by Jo Noelle
As I walk into the kitchen, Mina is fixing dinner. “Liam called. He wants you to call him back. He says your phone might be dead again. Hey, he mentioned you’re organizing a school party. Can you find something I could do that night?”
“Sure. We’re having a princess theme. What would you like to do?”
“Maybe I could take pictures of the families. They’re going to be dressed up, right? I’ll make a backdrop with a castle. It will be great.”
“Thanks, Mina.”
When I call Liam back, he volunteers to arrange for some dancing, things the families can do in groups. He thinks it could be for about fifteen minutes near the end of the night. I accept. I’m getting a little excited about how this is coming together.
April 12, 2008
Newbie Blog:
Don’t Ask—I Don’t Know
Teacher assignments for next year are coming up, and I’ve been inundated with questions from parents about who they should request for their child’s teacher for second grade. They have met me as I get out of my car and have been waiting by my classroom door early in the morning. Others have stalked me during recess or lunch. But honestly, teachers don’t know if other teachers are good teachers.
I can tell parents if I like the other teachers personally or if they’re fun to talk to at lunch. If they come to work, make intelligent comments in meetings, or ditch out on faculty duties. And if their room is close to mine, I can even tell parents if they yell at their students when they’re mad. But are they a good teacher? Nope. Unless I’ve watched them teach, I would have no idea. And since it’s my first year, I’ve only watched lessons from two teachers. I’ve observed one teacher every month during math, and he is a master teacher.
The other is the teacher assigned to be my mentor, Mrs. Haze. I’ve been in her room twice to observe and haven’t seen her teach yet. The first time, she handed out worksheets, then sat at the table to talk to me about how to solicit donations from the parents. The second time, she had the students open their reading books and listen to a recording of someone reading the story. Then she sat at the table with me and talked about how to average grades, which is important, I guess, if you do a lot of worksheets. The sad thing is, this is how she “teaches.” And sadder, the community rumor is that she’s a master teacher too.
Liam brings Grandma Ruby over to the school on Tuesday. Before she starts meeting with students, she mentions to me that Liam told her about the party coming up. “He said it’s a princess party. I wondered if you had room for a grandma to read princess stories to the kids? I think it could be fun.”
“That’s a great idea. The kids will love it. Thank you.” Liam is the best word-of-mouth advertising our committee has.
As he leaves, Mrs. Hays walks in, carrying a paper. “Sophie, do you have a minute?” Her voice sounds suspiciously nice, and I approach her cautiously. She holds out the paper and I take it. “We need to meet with Mr. Chavez right after school. Please sign the bottom and bring this with you. You’re doing a fabulous job.”
What? Everything from the whine in her voice to the way her eyes flick to me and away, says she’s lying. When I scan down the page, I know why.
As the meeting starts, I offer some ideas for activities for the princess party. “I thought we could have treats, of course, but fancy ones, not just cookies. There’s a bakery called Le Petit specializing in mini desserts. Most of them are beautiful little three-bite desserts.”
“We can’t afford gourmet refreshments,” Mrs. Hays counters, her arms folded so tightly against her chest that I wonder if she can still breathe. She glares at me, almost daring me to challenge her authority on this.
No problem. “I called to see what the prices are, and I think it could work. The budget Mr. Chavez gave me from last year’s celebration is similar to this year’s, and it looks like we can spend a bit more on the treats since we won’t be paying for entrance fees.”
“We could have some pretty but inexpensive cookies to go along with them, and a simple punch,” Andi says.
“How about carriage rides? We can rent two carriages for the evening, and they can give rides around the block. Each carriage holds eight people. The rides will be short, but I think the girls will go nuts for them,” Lyndi says. “The carriage company will take care of all the arrangements, and we won’t have to do any more than pass out tickets for the rides.”
“What a unique activity. I think we should book it,” I say. Everyone nods and smiles.
“Great. I’ll call them back tonight.”
