Mr. Mahoney was a great teacher. A young teacher like I would be soon. Hopefully. I didn’t connect with him on the same level as I had with Mrs. McCray, but he knew good writing, and he knew how to teach it. He let me get as imaginative as I wanted with his group of unmotivated and unwilling teenagers. It was a senior-level Creative Writing course, and senioritis had definitely set in with only four weeks left until the end of the school year. I continued to have my students journal their thoughts and ideas as I had with my eighth graders, but I made them dig deeper; beyond the surface of their emotions. Some of them produced really good work, while others were never going to tap into that creative right side of their brains when it came to writing. What’s the point if I can’t reach them all? It all seems kind of pointless if I’ve only truly taught or inspired about one third of my students to write.
“You’ve taken your certification exams haven’t you?” Mr. Mahoney interrupted my thoughts. “I’m not sure how it all works now, but when I finished school seven years ago, I know it was best to get the exams out of the way before graduation, that way you could start applying for teaching jobs for the upcoming school year.”
“It still works that way, and, yes, I’ve taken and passed both of the necessary exams,” I smiled a bit at my unintentional gloating. I hadn’t meant for it to come out so snooty.
“Well, good for you Ms. Borders. Now, let’s get you a teaching job!” he exclaimed cheerfully, like it was as easy as the snap of his fingers. “Where are you thinking of applying? Locally?”
My conversation with Him a few weeks ago came flooding back into my mind. I told Him that I was considering applying for schools in the area since I had enjoyed my student teaching assignments so much, and His eyes bulged frantically from His head. “What do you mean?!” He was almost shouting and I was only inches from Him on the couch in my crappy apartment. “I thought we had a plan, Quinn? I’ve already accepted an internship, a paid internship, with the Harper and Hays advertising firm up in Houston and my grad school papers have already been submitted to U of H. What about us getting a place together? You said, yes, remember?”
“I just said I was considering the option of teaching here, I didn’t say it’s a done deal,” I tried to reason with Him. “Teaching jobs are hard to come by in this economy, hell, all jobs are hard to come by these days. I just want to make sure that I keep all of my options open,” I added calmly, trying to soothe His agitation with me. The conversation ended at that. He either wasn’t in the mood to continue the argument, or He knew deep down that I was right.
“Umm, no, not locally,” I told Mr. Mahoney as he pulled the rolling chair back from his desk so that I could sit at his computer. “I was thinking of looking in the Houston area, or maybe in the surrounding suburbs.”
“Ahh, Big City Girl, I see.”
“Well I don’t really know if I’m a Big City Girl or not. I’ve only ever lived in small towns, so I guess I’m just trying to get a feel for what kind of girl I am. If nothing pans out up there, I’ll have to look for jobs elsewhere though; including around here. Those students loans aren’t going to pay themselves off,” I joked.
“Trust me, I know all about that. At this rate, I’ll be paying mine until I’m fifty,” he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. The thought scared me. I knew teachers didn’t make much when it came to salaries, but there was no other career that I had ever even considered. I loved writing and literature, and without going the “starving artist-author” route, teaching was the only other way I’d get to fulfill that passion on a daily basis: by instilling into others.
After an hour of searching through dozens of school district websites and filling in application after application and submitting them online, a posting for Secondary Creative Writing Teacher popped up on my Google search. The Academy of Learning and Discovery was a privately owned high school just west of Houston in a town called, Brookshire, Texas. Their website was quaint and simplistic. It didn’t have hundreds of links leading you in a million different directions and to a million different sub-links. It had a welcome page that stated the school’s Mission Statement: TALD is committed to the encouragement and empowerment of our students in their mission for excellence. It also had a picture of a middle-aged man (probably in his late forties or early fifties), with a women who seemed to be around the same age and a caption beneath it: Principal Bill Felder and his wife, Secretary Anne Marie Felder.
The more I read about the school, the more intrigued I became. The average enrollment was only one hundred and twenty-five students. That was at least an eighth of the population of my hometown high school and both of the schools that I student-taught at. “So much for becoming a Big City Girl,” Mr. Mahoney chuckled over my shoulder.
“Hey, I’d still be near the big city. This school is only half an hour from the middle of downtown Houston. Besides, a small-town girl like me needs to take baby steps so I that I don’t get swallowed up by the big bad city.”
“I suppose you’re right. And that boyfriend of yours? Would he be willing to commute into the city every day, or would you be the one commuting?”
I definitely hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of teaching at a private school, nor had I ever even heard of Brookshire, Texas. “I think I’ll have to apply first, and then we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
DEAFENING SILENCE
April 30, 2012
My phone pinged at around 10:00 that morning, indicating that I had just received an email. I clicked on the small envelope icon that opened up my email application and highlighted at the top of my inbox was the subject line that read: Interview Request. I frantically tapped the screen of my new smart phone to open up the message and at the top of the page was the senders address, [email protected]. My blood raced with anticipation as I read his request:
Dear Ms. Borders,
I have just reviewed your résumé and application, and I would like to set up a meeting with you. Interviews are being held this Friday, May 4th, at various times. If you are still interested in joining the TALD family as a Creative Writing instructor, please contact my wife, Anne, at 281-555-6210. She will give you all of the necessary information for completing the interviewing process. I look forward to meeting with you soon.
