“You may want to put out some traps,” she said.
The walls bulged with mysterious tumors, and the classroom was empty of furniture. A door leading to a small closet was splintered, as if someone had punched it. I gazed around helplessly. Was she hazing me? What next? Eggs in my hair? Minnows down my underwear?
“I’ll leave so you can get settled in.” She gave me a key and headed to the door, hips twitching.
“Excuse me?”
Ms. Sprague stopped. “Yes?”
“I hate to complain on my first day, but are you sure this is my room?”
She planted a hand on her tiny waist. “I realize it’s not the chi-chi environment you’re probably accustomed to but—”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m more concerned about my students. I don’t see how anyone could learn anything in this…” I swallowed the words “House of Vermin.”
“This portable’s been in use for years. And the students who’ve come here for classes have learned just fine. You’re fortunate to get a room at all. Most new teachers float.”
“Excuse me?” I imagined a group of faculty members bobbing in the water like buoys.
“Floaters have to travel from classroom to classroom whenever someone has a planning period. You’ve escaped that unpleasant fate. This room will look better once you get some desks. Hopefully by the first day.”
“Will someone at least be painting?”
Ms. Sprague pointed to some graffiti that said, “Isaac Rogers, Class of ’92.”
“Not likely,” she said.
“I’ve just never seen anything like this before,” I said.
“Welcome to the inner city, Ms. Wells. Most of the kids who attend school here come from families on public assistance. They’re the forgotten children. Angelina Jolie isn’t going to be adopting any of them, and no relief workers are going to come to their aid. In other words, the community couldn’t give a fig about them or this school. We’re always fighting for our fair share of resources.”
“But the outside’s so nice. And the main building looks newly renovated.”
“Thanks to Dr. Lipton. He has a very special interest in this school; it was his alma mater, you know. He fought for the renovations, and he’s fighting to get an addition built so one day portables won’t be necessary. But until then, remember this: Harriet Hall, our founder, taught her first class in horse stables; we’ve come very far since then.”
Not that far. Frankly even Seabiscuit would turn up his nose at my bleak accommodations.
“Incidentally,” Ms. Sprague said, “you’ll need to put up a bulletin board. Dr. Lipton requires it.”
As if that would help. It’d be like spritzing cologne on raw sewage. It was hard for me to believe that Dr. Lipton cared about such superficial matters.
After Ms. Sprague left, I brushed my hands together purposefully, wondering where to start. Firebombing? Dynamite? Wrecking ball?
“Now, Toni Lee,” I whispered. “Be positive.”
First, I needed to fling open the front door to let fresh air in and allow for a quick getaway in case of close encounters with creatures of the disease-riddled kind. Once that was done, I made a brief inspection of the room and found a baseball-sized hole in one of the walls. No wonder the place had attracted unwelcome guests.
I spied a thermostat in a corner of the room and turned the temperature all the way down. Nothing. No cough, no hum, no reassuring whoosh of air. The portable was on the edge of a treeless field and probably had as much insulation as a Campbell’s Soup can. I’d been inside for five minutes, and sweat was already rolling off the tip of my nose and plopping onto the tops of my shoes.
I wondered how I was going to spend eight hours a day in a pest-infested hot box. And it was isolated. If I screamed nobody would hear me. As if on cue, I heard the approach of heavy footsteps.
“I’ve got something for you,” said a voice behind me. The voice was baritone and slightly menacing.
I abruptly turned. A muscular black man loomed in my doorway. A small diamond glinted from his earlobe and a two-inch scar grazed his cheek. He looked both sexy and dangerous. I didn’t know if I should flirt or flee.
“Your supplies.” He handed me a package so small it could have come from Tiffany’s. “They were accidentally delivered to my room.”
He introduced himself as Carl Rutherford, teacher of psychology and sociology.
“It’s so hot in here you could steam cabbage,” he said.
I fanned my face with my hand. “I’ve only been here a few minutes and I can barely stand it. I need to call someone, I guess. I don’t suppose the school has a concierge.”
“There’s no concierge, and even if there was it wouldn’t help. The board won’t turn on the air until the first day of school. Budget cuts. And don’t expect any repairs either. The portables are so old they don’t want to put money into them. In fact, I thought they’d retired this one because of the asbestos.”
“Seriously?”
He smiled. “Just a joke, and not a very funny one. First year teaching?”
“Yes. I’m doing Teacher Corps.”
“Ouch.” His wince revealed a dimple on his right cheek.
“I got the same reaction from my buddy teacher. What’s wrong with Teacher Corps?”
He scratched his temple. “Let’s just say most of the people in the program can’t teach their way out of a paper bag, and they usually quit the first day if not the first hour. How long was your training? A few weeks?”
“I haven’t had any training yet. I start Monday.”
“So basically you have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Last night I streamed Dangerous Minds.” I didn’t mention I fell asleep before it was over.
He snorted.
I also decided not to mention that I also used to play school when I was little. Of course, real-life kids were apt to be trickier to manage than a classroom full of Care Bears.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t be so discouraging. If you need any advice, just ask. I’ll be glad to help.”
