Newbie Read online

  Talking with Ruby is calming. I feel a couple of nerves unkink.

  “You were saying something earlier about an orange ball?”

  “At lunch recess today, my students kicked an orange football over the fence. Well, I think it’s that one, right there.” I motion toward the cargo net. “And I wondered if we might have it back. We started the year with several balls, but they have popped or been lost. This was our last one. They don’t cost a lot, but I really can’t buy any more. I can’t buy anything. This has been such a mess. I was a Realtor a few months ago, but the market crashed, and I couldn’t pay my bills, so I took a job as a teacher, but it doesn’t really pay very much, and I lost my car. Well, not lost it, but they took it back, hauled it right out of the school’s parking lot, and now I walk to work—snow, rain, whatever. I forgot to make the payment. Well, I forgot I already skipped a payment, so I missed two payments. And my friend Beth—she also teaches first grade—was helping me with lessons until I got the hang of it, and she was out on bed rest, so I didn’t want to bother her, and everything is so hard. I’m afraid all the time that I can’t do this—that I’ll mess up the kids lives as much as I’ve messed up as mine.”

  I stop suddenly and catch a sob before it comes out. My face is hot and my back tense. I feel like small pieces of me are breaking off, and if I don’t grab them, they’ll be gone. But there are too many to grab or hold—there are too many pieces falling at once.

  Ruby pushes a button next to her chair. “That’s just how my first year of teaching felt. Oh, it’s been so long ago, you’d think I would have forgotten.” Her hand lightly pats my knee, her smile twinkling in her eyes. “But you never forget agony, do you? No, every day there were a hundred decisions to make, then unmaking them and adapting as those decisions had to be changed. The mental demands of teaching are overwhelming the first year. It sounds like you have some personal stress on top of it, too.”

  Carol reappears at the door. “What can I do for you, Miss Ruby?”

  “Please reach the orange football from the net.” Carol hands it down, and Ruby holds it across the table to me. My eyes fill with tears, and I hug it like a precious piece of my life.

  “I chose this retirement home last June because it was next to the school. I miss it.”

  She doesn’t have to say it. I can see it in her eyes and feel the longing in her voice.

  “I miss the life I had teaching children, forty-two years. I don’t know how to be me without it. I miss the children, even the naughty ones. Some of them I remember best, then I taught their children. I miss seeing them learn and grow. But from here, I can watch them play. This window gives me just a bit of my old life—not the part I want, but a part still. Every day, I watch what I can’t have. Maybe we have that in common—we each have only a bit of the life we want.”

  What do I want? I ponder while she takes a drink. Do I want to teach? Do I want real estate to come back? Do I just want to run away and not look back? She taps the table to get my attention.

  “You can see that I have many more playground balls. I’ll make you a trade. You come to visit and tell me about school, and I’ll give you a ball each time.”

  I look at the net above me. “Three balls. Each time I visit, I get three balls for my class.”

  “Two.”

  “Deal. See you tomorrow, Ruby.” Hugging the orange ball to my chest, I’m filled with gratitude for meeting Ruby. Though I can’t pick a single sentence where she told me teaching would get better—I would get better—that’s how I feel from having talked with her. I walk back to the school and my classroom. Maybe this is a piece I want. I sit at my desk and begin writing notes on each of my students; what they like, struggle with or who they play with. Before long the sky outside the window is dusky, and my heart is full.

  Every day this week, I visit Ruby for a therapy session then I head back to my classroom for a few minutes to finish up lesson plans. Funny thing though, Ruby’s cargo net doesn’t seem at all diminished.

  October 27, 2007

  Newbie Blog:

  Teaching Was Just My Job

  Being a teacher isn’t a job—it’s a decision. I’ve spent a third of the school year thinking I was a great real estate agent working at a school. I applied for a job, accepted a job, and did a job. It wasn’t a real career or a glamorous profession with smart suits, recognition, and power lunches. Teaching was a paycheck with occasional vomiting, snotty noses, and peed pants. I hadn’t really decided I was a teacher, but today I think I am.

