Girl Meets Class

by Karin Gillespie

  Shortly afterward, the front door opened, and a tall, black man strode in wearing a yellow silk tie and a well-cut suit. The suit was made from such fine hand-finished wool it practically shimmered. His longish hair was combed back from his head in gentle, wet waves. When he reached the center of the room, the overhead lights appeared to burn brighter, and the sickly green color of the walls looked more robust. It was as if he was traveling with his own secret power source.

  The receptionist ignored the ringing phones to greet him, and alert him to my presence.

  He turned his attention to me; his gaze was intense.

  “You’re here for the teaching job?”

  I extended my hand. “Yes, sir. My name is—”

  “Sorry,” he said, ignoring my hand. “Position’s been filled.” He turned away from me and walked out the door.

  I trailed behind him. “Wait! There’s been a misunderstanding. The lady who interviewed me—”

  “Must be smoking crack.” He pushed open the door.

  What was his problem? I followed him outside and lengthened my stride to keep up with his. “Please give me a chance. I’m enthusiastic with plenty of energy and—”

  Dr. Lipton whirled around and looked me in the eye.

  “Young lady, I told you the position is filled. Now please, quit tailing me.”

  “I might be young, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Young? You’re an embryo. I have vegetables in my crisper that are older than you.”

  He continued on his way, and I stood in the parking lot, the heat bearing down on my scalp like a hot iron skillet. My spirits sunk to new lows as I watched my sole chance of getting a decent job walk away from me in a pair of black wingtip shoes. I was about to return to my car, when I decided I wasn’t going to give up that easily. I needed this teaching job. My deadline was breathing down my neck.

  I caught up with the principal, took a deep breath for courage, and talked to his departing back. “Listen. I’m not just some young greenhorn off the street. Last year I was about to start a career as a pro tennis player. Do you have any idea what kind of dedication that takes? Every day I practiced until my arm was on fire. I’d make myself play a match even if I felt like I had to scrape my body off the floor. I was the most driven player on the circuit. I’d be playing right now if I hadn’t hurt my wrist.”

  When I was finished, I surprised myself. What I’d said was true, but the girl I’d been talking about was a stranger to me now.

  Dr. Lipton faced me. Again, he studied me so intently I almost expected him to ask me to open my mouth so he could check my teeth. Go ahead, I thought. I’d let him inspect every molar if it got me the job.

  Finally he spoke: “Under normal circumstances I’d never hire someone so young and obviously inexperienced, but I’m having a heck of time trying to fill this slot. In fact, you’re the only pony in this race.”

  Yes!

  “Tomorrow is the first planning day for teachers, and by law I have to fill that special ed position. I need someone who can control a classroom of teenagers. I took one look at you, and saw this very skinny, obviously privileged young lady…” His eyes cut to my Kate Spade bag. “And I said to myself, ‘She won’t last five seconds.’”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Lipton, you’re underestimating me.”

  Truth was, I saw my youth as an advantage. I could deal with the kids on their level.

  “Your little speech made me think twice. I was on my college’s varsity basketball team and I, too, intended to go pro until I busted my knee. I know exactly what it takes to compete as a top-notch athlete. Made me think you’re not quite as lightweight as you look.”

  “Thank you.” I was tempted to throw my arms around him in gratitude but resisted the urge.

  “Understand this, Ms. Wells. I don’t care how many tennis matches you’ve won or how badly I need a new teacher. If you don’t give me a hundred and ten percent, I’ll show you the door.”

  “Does this mean you’re considering me?”

  “More than that. Go back inside. Ask for a Ms. Wrigley. Tell her you’re the new special ed teacher at Harriet Hall High School, and she’ll take care of your paperwork. See you tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp.”

  Five

  The first day on the job I popped out my front door carrying a steaming coffee mug and a new briefcase. Nature was staging a beauty pageant. Whipped cream clouds raced overhead, crimson cardinals darted across a dew-kissed lawn, magnolia trees flaunted leaves of jade.

  Normally on a day like today I’d be marinating in Hawaiian Tropic and lying by the club pool with a mojito in one hand and a Mary Kay Andrews novel in the other. Made me feel a stab of longing for my former life of leisure.

  “Keep your eye on the prize,” I said softly.

  As soon as I got inside my car, Joelle called. A few days earlier I’d told her about my family cutting me off, but I didn’t discuss the deal I’d made with my aunt.

  Afterward there’d been a brief silence; she was probably thinking about the loss of her monthly check but didn’t bring it up. The second I got my inheritance, I planned to pay off the mortgage on her overpriced cottage.

  “I’m shocked you answered the phone,” Joelle said. “You’re never up this early. I expected to leave a message.”

  “I’ve been up for hours.”

  “Liar. Admit it. You haven’t gone to bed yet. I can smell the alcohol fumes rolling out of the receiver. The reason I’m calling is I read in the paper that the main library is having a free resume workshop at ten a.m. You should get over there. Soon as I’m finished working these long shifts, I’ll be able to help you more with your job hunt.”

  “I don’t need a resume,” I said, pulling out of the drive.

