Newbie

by Jo Noelle

  “Chips. Sounds fun. See you tomorrow.”

  I limp home to find Mina jazzercising in the front room. My feet hurt. My butt hurts. My head hurts, and I’ve never made so many rapid-fire decisions in a whole week of my life let alone in a day.

  Mina’s eyes drop to my skirt. “Went that well, huh?” she asks in the middle of a grapevine.

  I nod and decide a warm bath is just what I need. I peel off my shoes, tossing them into the closet. Where are my ballet flats? I don’t think I can take another day with any kind of heel. And I really just hope I can take another day.

  By dinner, my feet have returned to their normal size.

  “So, why was your skirt ripped? Or maybe you’d rather not say?” Mina asks.

  I lean on the table and sigh. “It was not the best first-day a teacher has ever had.” I look at my hands and tell her about the highs—the parents and their pictures, and the wide-eyed, expectant faces of all the kids sitting in their desks.

  I hesitate as I get to the slightly terrible parts of the day, like the fact none of the children can say my last name. “And during art, I had a kid eating markers, and a little girl thought school was over at lunchtime and left—as in she walked home. And I didn’t notice for ten minutes after they got back from recess. Really? What teacher loses a kid and doesn’t notice? Yeah, me.”

  An overwhelming need for dark chocolate fish in a river of marshmallow fluff pushes me out of my chair. I grab two spoons, accurately assuming Mina wants some, and return to my seat to continue the story. “Then I ruined my pencil skirt.” Mina nods. “I was standing on a kid’s desk after school hanging some colored pages from the ceiling and fell off. There was a bee.”

  “A bee?”

  “Yes, and a super-hot dad came over from Beth’s class to give me some flyers for the kids tomorrow and probably saw me rubbing my butt, and he definitely saw me pull my skirt up and around to inspect the tear!”

  “Hmm…A hot dad huh? Interesting. Was he wearing a ring?”

  “Mina, he’s probably a dad at the school where I work. I don’t really think that that is allowed. You know? And no, he wasn’t.”

  “Whatever. Every single man is fair game in my book. If you see him again, flirt a bit.”

  “If I see him again, I’ll walk the other direction. I looked ridiculous.”

  “Sorry about your day. Really it can’t be worse tomorrow.”

  We put away the ice cream and dinner leftovers and watch a movie before bed. While getting ready for bed, I hope the rest of this first week goes smoothly. At night, I dream half my class disappears during reading groups. I look at a book and when I look back up they’re gone. This may be a really long week—well, really long year.

  On Tuesday, I walk to work, in flats. Not much better than the slingbacks. Now my arches ache as much as my toes, seat, and back. I notice Nelson is obviously sick enough to stay home today when he sneezes and blows gobs of green snot on the sleeve of my jacket, which I fold into a spare trashcan liner for the rest of the day. I get an ew-shiver just thinking about it.

  I drive to work on Wednesday. Guilt nags at me for driving when I only live a couple of blocks away. I’ll find another way to love the earth. And yes, Nelson is in school again, so it becomes my priority to teach him to blow and pinch with the tissue. I can’t believe I really have to teach someone to pinch.

  Today is a library day for my class. As my class follows me up the hall, I see Hot Dad talking with Mr. Chavez outside the office door. Maybe he’s divorced. He’s tall—six one, six two. I could wear heels with him. His shoes are brown Diesels, and he’s wearing tight-fit Volcom pants. Mmmm, they have that little pocket on the side of his knee. My eyes continue their slow gaze upward. His lightweight brown-striped DC sweater shows off his athletic build, slim waist, deep chest, broad shoulders…definitely an athlete. My cheeks flush a bit as I remember my peek at his chiseled abs. His eyes turn my way and his smile deepens. Beautiful. Did he just wink? He winked. How long was he looking at me? Oh, my gosh, how long was I looking at his…sweater?

  I ditch into the library and practically take out Miss Torris, the librarian, who is standing by the door to greet us. She’s maybe fifty with long, graying blonde hair. Her eyes are excited, and she’s clearly trying to hide a smile. “I see you’ve noticed Liam.”