It was great to finally meet someone who was nice, not to mention nice-looking.
After Carl left, a teacher’s desk was delivered to my room, but it was so banged-up it looked like it’d been thrown from a three-story building. Several drawers wouldn’t open. Not that I had much of anything to store in them. I’d gone through my tiny supply box. The only items inside were a box of fat crayons intended for young children, thumbtacks, a tape dispenser but no tape, and a package of rubber bands.
I visited the office and asked Ms. Ware, the secretary, if she could order me some additional supplies. Her attitude was just as curt as the last time I saw her. Told me I should have ordered them at the end of the year. When I very patiently reminded her I hadn’t been at Harriet Hall last year she said, “That’s not my problem then, is it?”
Sexually frustrated, I decided. I, too, got crabby when I didn’t get any nookie.
Later, Mr. Rutherford appeared in my room again, carrying a stack of three large boxes. As soon as he got a few feet inside, he took a couple of steps back. “Feels like walking into a dragon’s mouth. How can you stand it?”
“I try not to move around very much.” I’d found an oscillating fan in one of the closets and set it out but it was only stirring the dust and hot air around.
Carl dropped the boxes on the floor.
“What’s all this?”
“Supplies. I was in the office and overheard your conversation with Ms. Ware.”
He opened the box on top. It brimmed with things I could use: a stapler, scissors, file folders, even a globe.
“Where did you get all this swag?” I picked up the globe and examined it. A strip of masking tape was attached to the base. A message in black ma
rker said, “Property of Ms. Ferris. DO NOT TAKE!”
He snapped his fingers. “Meant to remove that before I gave it to you.”
I nearly dropped the globe. “You stole this?”
Holy cow, I thought. If the teachers at Harriet Hall were thieves what would the students be like?
“Of course not.” His eyes were wide with mock indignation. “I just redistributed it. Teachers are notorious hoarders. I took the stapler from someone who has five. They’re buffing the floors in the main building so these things were lying around in the hall, just begging for a new home.”
“You’re an outlaw.”
He smiled. “Not that much of an outlaw. Trust me, everyone does it. It’s practically a sport around here.”
I glanced hungrily at the boxes, shiny new supplies, some still in their original packaging. Who could have predicted I’d one day find myself drooling over a stapler? “Thank you. I was afraid I’d have to buy this stuff myself.”
“At your service,” he said, bowing at the waist. “Anything else you need?”
Plenty, I thought, admiring his lanky yet well-built form, but now wasn’t the time or place.
“Where’s the teachers’ lounge? I was told I have a mailbox there.”
“I’m headed in that direction. I’ll take you.”
Even though it was probably ninety degrees out, the outdoors felt cooler than the inside of my portable. I followed Carl to the main building, which was awash with students—mostly female—as well as numerous babies and toddlers, many shrieking and crying. A long-legged girl in a short skirt and towering heels approached. Her arms held an infant with frantic eyes.
“Mr. Rutherford! Mr. Rutherford!” she yelled.
“Slow down, Chantrelle,” Carl said. “You’re going to crack your skull and the baby’s.”
“This is Kwanna, Mr. Rutherford.” The girl thrust the stunned child into Carl’s arms. Kwanna wore a frilly pink dress; her scalp was dotted with dozens of multi-colored plastic barrettes. I expected Carl to act like he’d been handed a live lobster—he seemed too hip to appreciate anyone under the age of twelve—but to my surprise, he gently bounced the child. After a moment, he handed the baby back to the student. “Who’s going to watch Kwanna while you go to school this year?”
“My auntie.” Chantrelle held the kid sideways as if she were a battering ram. “Mr. Rutherford. I heard they changed the rules for the Miss Hall pageant this year.”
“That’s right,” Carl said. “Student mothers can no longer participate.”
“Mr. Rutherford!” Chantrelle said, stamping her shoe. “That ain’t right. I wanted to compete.”
“I’m sorry. That’s what the committee decided. And would you please get a better grip on Kwanna? She’s going to shoot right out of your arms.”
We left Chantrelle and continued down the noisy corridor.
“Miss Hall pageant?” I said.
“Huge deal at Harriet Hall. Girls dress up in gowns their parents can’t afford, and they curtsey and preen in front of Dr. Lipton, who’s the judge. Some female students would rather be in the pageant than get their diplomas. I wish they’d discontinue it.”
“And why are all these little kids here today?” I said, indicating the ruckus around us.
“Annual baby parade. Every year before school starts, students bring their kids to show them off to the staff.”
“How does that happen? All these young girls having babies?”
He winked slyly. “If you don’t know, I’m not the guy to tell you.”
Heat surged up my neck and into my cheeks. “You know what I mean. I feel bad for these young girls being tied down with children. Their lives are over at sixteen.”
“I’m more worried about the babies being raised by girls who are kids themselves.”
“Why do so many get pregnant?”
“Many of our female students think that giving birth is a source of accomplishment and self-esteem. It’s practically a rite of passage here, and the baby is their trophy.”
