Newbie Page 2

  Even to Mina, who isn’t involved with real estate, the business looks like it’s failing. And I know it is. Fear rips through me, my heart racing. I close my eyes and try to call up a calming thought. My chest and throat feel tight, closing up. No, think of clouds—lazy clouds, calm lazy clouds.

  “It’ll come back,” she adds quickly, “but maybe you should find something to pull you through until then.”

  It sounds much worse hearing it out loud. Real estate is crashing and my life is crashing with it.She’s right, I know she’s right. But I just did my budget, and it’s not about rent. Everything. I can’t pay anything. I feel unable to move or breathe or think. Finally, I nod and go to my room. Before going to bed, I put an ad for a new roommate. Oh, it’s Friday the thirteenth—figures. I try to put a positive spin on losing my office—some lucky girl will live in this amazing house and have two great roommates.

  Good news—several potential roommates show up the next day. I walk them through the home and take applications.

  “Do you think this would work for you?” I ask.

  “I think it’s perfect,” she answers, tapping her foot on the wood floor. We all smile at each other, and I get a good feeling about her being our new roommate. Karlie fills out the application, a month-by-month contract, and writes a check for the deposit and August’s rent. I get back half of my deposit too. Yay!

  That excited feeling only lasts until I look at my budget again. I break down and in utter desperation go back to the plasma donation center. I’m a regular now, visiting twice a week for the past five weeks. At least I have a tiny trickle of income. The down side is that I look like a heroin addict with track marks inside both my elbows. Another scary truth whispers constantly in the back of my thoughts—my credit card balances are growing as I take cash advances to meet my expenses. More rocks hit the top of the pile in my gut and trickle down the sides.

  For the next three weeks, I work temp jobs and send out résumés. I really don’t want a new career. I like my old one—well, except for the being broke part. Desperate times apparently call for beyond desperate measures.

  “Mina, help.” I’m seriously freaking out. My interview at the elementary school is in twenty-five minutes. “Dresses are good for interviews, right?”

  “You’re still in a towel?”

  “I don’t know what to wear. Make a suggestion—no, the decision. Just tell me what to wear.”

  Mina throws open my closet and starts combing through my tops. She pulls out a yellow open-weave vest and a blue button-down crepe blouse with long puffed sleeves, which I bought because I was sure there was an artist in me needing to come out.

  “Do you have a pair of white jeans?” she asks, turning to my dresser.

  “Yeah, third drawer down.”

  She throws them at me and walks out of the room. I dress and head to the bathroom in an attempt to fix my unruly hair.

  “Low messy bun,” Mina shouts from the front room.

  “Good idea.” Finally, I step into my heels, grab my bag, and I’m out of there.

  This has been my neighborhood for the past four years, but I’ve never paid attention to Rio Grande Elementary School more than to write it on a listing advertisement for homes nearby.

  A handsome man is standing at the front door as I approach. The air conditioning escaping through the door tousles his hair enough that when he reaches to move it back in place, the side of his shirt rides up enough to confirm my suspicion that he’s ripped. His bent arm shows off full rounded bicep. Oh, my! When his gaze fastens on me, I notice his eyes are rimmed with thick, long eyelashes. I know him from somewhere, but where? Maybe he has the kind of face that everyone thinks they know him—or want to. And I want to.

  I catch myself staring at him—I know him from somewhere—then blink it away when he says, “Principal Chavez asked me to show you to the office. It can be a little tricky the first time you come here.” I nod and smile, only because I’m unable to speak a coherent sentence. Interview-nerves choking the breath out of me plus a gorgeous man holding the door must be too much for my brain and it seems to be shutting down.

  When we reach the office, he steps to the side, and I enter. The office is decorated in a train theme. Mina would swear the term “decorated” is being used sacrilegiously here, but in its defense, it does look kid-ish. As I turn to say thanks, he’s already gone. Maybe that’s good. I need a few minutes to get my thoughts back together.