  “That obvious?”

  “No, I’m sure one or two of your students missed it.”

  A soft giggle escapes—I hope she’s exaggerating. The mirth in her eyes tells me she might be. But really, Liam was standing in the middle of the hallway as I walked a good fifty feet with nothing else to look at but him—so I took a really good look. I shrug to let her know there is no way I am denying what she might think. I’m guilty.

  She isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily, and she raises her eyebrows, suggestively, but I say, “Sorry, we’re a bit late today. You’ll still have time to read to the kids, right?” Miss Torris accepts my clumsy switch of topics with just a pinch of disappointment wrinkling her brow.

  After she reads to the class, the kids choose books to read. They lay on the couches and rugs looking at books. I decide to pump Miss Torris for info. “How do you know Liam?”

  “He works here, started last winter.”

  “What grade?” Ooh-ooh, say first grade, say first grade.

  “He’s the school’s permanent substitute. But if he isn’t needed in a classroom, he does whatever Mr. Chavez has for him—helps out in the copy room, recess duty, different everyday. Cute thang though. I just love it when he is helpin’ in here.” Her southern accent exaggerates her swoon as she fans herself, raising her eyes to heaven.

  Not a hot dad then, hot sub. Huh, I wonder if he’s single…no ring. Yes, that’s an auto-check for me…Wait, I wonder. Are we allowed interoffice romances? But do I really want to date a teacher? No offence, but they don’t exactly top the pay scales. Hmm, does money buy happiness? No. But I don’t believe poverty does, either. I know that from very recent experience. So money is inert. And since it is inert, it isn’t evil to need it. I guess dating him for a little while wouldn’t hurt. His smile and his eyes are much better than money anyway.

  Thursday, right after recess, Jan’s class comes over for Reading Buddies. Each of the fifth-grade students pairs with one of my students to read together for twenty minutes. First, the fifth grader reads one of the first-grader’s books to them, then the younger student takes a turn. The older students are very cute to the first graders, giving high-fives, smiling, and complimenting the younger ones as they read. It’s great to sit and talk with Jan. This is her eighth year teaching but only her second year at this school. She has taught second and fifth grades.

  After school at faculty meeting, I sit with the other first-grade teachers. Whatever we did took an hour and a half and was not memorable. Mrs. Hays used the time to cut out flashcards.

  Friday, Beth and I look over the rest of the assessments after school. Thank heavens, about a third of my class can already read, narrowing the number of students I could possibly ruin this year.

  I’m excited for the weekend—five days is a long time when you have to be in charge of a bunch of tiny kids who have entirely too much energy and not much of an attention span. I think I could sleep through until Monday. How do teachers do this for thirty years, let alone the one I’m signed up for?

  August 25, 2007

  Newbie Blog:

  Two Things I’ve Learned

  I’m a teacher, for eight days now. The principal told me so—when he hired me—on the spot—under duress. “Teacher” sounds like someone who knows what they are doing. Someone who has answers. The truth is, I know I’m out of my depth here. There are twenty-three people who know more about how the school-thing and teacher-thing works than I do. They’re my students, and they’re all six years old.

  I’ve heard that good teachers are the ones who keep learning. Things I’ve learned this week:

  1. If you don’t decide what you w
ant, you get stuck with what someone else thought was good. Like when a child holds up two fingers, it doesn’t mean peace out. But as Kalli blurted, since I didn’t appear to understand the urgency, she had to go number two. Apparently, someone thought it was a good idea for students to report if they’re going number one or number two when they ask to go to the restroom. Eeew! I made a new bathroom pass on Tuesday and a new rule. Put your name card on the hook when you remove the bathroom pass. I’ll nod to you to say I know you’re going. That’s really enough information.

  2. Staff meetings start on time, are not optional, and are not fun. No one spins prize wheels or wins trips to Vale. There are no top producers. Actually, I don’t see the motivation to keep going back to them, except probably keeping my job.