We also include a cupcake walk, fingernail painting, and group dancing to the list of events. I add that we’ll have a photo booth where students can pose for pictures in front of a castle backdrop in their princess dresses and crowns.
“Oo, lets get cut-outs of princes the girls can pose with,” Beth adds.
“Yes, life-sized,” Karen agrees. “We could have some from story books and Hollywood movies. Can we find some of European royalty? I’ll take that assignment, unless someone else wants to do it.”
“Great. Put your name by it.”
“I almost forgot,” I say. “Grandma Ruby is going to read princess stories to little groups in a corner of the gym.”
Beth puts her hand on the shoulder of the volunteer from her class and says, “We’ll do both craft projects—crowns and wands.”
“With any luck, though you won’t be there,” Andi says. “It’s your due date, right?”
“It is.” Beth smiles, her folded arms resting on her stomach. “But I can get it all ready, then you can man the tables if I don’t make it that long.” She crosses her fingers.
Karen writes it down and the meeting gets a bit quiet. This is the time for Mrs. Hays to volunteer, but she hasn’t stepped up yet. I hate to volunteer before she has a chance. I’m really willing to do any of these, so I’d like her to have a choice. But she’s silent. The whole group is. For too long.
Lyndi offers, “I’ll do the fingernail painting, since the carriage rides won’t take any effort after making arrangements and tickets.” Karen writes Lyndi’s name on the list.
Quiet again. Waiting. I can’t take it. “Mrs. Hays, would you take the assignment for the cupcake walk?”
She looks at me and asks, “Is there something else I could do?”
She’s kidding! “No, nothing else is left.”
“Then I guess I have to save you again. Put my name down.”
I bit my tongue—literally. It really does work. Then I look at the rest of the group. “Thanks, everyone. Please email me budget requests by tomorrow night, then I’ll email back your budget amounts. Thanks again!”
April 19, 2008
Newbie Blog:
They Make Me Laugh
My kids say funny things all the time. I’ve written them in the margins of my plan book. Here are some of my favorites:
One of my students has a new baby brother. When I asked him whether the baby looked more like his mom or his dad, he answered, “He’s a ship off the o’clock.”
A girl in my class has been writing about dance lessons lately. One day, she described going shopping with her mom for everything she needed—“I bide pink shoos, white tites and a black lepard.”
Another student wrote this story. “Last wek I was runig at reses and tript and my leg hit the curb and I cryd and mis Jonsun gave me ise. Now I hav a big blues but it’s really green.” When she finished reading the story to the rest of the class she pulled up her pant leg to show everyone the bruise. (Yes, six-year-olds overshare, but that’s a blog for another day.)
They make me smile every day. I will really miss this.
My eyes slit open, and I realize that school hours border on an addiction. Even when I don’t set my alarm, my eyes pop open at six thirty a.m. anyway, on weekends, on holidays—even today, the first day of spring break. Just because it happens, doesn’t mean I need to go along with it, so I get up, brush my teeth, and jump back under the covers. It’s nice to just l
ie in bed and think of anything that comes up. I have considered lilacs blooming, a possible visit to the mall, whether or not I’d like to plant tomatoes in the back yard. There’s nowhere I have to go and nothing I have to do.
When I think about the next few weeks, I get this little tickling in my stomach. The end of the school year means the end of my employment. I’ve had a one-year reprieve from financial disaster, but it seems to be sitting just around the block, waiting for me again this summer. I pull out my budget and quickly tick off the changes. Rent is the same, utilities—same, food, hair, entertainment—same, credit cards paid off—yay! Oh, the phone. I won’t use as many minutes without the real estate calls, so I can switch plans and reduce the payment. I guess everything else stays the same.
This all means I’ll have an extra $550 per month through the summer, then I have to clear at least $1400 a month with a new job. Yes, I have to get a new roommate. I have a few more real estate closings as possibilities from my work with What’s-his-creep coming up, and I have almost $10,000 back in my savings account. If I watch my budget, I could live for at least seven months without having to think about moving home with Mom. I’ll get some type of job before then.
