which had me momentarily doubting my decision to move to the notoriously expensive city, but then I reminded myself that my newly generous salary would be more than enough to cover my share.
During our Skype session, Samantha revealed it had been a huge struggle coming up with the rent all by herself since her roommate had left, and she’d eaten up a good portion of her savings over the last month. When I told her I needed to move in as quickly as the coming weekend and could easily put up the first and second months’ rent in advance, she was ecstatic. Samantha, who insisted I call her Sam, seemed sweet, hilariously funny, and had a lightning quick wit similar to that of Courtney’s. Although nobody would ever replace my best friend, I had a good feeling Sam and I would get along just fine.
All in all, everything just seemed to fall in place, as if it were destiny. Now all I had to do was find a way to erase those damn tormenting dreams of a certain indigo-eyed, seductive billionaire jackass from my freaking head every night while I slept and then everything would be just peachy.
Of course, I was going to miss Court and Jake like hell, but with the impending arrival of their baby only months away, I knew I’d be flying back to see them and meet the baby in person. Courtney and Jake had already asked me to be the godmother and there was no way I was missing out on being there for the birth. It was only a five-hour direct flight or so from NYC to LAX and with the salary Whitfield Academy was going to pay me, I could likely afford to fly home for all the major holidays.
It was official: I, Charlotte Evangeline Gilmore, was taking those final steps into the land of mature adulthood.
The six thirty morning flight from LAX had me landing into JFK at three in the afternoon. Although it was a sunny and balmy eighty-two degrees in Los Angeles, New York was a cooler and cloudy sixty-five degrees. After I hauled my two large suitcases from the luggage turnstile, I found my way to the taxi bay and waited in line as I sent Sam a quick text to let her know my plane had landed. I loved that both Sam and I had that in common—preferring to be called by the shorter versions of our given names.
My phone vibrated just as I climbed into the taxi and after giving the driver my new address, I swiped my thumb across the phone’s screen. It was Sam letting me know she was at work and wouldn’t be finished with her shift until seven but had left a spare key to the apartment under a potted plant beside the front door.
One very long but interesting ride later, I paid the driver and thanked him when he lifted my two heavy suitcases from the trunk and placed them safely on the sidewalk. The apartment was located in Lower Manhattan in the neighborhood referred to as SoHo and was famous, according to Wikipedia, for its artists’ lofts, galleries, and trendy shopping boutiques. As I stood on the worn gray sidewalk, my mouth gaped in awe as I took in the quaint tree-lined street hedged with multiple five- and six-story old brick buildings in varying colors of red, gray, and brown. An assortment of shops, cafes, and bars were dotted along the ground floors of each structure and just like on television, each building had metal fire-escape ladders crisscrossing their exteriors.
Holy moly, Monica—it was like I was standing in an episode of Friends.
Exhaling a big breath, I reached for my suitcases and dragged them up the small stoop to the front door of my new apartment building. Keeping up my fitness regime wouldn’t pose a problem while living in New York, I thought musingly. Primarily because my new home just so happened to be located on the top floor of a six-story walk-up. No elevator in a six-story walk-up equaled firm, tight buns; however, dragging two thirty-pound cases up six flights of stairs was definitely not going to be my idea of a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Thankfully the apartment came fully furnished, so the only ot
her belongings I had to haul up these stairs apart from myself were the six boxes of clothes, shoes, books, and linens I had being delivered later in the week.
After safely navigating the stairs with my luggage in tow, I found the key, unlocked the door and walked in. The apartment was small…actually, small wasn’t an accurate description. Tiny was more like it but wow…just wow! The floors were all lightwood, exposed brick covered the walls, and the apartment was infused with an atmosphere of industrial chic character. The narrow galley kitchen was lined with oak cabinetry and charcoal Formica countertops. A small stainless-steel fridge, microwave, and two-burner hot plate were the extent of the kitchen appliances and a modest two-seater dining table sat propped in the corner. The other end of the galley kitchen led into a cozy living room with a two-seater cream couch; a wooden coffee table and matching entertainment cabinet with a flat-screen television perched on top and a plush chevron rug lay proudly on the floor to tie the room together. There weren’t many personal effects such as photo frames or knickknacks, so I guessed Sam hadn’t had a chance to make the space fully her own yet. The lush green fern in the corner and the black-and-white print of the city went a long way to making the apartment homely.
Next I inspected the minuscule bathroom with its toilet, single-door vanity and a half-shower recess. The walls were rendered brick and painted in a soft subtle taupe shade that made the space look much bigger than it actually was. And lastly, my bedroom—with a double bed, side table, and single chest of drawers—was surprisingly spacious in comparison to the rest of the apartment. Instead of a closet, an ornate old-fashioned metal rail hung on one side of the exposed brick wall and a small grated window on the far side of the room was framed with sheer white curtains.