  She laughed. “Naiveté, thy name is Toni Lee. You can’t get a job without a resume. It’ll need more padding than a preteen’s bra but—”

  “I don’t need a resume because I already have a job.” Proudly I told her about my new gig, and how I was heading out that very moment for the first of five planning days before students arrived.

  “They hired you just like that? With no teaching degree? No license?”

  “It’s a program called Teacher Corps. What they do is—”

  “I know what they do. You hear about them in the news all the time. They place people in undesirable teaching positions. Where is it you’re teaching?”

  “Harriet Hall High School.”

  Silence.

  “Joelle. Did I lose you?”

  “Did you say Harriet Hall?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Good God almighty.” Her voice was so loud she sounded like she was on speakerphone. “You didn’t sign a contract, did you?”

  “I guess. To be honest they were shoving so many papers in my direction that I—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I doubt the school system sues too many people for breaking their contracts.”

  “Why would I want to break my contract? It’s the perfect job for me.”

  Even Aunt Cornelia had been impressed. Last night when I told her, not only did she approve of my new job, she wondered if maybe it was a bit too challenging. Little did she know how small my classes were going to be.

  “Gotta go. I’m being called over the P.A.,” Joelle said. “We’ll talk about this mess you’ve gotten yourself into later.”

  Why was she acting so funny? Did Joelle question my ability to look after a class full of students? Not that I could blame her. A couple of months ago she’d gone to a medical conference and asked me to care for her African violets. By week’s end I’d murdered most of them. Before she returned, I replaced the ones I’d killed, thinking she’d never know the difference. Wrong. She knew those flowers better than some people knew their children. Thank
God teenagers were more resilient than African violets.

  After Joelle hung up, I turned right on Parkway Avenue, a street lined with the city’s most majestic homes—stately colonials, Greek revivals, and candy-colored Victorians. All the homes were separated far from the traffic by sprawling green grounds. The crepe myrtles were in full bloom, and their ungainly flowered branches bobbed in the breeze. Rose Hill’s nickname was the City of Flowers because something was always springing into bloom, strewing the air with colorful petals.

  I traveled a few miles, obeying the pleasant yet bossy voice of the GPS, and clattered over railroad tracks. I passed a tired strip mall boasting a Title Pawn Auto, EZ Loans, Bulldog Bonding, and Suds Laundromat. A portable sign outside one store advertised chicken wings and human hair. No thanks, I thought.

  A final pass over more railroad tracks landed me in a creepy area with boarded-up buildings, weedy vacant lots, and low-slung, cinderblock public housing. A grim industrial plant belched smelly plumes of blue smoke.

  The further I went from home, the more my surroundings seemed like a Chinese nesting box, revealing one inner layer after another of ugliness. No wonder Joelle had acted so wary when I told her where I’d be working. Unbeknownst to me, I’d accepted a teaching job in Rose Hill’s underbelly.

  As I continued to drive, I half expected the GPS lady to say, “Get out while you’re still breathing.” Instead she prompted me to make a left turn. I arrived at my destination: Harriet Hall High School.

  I’d expected the worst—a crumbling, graffiti-defaced eyesore cornered off with crime tape—but compared to its surroundings, the school looked perfectly decent. A white columned portico and triangular gable softened the building’s institutional appearance. The grounds were well-kept and looked like a public park with decorative street lamps, stone benches, and tidy squares of green space.

  My panic lessened. True, I’d accepted a job on the wrong side of town, but at least the school looked safe and welcoming. Maybe I wouldn’t be ambushed by muggers as soon as I opened my car door.

  Still, my red Porsche was going to stick out like a fire truck. I circled the school, looking for parking, and discovered a fenced area with a locking gate. A sign said, “Faculty and Staff Only.” The lot was nearly full, and my car was easily the flashiest. I parked and quickly abandoned the vehicle. First impressions were important, and I didn’t want to be known as the teacher who drives a Porsche. From now on I’d take my motorcycle to school.

  Harriet Hall’s foyer smelled of floor wax and fresh paint. A glass case, glinting with gold and silver trophies, stood in the corner, and a mural of an orange jaguar—obviously the school mascot—splashed an entryway wall. There wasn’t a bullet hole or dead body in sight. Not that I expected such things, but I had no idea what I’d been in for.

  I entered the office, and a willowy black woman with high cheekbones smiled warmly. She looked like she should be strutting down a catwalk in a Helmut Lang frock instead of stuffing envelopes in a high school office.

  “Welcome to Harriet Hall,” she said. “My name is Ms. Ware. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Toni Lee Wells, the new special education teacher. Is the principal in?”

  The smile wilted; her chin hardened. Her distaste was so obvious I looked over my shoulder to see if maybe an IRS agent was standing behind me.

  “Teachers are supposed to report to the chorus room for a meeting,” she said tersely. She wheeled on her heels and returned to her task.

  “Where is the chorus room?”

  She either didn’t hear me or was ignoring me. Undeterred, I asked again.

  “Next to the vocational building,” she snapped. Then she clipped across the floor into an inner office and shut the door, making it clear she was done answering my pesky questions.