On Tuesday, there’s a note sitting in my box from Mr. Chavez asking me to meet with him tonight after school. I hate getting called to the office. I know I’m an adult, but every time, I feel like I’m in trouble.
The last bell rings, kicking the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy. I send my students out and make the long walk. Mrs. Hays is going the same way, just a few steps behind me. If I’m in trouble, I hope she doesn’t find out, but shortly after I take a seat in the outer office, she enters. She takes one look at me and drags a chair across the room before sitting.
Mr. Chavez catches the end of her seat selection and probably my eyes rolling at her. “Mrs. Hays, Miss Kanakaredes, please, come in.”
He hands us both a paper and we sit at his desk. The title at the top of the page says Mentoring Report. After skimming the questions, I look first at Mrs. Hays—she’s concentrating on her own paperwork. Then at Mr. Chavez—he just smiles. This should be interesting. The butterflies magically disappear, and I begin filling out the page.
I had no idea Mrs. Hays was getting a stipend for being my mentor this year. I read each question slowly. Really? She was supposed to help me create a curriculum map, units of study, and lessons along with gathering the needed classroom materials. That’s just the start. She also should have helped me learn to discipline, assess, and grade. The list goes on. None of it. She helped me with none of it, and I suspect she enjoyed watching me flounder. Many days, I thought she secretly wanted me to fail.
Bending over the page, I fill it in and even give a few details. Satisfied with my answers, I look back up. Apparently she has a lot to say and is writing lengthy notes under each question and into the margins. I want to lean closer and see what she has so much to write about. When she notices me watching, she pulls her purse from the floor and sets it on the table to block my view.
A couple of minutes later, we both hand our pages to the principal. His head begins swinging between our papers, comparing our answers and reading the extra notes. For a moment, his brows wrinkle with confusion. When he finishes, he leans toward us, resting his elbows on the desk and pressing his lips to his steepled fingers. It’s completely silent. At one point, he opens his mouth but closes it without a word, shaking his head. After another silent minute, he hands my page to Mrs. Hays and hers to me. “Read. Then we’ll talk.”
Mrs. Hays has claimed to have been a superior mentor. What? I look toward her to see her reaction and notice that her neck is turning very red. She’s either mad, which I suspect is true, or she’s embarrassed, which she should be.
“Ladies, you seem to have very different opinions about the mentoring process. Please explain.”
I’m not jumping in there first. Let her explain herself. But she doesn’t, and Mr. Chavez has to prod us again. “Mrs. Hayes, as you can see, Miss Kanakaredes wrote Beth’s name beside most of the mentoring standards, with the only exception being that she went into your class to watch you teach. The note, however, says that you didn’t teach during that visit, so I guess that’s still a no. Do you have anything to say about this report?”
Mrs. Hays shakes her head and pushes the paper back to the principal.
“Thank you, Sophie. You’re welcome to go.” We all stand and he continues, “Mrs. Hays, may I speak with you for a moment?” She reseats herself at his desk as I leave.
I should be sorry that she probably going to be reamed for the fraud of pretending to mentor me, but I can’t help feeling a little vindicated. At least he knows now.
May 3, 2008
Newbie Blog:
Launching Seven-Year-Olds
I had to send home the room assignments for next year, when my students won’t be my students anymore (sniff, sniff). They’ll be second graders. Part of me wanted to tuck them in my pocket as if I could pause time by holding back their next assignment.
Did I prepare my students for what’s coming next? Are they independent learners? Do they have the skills they’ll need to succeed? Do they recognize their own success? Did they develop a sense of who they are as learners and people? Have they increased their capacity to friend each other? Do they know I have loved them as learners and dear friends?
There are forty weeks in a typical school year, and I only have four left. Sad.
P.S. I’ve started applying for jobs. Nothing yet.