  There are forty-some parents out there who trust me with the person they love most. What I do or fail to do is profound. I want to do it well. I will stay in this and give it my best until Christmas, then it will be a smoother transition when I leave.

  Two things I’ve learned:

  1. One child matters.

  2. One year matters.

  By seven this evening, Scarlet leaves with her date, and Mina goes to a movie with Stev. Liam and I have the house and the TV to ourselves. He asked me to record a soccer game with Manchester United, his favorite English Premier League team, so we can watch it together. When he arrives, he leans in to peck my cheek, but I turn my head just in time for a sweet little kiss on the lips.

  We sink into the couch and turn on the game. In just a few minutes, Liam jumps up with his hands raised. “Goooooooal!” I join him. His arms come down around me, (I’m so glad he’s teaching me soccer), and he gives me a celebratory kiss (bonus!). Every now and again, Liam pauses the game to explain a call or play to me. He tells about free kicks, keepers, headers, crosses, wingers, back-heels—he even explains offsides again, and I kind of get it.

  He celebrates each goal by kissing me, and it’s a high-scoring game for soccer—four goals. In fact, he over-celebrates the last goal because Manchester just scored a fourth goal in the fourth straight game. The last time they did that was a hundred years ago. Then we celebrate them winning the game—I like soccer.

  “Low expectations and flexibility are the key words for that day. Halloween is kind of like a G-rated Mardi Gras. If you expect mayhem, you’ll be pleasantly surprised when any of your lesson plans work out, and when they don’t, you won’t be disappointed,” Beth explains.

  Mr. Sam set up a runway in the gymnasium for the fashion show. At some point during the party, our classes will go do the catwalk thing to show off their costumes.

  “A couple of other pointers,” she says, “Bring an extra costume. Sometimes there’s a kid who comes without one. Also, the day after Halloween is almost a waste. The kids are cranky and tired. They might be better by Friday, but don’t be surprised if they’re not. We’ll plan some of our lessons as reviews on those days so the students can ease out of the holiday.”

  Before jumping into bed on Monday night, I pull out my budget again. There’s still $800 in my checking account, some from the missed car payment. I can erase the car payment from the budget, and insurance, too. Tears are on the rims of my eyes. It hurts to think of what a mess this has been. My car is gone. The down payment is gone, and Gustavo is gone. I also erase the amounts for gas and oil. Looking over my budget, I realize I should have about $400 per month extra from now on, if I’m careful.

  During PE on Tuesday afternoon, we go to the gym to practice for the Halloween fashion show. All the students in the school will parade across the stage, down a catwalk, then back up on the stage again so their parents can snap photos. Each class chooses music for their part of the parade. We’re going to use Party Like a Rock Star by Shop Boyz (yes, the radio edit version—this is first grade.) I set my iPod to repeat this song and place it in the speakers while my students sit in the gym as if they were parents. Then I head to the stage to show them what to do.

  The music blasts and I step out from the side of the stage, walking like an extreme model, my hips swinging, my hair flipping from side to side. At center stage, I strike a pose with my hands on my waist, then I walk into the gym along the runway. When I get to the end,
I turn slowly, then walk back to center stage. “When you get back up here do something fun.” I start to blow kisses rapid-fire with both hands to the students on my right then on the left of the catwalk. Liam blows one back. My heart flips. Apparently, he joined our class sometime while I was mincing up the runway.

  “Okay, I’m going to do it again, but I need some help.” I choose four students to join me and tell them the plan for this turn. We skip from the stage to the end of the catwalk and do two turns, then we skip back to center stage. When we turn to face the gym again, we start dancing. Finally, we skip from the stage to the hall.