Sincerely,
Principal Bill Felder
The Academy of Learning and Discovery
Family: I loved the sound of that. I was squealing and gasping while jumping up and down outside of my advisor's office when the door swung open and Mrs. Newfield emerged.
"Quinn? Can I help you, Dear?" She asked with concern.
"I'm sorry for disrupting you, I'm just so excited. I just received an email about an interview for a teaching job. The one I was most hoping to get."
"Well if the email was about an interview, then you haven't gotten the job yet, Dear. Try to control yourself, Ms. Borders." Mrs. Newfield was about a hundred years old, well past the age of retirement, and was absolutely a no- nonsense kind of woman. She called everyone, Dear, but the name was meant to establish her authority over you, not as a term of endearment. "Is there a reason that you are checking your emails and carrying on like a child outside of my office?" She asked, clearly annoyed with my presence.
I looked down at the large envelope in my hands. "Oh. Right. Yes," I stammered, handing her my final paperwork. "I'm officially finished with my student teaching. I just need you to sign off on this form so that I can turn it in and walk the stage next week at graduation." I was trying to stifle my excitement about the email and the upcoming ceremony that finalized the last sixteen years of my educational journey, so that I would not further grind on Mrs. Newfield’s nerves, but energy was coursing through my veins like runner’s high for marathoners.
She snatched the paper from my hand and pulled a pen from the tight gray curls near her left ear. "Another young hopeful takes on the big, cold, cruel world," she mumbled under her breath before handing
the paper back to me with her signature at the bottom. "Good luck to you, Dear," she said before retreating back into her office and slamming the door in my smiling face. I wasn't sure if she was being sincere or ironic, but I thanked her through the thick wooden door anyways before turning on my heel and bouncing down the hallway and out to my car.
I rushed back to my crappy apartment and microwaved a mug of green tea to try and calm my nerves before phoning Mrs. Felder. I wanted to come off as a professional, and not some giddy twenty-two year old without a clue. I was finished with school and graduation wasn't until the following week, so I was certain that I would be able to make it in there on Friday. I would call June once the meeting time was set and arrange to stay with her on Thursday night since she only lived one hour and twenty-two minutes from Brookshire, according to Google Maps.
Anne Marie was extremely helpful and full of Southern charm. Her accent reminded me of my Uncle David and Aunt Loraine's: my dad's family who lived in Kentucky. She listed off the available times for interviews and I chose the earliest one at 9:00 AM. I wasn't sure if I was the only one that they'd be interviewing for the Creative Writing position, but I wanted to follow Mr. Mahoney's advice and be the first one to make an impression.
May 3, 2012
My sister made popcorn and popped in our all-time favorite movie, Steel Magnolias, into the DVD player beneath her flat screen. “Nothing like a little Shelby to calm your nerves,” she said in her most convincing Southern Louisiana accent.
I wasn’t sure that there was anything that could calm the nerves that had built up inside of me as I drove each mile closer to Houston and closer to my possible, future home. I spent the whole day thinking about how the interview would go, what questions he would ask and if I was actually qualified for the job. “Well if anyone is going to calm my nerves, it’ll be Truvy,” I replied, mirroring my sister’s attempt at a Southern accent.
“You have always loved Dolly Parton,” my sister laughed. “Even when you were little, you always made Mom put on her old Dolly tapes in the car and that Southern twang of hers was the only thing that seemed to soothe you during one of your signature fits.”
“I think I still have one of Mom’s old tapes in the Malibu. Maybe I’ll listen to it on my way to the interview tomorrow. Think it’ll help?” I asked teasingly.
“Well, the only interview I’ve ever been on when I wasn’t the one doing the interviewing was back in college for that job I had at the public library. I was nervous as hell, and that was just a part-time job.”
“Is this supposed to be helping?” I asked.
“I just wanted you to know that everyone gets nervous before these things. It’s natural. But if anything is going to help, it’ll be Dolly,” she said with a smile. “Just make sure you’re prepared with some answers. The hardest part, I thought, was when my boss asked me to talk about myself.”
That can’t be too hard, I thought. Who knows me better than me, right? When the movie was over, I wiped my tears as I had the hundreds of other times that I watched that movie, and spread myself out on the couch to get some sleep. “It gets me every time,” I said out loud, but to no one in particular. It was only nine o’clock, but I wanted to get a full night’s rest so that I would wake up refreshed and ready to go in the morning. I was planning on leaving June’s apartment at 7:05 to allow for traffic and the nearly hour and a half drive to The Academy of Learning and Discovery.
“I’m leaving the key under the doormat so that you can lock up when you leave in the morning. Just put it back when you’re finished with it. I have to be at the bookstore early so I’ll already be gone by the time you wake up. Are you sure you have everything you need? Did you print out the directions?” my sister asked.