  Had I done something to insult her? It was a little early in the game to be making enemies. Reluctantly I left the office, having no idea where to go. Glancing about, I saw two women traveling down the main hallway with purposeful strides. I followed them across a breezeway to a large room filled with student desks on risers.

  Dozens of teachers milled about. I was easily the youngest faculty member. I caught a few people sneaking peeks at me, the new fish, but no one greeted me. Made me feel like I was crashing a private party.

  I hadn’t been there for more than thirty seconds when I heard a voice shout, “Are you ready to change a child’s life?”

  The faculty, obviously trained for such questions, responded in unison, “We are!” Dr. Lipton trotted up to the podium, instantly energizing the room, and shouted, “Are you ready to touch the future?”

  Again the faculty said, “We are!”

  “You sound like a bunch of meek mumble mouths,” Dr. Lipton said. “Let’s hear it again.”

  “We are!” the faculty responded. They shouted so loud my ears rang.

  “That’s better,” Dr. Lipton said. “There’s only one reason we’re here today. Not to socialize and definitely not to drink the school’s God-awful coffee. We’re here today and every weekday for one reason only, to educate our students.”

  He immediately launched into a story about a student named Rodney who grew up two blocks away in a project with a meth-addicted mother but beat the odds to get his college degree and eventually became a state senator.

  “And do you know who he thanked first in his acceptance speech?”

  Dr. Lipton slowly scanned his audience. “Not his campaign manager, not his wife, not the voters. No, ladies and gentlemen, he thanked his history teacher who retired from Hall only three years ago.”

  When Dr. Lipton was done with his speech, the room swelled with the song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”

  “Sing it with me, team members,” Dr. Lipton shouted as he slung his arms around two nearby teachers and swayed to the music.

  The faculty sang along, and many of the teachers were gazing at Dr. Lipton with awe as if he were a teen heartthrob instead of a middle-aged principal with a bit of a beer belly. I had to admit he was inspiring.

  When the song was over, Dr. Lipton said, “Before we adjourn, I’d like to welcome our new staff members to the Hall team. First, our math teacher.”

  A brawny black man stood. His biceps were so big they ballooned out of his short sleeve shirt.

  “Mr. Gerald used to be a staff sergeant in the Army and a bodyguard for James Brown,” Dr. Lipton said. “How do you feel today, Mr. Gerald?”

  “I feel good!” Mr. Gerald briskly saluted the faculty.

  “And I knew that you would,” Dr. Lipton said. He slapped palms with the teacher.

  Next Dr. Lipton introduced a new English teacher, a broad-shouldered woman who was close to seven feet tall and had a face so mean it could turn milk. She was a retired police officer with a black belt in karate.

  “Last but not least, we have a new special ed instructor,” he continued. “Ms. Toni Lee Wells.”

  I stood, feeling like the punchline of a bad joke. They were likely expecting someone who’d wrestled alligators in the Amazon or pinned Hulk Hogan in a wrestling match.

  Instead they got a skinny, wild-haired blonde wearing a sunny yellow suit and daisy earrings. No wonder a couple of people snickered.

  After the introductions Dr. Lipton dismissed us. I didn’t know where I was supposed to go. I was about to approach the principal and ask but several faculty members already thronged him.

  “Are you the person who was crazy enough to drive a Porsche to this school?”

  I turned to see who’d made the remark. It was a black woman in her early thirties with a cap of brassy gold hair. She wore a single-breasted navy suit that, despite its severe tailoring, couldn’t disguise her curvy figure.

  “Yes, but my other car’s a Ford Fiesta.”

  “I drive a Ford Fiesta,” she said,
giving off strong whiffs of annoyance.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m Deena Sprague, department head of Special Education. I’ll also be your buddy teacher.”

  Her brown eyes were hard, like dull pennies, and deep frown grooves marred her nearly flawless olive skin. Frankly, she seemed more like a fuddy-duddy than a buddy.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m delighted to be here and I—”

  “Follow me. I’ll show you to your room. You taught before?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m a recruit in the Teacher Corps program.” It sounded so militaristic I almost felt like saluting or clicking my heels together.

  “God save us all,” Ms. Sprague muttered. Then she strode out the door and down the locker-lined hallway, making great time in her peep-toe pumps. I had to practically run to keep up with her. When she reached the end of the hall, she pushed open the school’s back door, chains rattling against its pitted metal surface. In the distance I spotted a huddle of battered trailers.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the portables. Hall’s overcrowded so we have some temporary buildings out near the field house. You should consider wearing sensible shoes to work. This grass gets muddy when it rains.”

  After walking several yards across the hot and seemingly airless field, we reached the cluster of portables. Ms. Sprague paused by the oldest and most beat-up of the bunch. It looked like a FEMA trailer on its last leg, or a hideout for a serial killer.

  “This used to be the in-house suspension portable. You’re very lucky to get it.”

  Lucky? Cursed was the better word. We climbed the rickety wooden steps leading to the classroom, and when Ms. Sprague opened the door, a wall of heat slammed into us. She flipped a switch, and the lights stuttered for several seconds. Eventually they settled down to a garish glow, revealing walls covered with obscene graffiti. Something gray, possibly a big rat or an undersized possum, darted across the floor. I bit my lip to stop from screaming.