  The secretary invites me to sit in one of the gray metal chairs below the windows looking into the hallway. Would it be rude or unprofessional if I asked who that man was? Probably. Maybe she didn’t even see him, since he didn’t walk in with me. But suddenly, I know. I’m on my feet looking out the office window to see where he is, but there’s no one in front of the school. He’s the man at Peak Realty that Gary didn’t want me to meet. He just bought a house. It must be in this neighborhood.

  Settling into the chair I place my purse on the floor, then notice a tangy smell from my childhood. Rubber balls. You know—those big, bouncy, red ones. I glance around the room. The ball must be close. I bend over to look beneath the chairs. As I begin sitting upward, Mr. Chavez introduces himself and extends his hand.

  “Would you like another minute?” he asks. His smile is kind as I blush and shake my head, rising to follow him.

  Mr. Chavez is a tall man in his mid-forties. His black hair is trimmed short around the bottom but longer, wavy and speckled with gray on the top, giving him a confident “I-can-be-trusted-to-run-a-school” look. His large, dark eyes give me a feeling of intensity. It’s the kind of pointed principal-gaze that makes you want to cry, confess, and call your mother.

  “Mrs. Hays is the team leader. She’ll sit in on the interview. I’ll be back in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  I busy myself inspecting the room while I wait. This office has a very different feel from the outer office, very contemporary. Floor-to-ceiling windows fill one wall, looking out onto the playground. The wall opposite is lined with shelves filled with books, pictures and even a few toys. Corkboard is mounted on the wall behind the principal’s chair and between a set of cupboards and a counter, numerous notes handwritten by students to the principal thumbtacked across it. There’s something comforting about working for a boss who knows that his business is children.

  The school doesn’t feel overtly evil or menacing, though I had expected to have a panic attack upon entering a school again. It might be okay to teach here for a few weeks.

  I stand as Mr. Chavez reenters the room. He introduces Mrs. Hays, whose eyes look first at my dangling earrings, then at my silver high heels. She greets me with a nod and a smirk clearly portraying disapproval. Ooh, not a good start.

  Mr. Chavez begins the interview. “Miss Kanakaredes, tell us a little bit about your student teaching experience.”

  Inwardly, I cringe, hoping I keep it from reaching my face. “I did a six-week student teaching experience at Mellor Academy in a third-grade classroom during the winter semester.” It was the worst winter of my life—I thought it’d never end. “There were twenty-eight students. For the last three weeks, I had full responsibility of the class. Near the end of February, I sat with my cooperating teacher in parent/teacher conference appointments.” An experience which really explained a few of the children to me.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Hays snorts softly and scribbles in her notebook.

  “What was the most challenging part of your student teaching experience, and what was the best part?” Mr. Chavez continues.

  “They were probably the same. The second week I had full charge of the class, we had three days in a row of inside days. I wasn’t prepared to have all the students all day, without recess or lunch recess.” It was like my worst nightmare haunting my waking hours. “The first day, the students showed me where the games were kept, and they passed the time playing those.” I watched the weather report with great interest that night—bad news, it would be too cold f
or recess for two more days. “The next day, we got out the games again at recess, but I also set up some of the independent math and reading games we had used in class during some of my lessons in the last few weeks. The students loved it.”

  Why haven’t I thought about it like that before? During the student teaching experience, I was grateful when I survived another day. It wasn’t a total nightmare. I had some good ideas.

  When I finish, Mrs. Hays summarizes, “So you’ve only had experience in third grade?”

  I nod my head, and she scribbles in the notebook again. She seems less than impressed.

  “We’d like to get an idea of the type of decisions you would make as a teacher. What would you do for a student who is having difficulty learning to read?” Mr. Chavez asks.

  Oh, my gosh, I’m interviewing for first grade! What am I thinking? The students all have to learn to read this year. If they don’t, it will be my fault—no college, low-paying jobs, generational poverty with dirty children and grandchildren.