“Yes I have them, and my phone has GPS, too, so I should be fine. Thanks for letting me stay here, June. And for taking my mind off of it for a little while,” I said, wiping the remaining streaks of mascara from my tear-stained cheeks.
“Nothing like a good tear-jerker before a big job interview,” she joked. “Good night, Little Sister. And good luck. Call me when it’s over, I want to know all about it.”
“I will, I promise. Good night.”
She started down the hallway towards her bedroom and just before entering she turned and looked at me from her doorway, “Don’t let the butterflies get the best of you.”
I inhaled quickly at the mention of that word. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned over so that my back was facing the cushions on the couch and my nose was buried in the soft, velvety blue fabric. Tonight was not the night to be thinking about butterflies.
May 4, 2012
The alarm on my phone rang loudly from the end table next to the couch. 5:30. Oh its way too early to function. I rubbed my eyes and sat up slowly against the arm of the sofa, trying to piece together exactly where I was. Ok, this is June’s apartment. I assessed. My INTERVIEW! I jolted off the couch, bumping my knee on the coffee table in front of me. Fuck, that hurt! I half-limped down the hall and poked my head into my sister’s bedroom, but she wasn’t there. I remembered her telling me that she was leaving for work before I even woke up. How early do people need to buy books?
I took a shower, quickly, afraid that I wouldn’t have enough time to get ready and get some coffee in me by 7:05. By the time I got out of the shower it was close to six o’clock. Still plenty of time. My make-up only took about ten minutes: I had always been told to keep it light and natural when going on interviews. This was going to be a hard change from my norm of caked and gooey. I hung my clothes (black slacks and a cream colored, silk blouse) on the back of June’s closet door when I arrived early yesterday afternoon to ensure that they wouldn’t get wrinkled, and so I’d know right where they were when it came time to get dressed. I scrunched my hair with my fingertips and a glob of mousse and then blow dried my curls into they were soft and silky.
I kept my diamond studs, the birthday gift from Him, in a small pouch in my purse while traveling. I stuck my hand in the black hole that was my bag and came up empty. I reached in again, fumbling with items like lip gloss, miniature bottles of hand-sanitizer, a contact lens case, keys and my wallet: no pouch. After fighting with the contents of my purse, and cussing at it like it could care less, I finally dumped everything out and onto my sister’s bed. I rummaged through the debris, but still, came up empty. Where could they be? I distinctly remember packing them before I left yesterday. I hope they didn’t fall out somewhere. Maybe they’re in the car. Ugh! I so don’t have time for this. I dug around in my sister’s old, antique jewelry box until I found some small, simple silver studs and placed them in my ears. These will have to do.
Once I poured myself a cup of coffee and got dressed, I had about five minutes to spare. I downed the scorching liquid, searing my tongue in the process, and brushed my teeth one more time before walking out the front door. Never show up to an interview with coffee breath. Another great piece of advice from Mr. Mahoney.
I was so busy getting ready this morning that the nerves about the interview hadn’t hit until I was half way in route for Brookshire. My heart was racing and my palms were having a hard time gripping the steering wheel due to the sheen of sweat covering their surfaces. I tried taking deep breaths but nothing seemed to be working. Finally, I remembered my conversation with June from the night before. If anything is going to help, it’ll be Dolly.
I lifted the lid of the center console next to my right arm and felt around for the old cassette. “Ah ha!” I shouted in triumph, as I held the worn out tape in front of me. The Best of Dolly Parton was written on the front of it in my Mom’s handwriting with a Sharpie. Thank goodness for you, Old Girl, I said, patting the tape player beneath the dash of my car. I stuck the tape in and turned the volume up, loud enough to drown out the nerves, but not my GPS.
I waved my hands in the air, bounced in my seat and sang along with the lyrics of 9 to 5, and then pounded my fists on my steering wheel to the words of Jolene. The next song beg
an to play, and I didn’t recognize the tune right away, and then Dolly sang the first few verses: Love is like a butterfly, As soft and gentle as a sigh, The multicolored moods of love are like it's satin wings. Love makes your heart feel strange inside. It flutters like soft wings in flight; Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing.
Tears streamed down my cheeks before I even knew what was happening. After seconds, sobs were shaking me to my core. I knew I should turn it off, compose myself and fix my make-up, but I wanted to hear more. I had to.I feel it when you’re with me, It happens when you kiss me, That rare and gentle feeling; That I feel inside. Your touch is soft and gentle, Your kiss is warm and tender, Whenever I am with you; I think of butterflies.
I pulled my car off at the nearest exit and into a McDonald’s parking lot. Once in Park, I let the song play out, lifting me and crushing me all at once. How could there be a song out there that perfectly describes a feeling that I once felt, and I never even knew it?
Felt. In the secrecy of my own thoughts, I used the past tense.
I checked my face in the mirror and then the time: 8:23. According to my GPS, I had seventeen miles to go. I wiped away the streaks and reapplied my powder and mascara. “This is going to have work,” I told my blotchy reflection. I pulled back onto the highway, and turned my radio off altogether. Focus, Quinn. Your future depends on it.
Silent Flutter (The Butterfly Series) Page 18