  “We’re next,” Liam calls out when we return to the gym, and several boys jump up with him. They walk with heavy, long strides from the stage through the runway. Back at center stage, they throw a Hulk pose toward the audience and roar, then stomp off stage. The rest of the class dissolves in laughter.

  Several more groups form and take turns, walking like zombies, monkeys, Egyptians, fairies, and anything else we can make up. Liam or I go with each group so they’ll be a little more daring. By the time everyone has walked with several groups, I think we’re sufficiently silly to have fun with this tomorrow and provide some great video for future blackmail. I will definitely ask one of the moms for a copy.

  Halloween morning, I pull on a red circle skirt with a black poodle near my left knee and a gold leash twisting across the front to end in the waistband. I’m wearing a white boat-necked blouse, tucked in, and a wide black belt. I pull my hair into a high ponytail and tie a red scarf around it. To finish the costume, I have bobby socks—rolled not folded—and white tennis shoes.

  Before school, I dip into Beth’s classroom to see her costume. “You look amazing!” She pivots slowly, twirling a paper parasol over her shoulder. Her kimono is a bright yellow satin with a rambling peach-and-pink floral pattern. She’s wearing a purple satin floor-length skirt under and the kimono and has a wide obi in the same purple satin, sashed high above her baby bump and tied with a gold ribbon.

  “I ditched the wig. It really itches. Besides, my morning sickness last all day, and the wig seems very likely to land in the trashcan.”

  As I begin class, I notice that Sean is absent. Maybe he’s just late. His mom is probably super busy today getting everything ready for our class Halloween party. But remembering what Mr. Chavez told me about Mrs. Gregg wanting Sean moved out of my class and the cold shoulder she gave me at parent/teacher conferences, I start to wonder if she is going to blow off the class party instead.

  Lunchtime—still no Sean. As the students settle in from recess, I call Mrs. Gregg’s phone number; and it goes straight to voicemail. “Hello, Mrs. Gregg. This is Sophie Kanakaredes. Sean isn’t at school yet, and I wondered if he’ll be coming later. I also wondered if everything’s okay for your plans for the class Halloween party. Please give me a call to confirm the party and let me know if there’s anything I need to have ready for you. Thanks.”

  Lunch recess is almost over, and I still haven’t heard from Mrs. Gregg. What do I do if she doesn’t come through? My next phone call is to Mrs. Milton, the parent organization president who also volunteers in our classroom. This call also goes straight to voicemail. “Hi, Karen. This is Sophie. I’ve been trying to call Mrs. Gregg. Her son is still absent, and I wanted to confirm that she’s doing the party for our class. Have you heard from her? Give me a call when you get this message. Thanks, bye.”

  More calls. “Hey Mina. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. What do you need?”

  “I don’t think the mom who volunteered to do the Halloween party for my class is coming, or even planning to tell me she isn’t coming.”

  “Are you kidding? Why not?”

  “Long story. I’ll fill you in later. I wondered if you could help me pull a party together.”

  “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

  “Thank you so much. Can you go to the grocery store and get four dozen sugar cookies, five jars of frosting, plastic knives and bags of little candies to decorate the cookies with? Also grab my paints out of storage—the box says ‘tole-painting supplies’ on the box. And I need you to be here by one.”

  “Will do. See you soon.” I really hope that plan B won’t be needed. Maybe Mrs. Gregg is just busy getting the kids’ party ready, and we will have more than we need. A thought niggles in the back of my brain that she might be doing this to get back at me. I hope not.

  While I’m reading to the class, I hear my phone take a message. I send the kids back to their seats for writing time and listen to the recording. “Hi, it’s Kathy. I got your message. I’m bringing over some party games. Bye.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Milton comes in, carrying a box. “I tried calling Mrs. Gregg, but she didn’t pick up. Unless there’s been some emergency, I think she’s just going to flake on the party. I brought a Halloween bingo game and some Halloween music so we can play musical chairs.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” I give her a grateful hug.