The princess party is tonight. All the girls in the school are invited to come and bring their parents. Costumes are requested. Girls and moms can dress as a fairy, a princess, or a queen. Dads received special invitations and are asked to dress in ties—we didn’t know if we’d get any dads to come if we said they had to wear crowns. Miss Torris is going to be a fairy godmother randomly sprinkling guests with fairy dust, i.e. glitter.
After school, we set up everything and we’re all ready. One of the moms from my class, without daughters at our school, has agreed to help me with the refreshments table. Miss Torris has volunteered to help there as well. Mina and Stev are setting up a sparkly castle backdrop for the photo booth. They’re putting glitter around the clouds, the castle, the flowers and on the unicorns’ horns.
The carriage rides are confirmed and Lyndi has roped off the area they will depart from, right next to the sidewalk by the front entrance. After Liam set up the speakers for the dance portion, he set up chairs for Mrs. Hays to use in the cupcake walk. She has also recruited two moms to help her tonight. One will do the music and another will give out the cupcake prizes. I’m not sure what is left for Mrs. Hays to do. Hmmm …
I have a table set up between the photo booth and the craft tables to use for the fingernail-painting station. There are chairs for me and Lyndi, and extras for Mina and Liam to hang out with us when they aren’t doing something else.
All the tables are draped in pink skirts with white tulle swags and bows. Pink swags and bows also hang above the doors. Although the decorations are simple, it will be enough since all the participants will be in costume and the floor will be a glittering carpet by the end of the night. I’ve stocked up on Cherry Twizzlers for Mr. Samson—this is going to be a wreck. I’ve warned him, though, and he tells me he’s on it, as are the three high school guys he’s hired to help with clean up. Bless him.
I am definitely going as a princess, which is secretly every girl’s dream. I’ve renovated an old bridesmaid’s dress for the party. Look at that! It turns out I am wearing it again. It has a prima ballerina look—a light-blue bodice with fine layers of floor-length white bridal tulle edged in a delicate lace. It’s like sitting in a swirl of meringue. Mina and I glued crystal accents to the skirt for most of the afternoon on Saturday. Now, the entire skirt looks touched with dew. I’ve added a wide, dark-blue sash, which I trimmed in silver beaded lace, to flow across my left shoulder and fasten over my right hip with a gigantic
crystal-and-silver broach I found at the thrift store.
My dark hair is pulled up with small blue and white flowers to accent it, but tendrils hang in soft curls down my neck and shoulders. The final touch is my beautiful only-been-worn-once birthday present from my mom. She knows my weakness for shoes, nice shoes, beautiful works-of-art shoes, which I can no longer afford. They are “Stay,” silver open toe sandals with “Jimmy Choo” written on the insole. The strap over the toe is echoed in three more narrow straps, buckling over my arch, one around my ankle and the third near the bottom of the calf. Each petite buckle blings with crystal designs circling it. My favorite feature, however, is the diamond-crystal tiled spike heel. You can only feel beautiful wearing these shoes, now I feel like a princess.
Although Liam’s not late, I’m anxious—not for the party. It’s going to be a great night. I’m anxious for him to come. Finally, he parks, but I can’t wait behind the door and rush out to meet him on the porch. The air seems charged with magical energy. He stops the moment he sees me, looking stunned. His eyes study my face, then all of me. His eyes gleam, and a small white box he was carrying drops from his grip.
“Sophie.” In one step, he crosses the distance between us and pulls me into his arms. “You’re gorgeous.” His lips slant across mine. The passion of his kisses awakens my every nerve, tight as violin strings that sing with the slightest rub. My whole body tingles at his touch. When he breaks off the kiss, I feel weak but crave more.
“I want to give you a complete fairy tale tonight. That’s the plan, but I got a little off just now.” He releases me and retrieves his box. When he returns to the porch, he takes my hand in his and kisses me on the soft skin between my thumb and wrist, then presents me with the box. “For you.” Inside is a corsage of white lily of the valley and a blue orchid, which he slides onto my wrist.