  Something I don’t want anyone else to know is that this week scared the crappers out of me. Each day as the students entered, I wondered if I had enough planned to keep them busy for five and a half hours in a room the size of my family room. Are they happy? Are they learning? Are they safe? But I made it. Now I can enjoy the weekend, then do it all again next week.

  There are forty weeks or so in a typical school year. Thirty-nine to go.

  P.S. When do you really become a teacher?

  I hit publish on my blog and go to the kitchen to help Mina with prep for the barbecue.

  “So, who did you invite?” Mina asks as she pops a green olive into her mouth. She hands me a large platter and points to the cut up vegetables on the cutting board.

  I begin arranging the lettuce and tomatoes. “Beth and her husband. Mr. and Mrs. Chavez, Carla. . .”

  “The receptionist?”

  “Right, the one fired at the real estate office. And Jenn, too. Clara and Jonas will be a little late.”

  Mina looks confused, so I add, “From the plasma center.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, they’re great. How about you? Is Stev coming for sure? After all it’s his party.” I open a can of black olives to add them to the hors d’oeuvre tray. Mina met Stev a week ago while we were in an internet café. She wrote her phone number on his hand, and he gave her a business card. I’ve suspected this barbecue was a ploy to invite him over.

  “I checked with him yesterday. He’s coming.”

  “Does he know how to get here?” It’s fun to watch Mina cook—no measuring, just tasting or smelling. She’s spicing the meat for the hamburgers, pinch of this, palm of that.

  “Sure, I went to his office yesterday to give him a map.” My jaw drops—she usually doesn’t make so much effort. She really doesn’t have to—guys constantly ask her out, but Mina continues, “I think a couple of his friends are coming too. I also invited three of the coaches from the high school and our new roommate.”

  “Good idea. We’ll have fifteen. Let’s put out the volleyball net.”

  Mina rushes around the backyard for at least half an hour longer than I do to put finishing touches on every available surface.

  The sun is far to the west and the twinkly lights strung through the deck fence are already glowing. There are white, yellow, and blue paper lanterns hanging in the giant maple in the middle of the yard. Under its long shadow, Mina arranged three round tables, covered with blue cotton cloths, each topped with thin vases with long, twisting sticks coming out the top and a single dahlia sitting just over the edge. A table is set up by the grill to hold all the fixings, and another with Mina’s iPod is playing upbeat music is placed in the corner of the patio.

  Beth and McKay are first to arrive. I can’t help notice that they’re opposites, like a picture with its negative. His hair is as dark as hers is light. It’s thick and cut close to his head while hers is casual, wispy, and airy. He has a rounded baby face while her features are crisp and dainty. Before McKay and Beth are through the door, Stev arrives with two of his friends from work. Mina squeaks just a little as he gets out of the car, but she’s complete composure when she welcomes him into the house.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Chavez arrive, I introduce them to Mina.

  “It’s Saturday—call me Jonathan,” he says after introducing his wife, Terese.

  No. Nuh-uh. I don’t think I can do that. It’s just inherently wrong. Principals don’t have first names, friends, or a life outside of school. Right? “Sure, Jonathan.” Feels weird.

  As everyone arrives, we make introductions again and again, give them drinks, and point them to the back patio. Eighteen, we’re all here plus some. Karli is going to be a great roomie. She fits right in, making friends with our friends. I think finding her was a credit to my ability to read people.

  A game of volleyball breaks out and we divide into teams. It starts as just a friendly effort to keep the ball from hitting the ground, but every serve gets a little more powerful. Players on both sides are soon setting and spiking—mostly at the other team’s weak members. Right now that’s me. Mr. Chavez is much more competitive, in a show-no-mercy sort of way, than I would have guessed. Normally I’m good at this game. Why can’t I hit the ball over the net—or even in the right direction? I’m having flashbacks of junior high as comments of “That’s alright,” “You can do it,” and “It’s okay,” echo each time I touch the ball. Red welts spread over my forearms, and I make an excuse about getting the dessert to leave the game.

  Mina and Stev are standing in the kitchen as I approach the back door. Mina is holding the tray of chocolate mousse parfaits. Stev says something very close to her ear, and they both smile. His hands brush hers as he takes the tray from her. Ooh, look how cute they are together.