  Focus. Stay calm. Just finish the interview. Then run! “I think the first thing might be to listen to the child read and try to get an idea of what is easy or hard for him or her. Then I can make better choices for them in future lessons.”

  Mr. Chavez smiles at Mrs. Hays, and she asks in a nasal tone, “Phonemic awareness, metacognition, zone of proximal development—sound familiar?” Her eyes lock on mine as a grimace grows, pulling her lips thinner.

  Nope, none and not at all—she’s speaking teacher and I’m not fluent. “No,” I say with a contented smile to hide how rattled I feel. “I realize there’s a lot for me to learn.” You cow. “I’m willing to work hard for these kids and learn from experienced teachers.” Yes, I’m schmoozing you, Mrs. Hays, and you know I’m not serious. I intend to stay as far from you as I can.

  Mr. Chavez turns to Mrs. Hays and asks her if she has any more questions.

  “Help us get a clearer vision of your discipline ideas, Miss Kanakaredes,” she says to my earrings. “With which theoretical perspective on discipline do you agree?”

  “Is there one based on mutual respect, genuine concern and teaching students what is expected? Children want to succeed and be accepted—my discipline plan will include those values.” P.S. Mrs. Hays, we all want that.

  Mrs. Hays rolls her eyes and scratches more notes.

  “Tell me a little bit more about how you will accomplish those goals,” Mr. Chavez requests.

  “If students don’t feel successful, then, just like adults, they don’t want to do it. I need to help children succeed along with the challenge of learning some new things.”

  There’s that intense gaze again. It’s not intimidating this time. He’s just really listening to me. “They also need to get to know each other, to feel like our class. . .” Our class? Maybe I could do this. “…is a comfortable place to learn, and know we’ll all help each other.”

  Mrs. Hays cocks her head to the side and clicks her tongue. “Oh, yes, lovely. Why didn’t you take a teaching position after graduation?”

  Because my student teaching experience had been horrendous and I had decided all school systems were probably the same and I wasn’t starving and there was no threat of being homeless in thirty days and…“I was selling real estate to put myself through college. At the time I graduated, my career was picking up. It seemed best to stay with what was working.”

  “Do you have any questions for us?” the principal asks.

  “I’d like to know a little about this teaching position.”

  Mrs. Hays sits up and shows some interest, finally setting her notebook down. “An assignment in first grade has a great deal of responsibility inherent in it. This is thee critical year.”

  Who says “thee”? The word is “the”. But yes, she just said, “thee critical year” as if elevating the job to near deity.

  “…of instruction for all future reading and literacy success. It is also thee year for establishing a basis for mathematical understanding on which all other grade levels will rely.”

  As she takes a breath, Mr. Chavez inserts, “Miss Kanakaredes, please be reseated in the outer office. I’d like to talk with you again in a minute.” I thank them both and slip out the door.

  Sliding back into a chair, I realize that the wall between the principal’s office and the sitting area is not as sound proof as he and Mrs. Hays think it is. I strain to catch snippets of their discussion. Mrs. Hays’ voice doesn’t carry through the wall, but Mr. Chavez’s is low and clear.

  “We’ve been through this. There are no other applicants remotely trustworthy.”

  He thinks I’m trustworthy. That’s good.

  “It is not out of desperation, and she’s more than just breathing.”

  Ouch. What exactly did Mrs. Hays say?

  “She’s articulate and reflective. I think what she lacks in experience will come quickly as she leads her own class.”

  There’s a long pause, then Mr. Chavez speaks again. “Everything she said in the interview makes me think she can handle this. And no, I don’t think you will have to pull off a miracle for it not to be a complete disaster. Just give her a little help.”

  “I’d like your support in this,” he finishes.

  I, on the other hand, have mixed emotions about whether I’d like Mrs. Hays’ support.

  Soon, I’m again seated in Mr. Chavez’s office. Mrs. Hays looks at me through slitted eyes. If her look were conveyed in a t-shirt, she’d be wearing one saying, “She won’t make it a week”.