He paused at a door marked Teachers’ Lounge. “After you,” he said.
“Wow. This is my very first visit to a teachers’ lounge. Do I need a password?”
“No,” he said, opening the door. “Just some very low expectations.”
As soon as I stepped inside I saw what he was talking about. Hall’s teachers’ lounge had as much mystique as a bus terminal waiting room. The walls were painted a queasy green, and the furnishings included a big clumsy table, a butt-sprung couch, a wheezy refrigerator and a Coke machine covered with angry notes from people who’d lost their money. One said, “I’d have better odds in Vegas.”
“Too bad,” I said. “My mouth was set for a Coke.”
Carl gave the machine a couple of nudges with his hip and two Cokes rattled down the chute. He tossed me one. “On me.”
I caught the soda. “Nice move.”
“I try.”
We were grinning at each other like a couple of randy crocodiles when a stern voice interrupted us.
“Ms. Wells. Are you in there?” It was Ms. Sprague.
I glanced around, not sure where the disembodied voice was coming from. Carl pointed to an intercom box suspended on the ceiling. Then he waved goodbye to me before slipping out of the room.
“Yes, ma’am.” I felt weird talking to a box.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Your textbooks have been delivered, and I wanted to go over what you’ll be teaching this year.”
“Great. I was just—”
“Report to your room immediately.”
I hustled over to my portable as fast as humanly possible, determined not to get on the wrong side of my supervisor. When I arrived, Ms. Sprague was standing in the middle of the room, mopping her brow and frowning. Strands of damp hair were plastered to her cheeks.
“About time. I thought I might die of heat exhaustion waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry, I was just—”
“Wasting my time?” Ms. Sprague thrust her arm in the direction of a precarious stack of books. “Here are your textbooks. You’re teaching Life Skills.”
Sounded like a class I could stand to take.
“What kind of life skills?”
“Not the four Cs of diamond selection, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m talking about real-folk life skills. Like what you have to do to impress the manager of the DQ so you can get a job as a cashier for eight dollars an hour. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
I ignored her dig—partially my fault for driving a flashy car to school—and picked up the top textbook on the stack. Someone had taken a Sharpie to the cover and written a terrible word in big block letters. I tossed it into the metal trashcan where it landed with a loud thunk. Then I made a big show of wiping my hands of it.
“What did you do that for?” Ms. Sprague said. She’d raised one of her over-plucked eyebrows.
“There was a racial slur written on the front.”
“I don’t care if it was crawling with brown recluse spiders; you can’t throw away books. There’s a shortage as it is.” She pointed at my boxes of supplies and said, “Where did you get those?”
“Someone on the staff lent them to me,” I said quickly.
“Who?”
“Mr. Rutherford.”
She continued to stare at the boxes, as if they were a Sudoku puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Seconds ticked by, and I felt sure that at any moment, she was going to take a closer look and see the masking tape on the globe that marked it as someone else’s property. Then she’d call the police, they’d arrest me, and I’d be led out of the building in shackles.
After a long, uncomfortable moment she flared her nostrils and said, “How very generous of him.”
Her gaze slowly ran the length of my body, as if I were one of many plucked chickens she was picking out for a stew. Abruptly she looked away from me and left the room.
Six
I survived pre-planning at Harriet Hall! I was so proud of myself I wanted to silkscreen my accomplishment on a t-shirt and parade down Main Street. I know. It wasn’t like I’d cured cancer or invented Instagram, but, to me, it was still a big, honking deal. Since my injury there’d been days when the most challenging thing I’d done was to open the childproof cap of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. To get up on time, go to work, and stay there doing purposeful things for eight hours (mostly meetings and getting my classroom ready) was a huge and exhausting undertaking. Yet I’d weathered it. Already I could see the armored truck driving up to the bank to deposit five million bucks into my account.
When the weekend arrived, all I wanted to do was wander around in a bathrobe all day, occasionally flopping down on the sofa to take a nap. No time for that.
I had to clear out of my airy home with its coffered ceilings and marble fireplace and move into a very cheap condo painted the color of a Mary Kay Cadillac. The condos in my new neighborhood all looked exactly alike, and the landscaping was skimpy, a scraggly bush here, an anemic tree there. Standing outside was like standing on the moon.
Once I was settled in the new place, Joelle came over with a housewarming gift, a plastic ficus plant. Obviously she didn’t trust me with the real item, which was just as well. My condo got about as much light as the inside of a shoebox.
“Who moved you?” she said.
Today Joelle was dressed like a python. A python that just swallowed a mouse. Her dress was a wee bit too tight.
“Place called Cheap Joe’s Moving Company.”
I was sure the two college-aged boys who did the work were curious about my reduced circumstances. I could practically see the thought bubbles over their head: Bankruptcy? Foreclosure? Dumped by sugar daddy?
I traded thirty-two hundred square feet for just over nine hundred; most of my furniture was now in storage. After paying the movers and all my deposits, I had two hundred bucks left in my bank account. I used to blow that much on a bottle of champagne.
Girl Meets Class Page 5