  Just before one, Mina comes in carrying grocery bags, wearing her old cheerleader uniform. Wow, it looks great on her. “There’s more in my car.”

  “I’ll help you carry it in,” Mrs. Milton says.

  Mina and Mrs. Milton make another trip to the car and return with the paint box, gallons of punch, a punch bowl, dry ice, skeleton streamers, and confetti poppers. While Karen and Mina organize areas for the party, I continue meeting with students about the stories they’re writing. Some moms come in and take their students out to finish their costumes or put makeup on.

  Mrs. Milton starts the party by inviting the students up to the rug and reading a Halloween story. When she finishes, all the students are back from their costume touchups. She moves the students back to their seats and explains the bingo game. We pause in the middle of the second game to go to the stage for our fashion show.

  I keep my class a little back from the stage door and ask them to move into their groups. Liam joins us in the hallway. Mmm, Liam’s dressed as a pirate with a brown band tied around his head. His white gauze shirt is open in the front (did I say “mmm”?) and he has a black vest over the top. His black pants are tucked into tall black boots, and he has a brown sash wrapped around his waist with a sword hanging from it. My heart is definitely feeling swash-buckled.

  My attention switches as Mrs. Hays’ class leaving the stage, and I hand our CD to Mr. Chavez. Our song blasts, and the first group jumps the whole way. When they get back to center stage, they fall to their backs and throw their hands and feet into the air. After they wiggle around, they stand and hop off stage. The parents are roaring, and our class applauds and high fives the first group as they walk back to the end of the line.

  Each group follows with equal enthusiasm and wackiness. Liam again goes with the Hulk group. I walk with the Egyptians at the end.

  Back in class, the kids have to show each other what they did on stage, and it takes a few minutes to get back to the bingo game. After we finish the game, we break out the cookies.

  “Wait, Lani, we have icing for you to put on it.”

  “Marcus, please keep the icing on your own desk.”

  “Yes, JP, it’s okay if Megan eats some of her candy.”

  “Megan, only your own candy.”

  We have only ten minutes left in the day when all the desks are back in place and we’ve kind of cleaned up. The bell rings, which charges my students like an electric prod, sending them screaming out the door.

  I watch them leave and have mixed emotions. The first one is—Yay! The second one is, poor parents. We sink onto the couch…quiet…it’s so quiet. After a long pause and a deep breath, I hug Karen, then Mina. “Thank you so much for coming. You guys really saved us.”

  New shower. New makeup. Re-do the hair. Liam is picking me up to go to his place for dinner and help him hand out candy. I have no idea what to expect. He looks like the kind of guy who lives in a loft with soccer memorabilia all over. But who would tri
ck-or-treat a loft? I also thought about him living out of town, open space and comfortable, a casual lifestyle. Again, not many trick-or-treaters.

  When he drives us up to his house—well, we don’t, because we have to stop at the gated community entrance. But then we drive up to his house—in a family neighborhood—and park in the garage. Next to a Jaguar. Normally, I wouldn’t know one car from another, but the little kitty on the hood gives it away. It’s probably his mom’s. I start to wonder if I care that he still lives at home. That’s easy—I don’t. He’s great. It doesn’t matter where he lives.

  Then I’m way nervous that I might be meeting his parents tonight. I think I do care about that. This poodle skirt easily triples the size of my hips. Who ever thought these skirts flattering or fashionable? Okay, but my waist looks small by comparison, which was probably the purpose. Makeup, hair, both good. Stop. It’s Halloween, they’ll get it—costume. I need to relax, be natural, calm, and friendly. My smile feels forced—it probably looks like it too.

  He would have mentioned it if his parents were home, right? Of course. They’ve probably already gone to a party. Another car must have been in the third garage over there. Surely Liam knows that people freak out about meeting parents. How sweet—he wants me to meet his parents. Do I want to meet his parents? Oh, my gosh, we’re not together like that. I’m not even his girlfriend yet. I don’t want to meet his parents.