  Mrs. Chavez is sitting at the patio table. “Hi, Terese. You escaped the volleyball war too?” I ask as I sit beside her.

  “Serious game—boys don’t grow up.” We talk about her family while I wait for Mina to come out of the kitchen with Stev, which should be any second now, very soon, but takes a surprisingly long time since they already have the parfaits in their hands. In fact, it’s long enough for me to learn that the Chavezes have a son who’s a high school senior and is as equally competitive as his dad, and plays soccer. Another is a freshman whose interests include computers and guitars. Their older daughter is in seventh grade, runs track, and dances on a ballroom team. And I have Ellie in my class, whom her mother says might be the most precocious of the lot.

  When Mina and Stev come out, they don’t have the desserts. I meet Mina’s eyes and see the sparkle that says, “Yes, we’ve been kissing in the kitchen.” Stev’s hand is resting lightly on the small of her back. I excuse myself and retrieve the desserts. That might be the only way to break up the current game.

  After dessert, most of the guests go home, but Mina invites Stev to play cards. At midnight, when Stev and his friends leave, we look around the house at the party mess. It was a great party, all in all. We look around again and decide we’ll clean up tomorrow, besides it’s time to sit on Mina’s bed and talk about Stev.

  As I back out of the garage, I feel a pang of panic hit me. I’m starting the second week. There’s only one more week of Beth’s lesson plans in my files. Then what do I do? Shouldn’t I know what comes next? Where do my students have to be by the end of the year? By Christmas? I don’t know what the goals are. Not only do I need to know what Beth’s doing, I need to know how Beth knows what to do. As I walk into our hall, the light from Beth’s open door floods the still darkened hallway.

  “Great party,” she calls as I walk in.

  “Thanks—it was fun. McKay is crazy competitive, isn’t he?” I sit on the student desk nearest to Beth’s.

  “I know. I almost felt like I needed to remind him that Jonathan is my boss. They were really going at it, but it turned out okay.”

  “I have a favor to ask. Could we eat lunch in your room for a few days and you can show me how to plan lessons and what lessons I need to plan? Basically, how to do my job?” It’s hard to admit how unprepared I am for this position.

  “That’ll work. Come over after you drop off your students.”

&nbs
p; After tossing a twelve-pack of Diet Coke into the closet in my room, I turn to see that the copy fairy reappeared this morning. There’s a fresh stack of coloring pages on my desk, and a sticky note on top says, “Use these to fill up your week. Mrs. Hays.” Déjà vu!

  At lunchtime, I sit in Beth’s room, waiting for her. The windows look out the opposite side of the school from mine. Her view is the playground and fields, where I can only see the parking lot. Jacquie and Megan are jumping rope with some girls from the other first-grade class. A bunch of boys are jumping around the recess aide—wait, that’s Liam. I move closer to the window, staring with more interest. He blows a whistle, and they sit on the ground. He points and two kids stand up, picking teams. Liam puts the whistle to his mouth and they run to the field. The ball is placed in the middle, and they’re off. This whole team chases that whole team. I’m sure the soccer ball is somewhere in the middle as they swarm back and forth.

  There’s a whole group of kids running back and forth, but I only watch one person. Liam effortlessly jogs along, laughing, calling out to them occasionally. He looks at ease, happy. There’s a collision between three boys. Liam whistles again, lifting one boy off the other, and shows him a yellow card he’s produced from his pocket. The boys shake hands, then one boy kicks the ball off again. The chase continues and Liam smiles, his long legs making short work of the small field they use. At least this answers why my students slip the hardened plastic shin guards onto their legs before they go out. They seem as likely to kick each other as they do the ball.

  Beth touches my shoulder.

  I jump. “Guilty.”

  “Are we just looking, or are we at the talking stage yet?” she asks.

  “Looking. A lot. Want to switch rooms?” I think it’s a brilliant idea, but Beth just laughs. “I don’t understand. Why is Liam here? Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad he is—but do you know his story? I mean, he’s obviously gorgeous.” I check Beth’s face to see if she gets what I’m asking.