  Mr. Chavez smiles. “I’d like to offer you the position of first-grade teacher.”

  “Thank you. I accept.” I have a job—I can pay rent again and not move back in with my mother. After I get ahead, I can give my two-week notice. This should tide me over until real estate takes off again.

  “You will need to visit the human resources office to finish the paperwork this afternoon. Then come back and I’ll orient you to the school, your classroom, and give you your keys. I’m sure Mrs. Hays will be able to help you get some ideas for curriculum. School starts on Monday. . .”

  What? Monday? The one that’s in three days? Why didn’t I check the school’s website?

  “. . .and you’ll need to be here by eight-fifteen. I’ll see you this afternoon—shall we say one o’clock?”

  “Yes. One. Did you say school starts Monday? This Monday?” I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I wasn’t even ready when I graduated, and I’ve forgotten everything we did in college, but I’ve already accepted.

  Mrs. Hays leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes slide from me to Mr. Chavez and back again. Her lips curl up at the corners. It looks suspiciously like an “I-told-you-so” face. She’s enjoying my shock. But I’m going to need her support as I get started.

  I smile brightly toward her. “I’m so happy to have an experienced partner. Would you mind helping me get an idea of how to set up my room, and I guess, get lesson plans ready too?”

  She squints back at me, her eyebrows pulling tightly together. “Didn’t you go to college?”

  I nod, but before I can answer verbally, she spits out her next sentence. “You do that. Do what you were taught.”

  Her obvious lack of confidence in me stings a bit, but I need help to make this work and solicit her support again. “Oh, well, it’s been a while.”

  She cuts me off. “You’ll be fine. You were so confident in the interview.” She gathers her notebook and purse, then nods at the principal, turning in her chair to leave. As Mrs. Hays leaves Mr. Chavez’s office, her face is drawn down, and her eyes are narrow. She pointedly ignores me as her flat shoes flop quickly into the hallway.

  Mr. Chaves sighs a bit then answers my question. “Yes, school starts this Monday. What would you prefer I call you?”

  “Sophie is fine.” My purse drops from my shoulder to my elbow. My breath trails in and out like I’ve been slugged in the diaphragm. Maybe breathing slowly will help me not pa
ss out. What do I do first? How do you start school?

  “Well Sophie, I feel very fortunate to have you join our faculty and for the children who will have you for a teacher.”

  The mound of paperwork at the district office feels eerily like a mortgage closing with something like a ream of paper and dozens of signatures, but also includes getting fingerprinted to investigate my criminal background. Do speeding tickets count? Even if they’re not very recent? I make it back to the school a few minutes before Mr. Chavez returns from lunch.

  A short, strawberry-blond with an athletic build like she has been a cheerleader her entire life comes bouncing into the office. Her bright blue eyes and overly plucked eyebrows give her face a constant expression of delighted surprise.

  “You must be Sophie. I’m Beth. Our classrooms are across from each other. I was glad to hear you’re starting on Monday. I hope you don’t mind I’ve been organizing your classroom. Actually, I started before it was your classroom, knowing someone would be there. I had two ideas I thought would really work well, so I did one for me and one for you. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, I’ll help you redo it. I’m all set with mine. I just finished stapling the fabric to the bulletin boards. I have some fabric for you to use if you want it, I’ll help you put it up—it can be tricky on the corners.” She stops, and large dimples like exclamation marks punctuate her smile.

  Had she even taken a breath? “It’s nice to meet you, Beth. I’ll come by your room this afternoon. Will you be around for a while?” She nods. “And thanks. The room sounds perfect.” Wow, I like her. It’s a relief that Mrs. Hayes won’t be my only teammate. I give Beth a grateful smile and turn to see the principal. “Hello, Mr. Chavez.”

  He gives me the grand tour of the building—library, cafeteria, faculty restroom locations, workroom. I meet the custodian and get the keys to room 113, then meet the secretary, Mrs. Johnson, again, but as a new faculty member this time.