Newbie Read online

  As soon as Mrs. Johnson leaves, Beth Norwood comes in. We walk around the room, which looks amazing, and she explains the additions she’s made but tells me about herself too. She has a light airy voice but a surprisingly loud laugh. I also learn that she got married two years ago to McKay Norwood, a human resource manager in some Fortune-500-type-company in Denver. They were high school sweethearts in Idaho. I’m surprised that she’s only two years older than I am and seems to have so much confidence as a teacher.

  “Did you get your class list?” Beth sets two markers and some nametags on the table.

  I snatch the list from the folder and sit beside her. She comments on the students whose names she recognizes and tells me about their siblings she has taught. “Elli is such a cutie. You’ll love her. She’s Mr. Chavez’s daughter.”

  “The principal?” The principal’s daughter is in my class? No pressure there.

  I don’t know how to admit this, but I’m not a teacher, a fact I completely evaded in the interview, especially in front of Mrs. Hays, but Beth seems more like a friend. “Beth, I don’t really know how to teach or what to teach. The room is ready, it looks great, but Monday morning, the students will show up, and we’ll have to do something.” My face feels both hot and cold, and my palms are clammy.

  “Oh, I put a few things in the file cabinet for you, well, before I knew it was you. They’re lesson plans I use to get the year started. Some of them are lessons I’ve left for substitutes, so they’ve been tested by someone other than myself. I think they’ll work well for you. We can talk through them.”

  We finish and leave the school together. The room is inviting, and I have lessons to teach. “Thanks, Beth, for everything.”

  She gives me a one-arm hug. “You’ll make it. We’ll do it together.”

  That night, I scan teacher websites for ideas, hitting a site hosting blogs from teachers and read through a few and decide to start one of my own.

  August 18, 2007

  Sophie’s Blog:

  Keys, a Room, and a Friend

  I know it’s still summer outside, but I haven’t seen it for two days. That’s how long ago it’s been since I was handed keys to my room. My room. I’ll soon be sharing it with my students. Somewhere, those children are shopping for back-to-school clothes or backpacks. Normally I wouldn’t have thought about this at all. I was a real estate agent forty-eight hours ago.

  My official mentor, the person the principal assigned to help me, is Mrs. Haze, also a first-grade teacher. I haven’t seen her at all. She must have come in to my classroom sometime during the night and dropped off a large pile of coloring pages. A sticky note on top suggested I use them to fill up the time of the first week while I adjust. I’m not sure she’s here to help.

  It’s crazy how many cars are in the parking lot. The first day of school must be a big deal here. I drive around but can’t find a spot, so I park Gustavo on the street down the block and around the corner from the school. I check my phone—eight o’clock. I’m not late. I have a full book bag hanging from my right arm, which is also curled around another large stack of books. My left arm is balancing a box—uh-huh, more books. I thought I parked closer than this. My triceps are burning, and I feel a little winded. This is a great workout. I won’t be one of those teachers whose flabby underarms swing as they write on the whiteboard.

  The street looks creepy as shadows from tall buildings on either side darken the sidewalk. The sun’s been up for a while, and the streetlamps have already switched off. Dark clouds are moving in, dimming the sky even more, threatening rain before I can get inside. Please don’t rain. Please don’t rain.

  I round the corner expecting to see the crosswalk, parking lot, and the school entrance just beyond, but I don’t. Where is it? Where am I? I decide to enter the building on my left and ask for directions. Since my arms are full, I kick the button for the automatic door opener and enter the lobby. The double doors swish closed behind me, but no one is there. No doors line the hallways—they’re just flat walls. There’s nowhere to go. I turn around. The door I just came through is gone. An alarm sounds and I startle, dropping the books and the box.

  Oh, my alarm. I bolt upright and realize it was just another weird starting-school dream, which I’ve had every day since being hired.

  For the first day of school, I’m wearing a black pencil skirt that makes my butt and legs look totally great. Of course, no one will be looking at my butt and legs, but it makes me feel better about all the Phish Food I’ve had lately. My top is a pink gauze blouse. I love this blouse. It has a mandarin collar, short, puffy sleeves with little pearl buttons on the band, and tuxedo ruffles down the front. My shoes are strappy black slingbacks with low two-inch spike heels. My hair is down in loose waves. I look like a teacher in charge. I look trustworthy and serious.

  By the time I walk to school, just three blocks, the dainty straps are cutting into my feet, and I’m ready to chuck my slingbacks in the recycling bin. Tomorrow, I’ll wear running shoes and bring my heels to wear at work. When the bell rings, I stand at the door to welcome my students, say hello to parents, and answer their questions.

  “Yes, this is my first year teaching.”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “I’m not sure yet how this school handles report cards.”

  “Yes, I’ll devote a large amount of time to reading.”

  “Oh, yes, math is important too.”

  “Homework? I’ll look into that and get back to you.”

  We get started a little late because of the interview/photo op in the hallway for the scrapbooking moms. Good thing I look fab. I introduce myself and write my name on the board—Miss Kanakaredes.

  One girl yells, “You wrote Keslee, like my sister. See the K?” She rushes the board and jumps to point to the K. I turn her back toward her seat and begin to open my mouth, but another student quickly pipes up. “I can make a K, all by myself.” Comments popcorn from around the room.

  “Is your name really Candy?”

  “Our teacher last year gave us candy to be good when the principal came to our class.”

  “I had Mrs. Thomas last year.”

  “I didn’t go to this school last year.”

  It seems every child in the room is telling a story or calling out some random thought. Is this what the first day of school is like? Are there are thirty rooms in this building all in complete mayhem? Do the children know that they could easily mutiny and take control of the school? When I did my student teaching, the children seemed cooperative for much of the day. What is going on here?

  “Did you know my mom went to this school?”

  “My mom is a teacher too. She says she has a bum deal this year.”

  “We aren’t supposed to say ‘bum.’”

  “It’s okay to say ‘bum’. That’s not the B-word.”

  “The B-word is butt.”

  Amazed at how quickly the conversation has gone astray, I hold up my hand and “shh” the class. “If you’re listening touch your head.” I touch my head, and a couple of students follow. “If you’re listening, touch your cheeks.” I have just about everyone now. “If you’re listening, touch your elbows.” I finally have all the students looking at me again. Oh, thank goodness that worked. We’ll have to practice the hand-raising thing.

  Beth’s lessons work great and the morning moves along without a crisis. It’s a little awkward to try to sit on the floor. My skirt seems very tight and very short. Even sitting on a chair is problematic. The students’ eye level is about even with where my skirt ends. I finally turn my chair to the side and twist back around to see the students, which gives me a side ache, and my back hurts a bit. I’ll have to rethink wardrobe choices tomorrow.

  Jacquie’s name is the first one I learn. “Jacquie, please sit down.” “Jacquie, look up here.” “Jacquie, put the objects back in the sorting boxes.” “Jacquie, stop talking now.” “Jacquie. . .”

  At recess, several students pull pla
stic sheets out of their backpacks. Why did they slide them under their socks? When I ask Marcus, he says it’s so he can go to recess. What are they? I wonder if it is a rule, or if those students just have overly protective parents. They don’t seem bothered by them as they run to the field.

  Right before lunch, we do an art project to learn how to stipple, using giant markers to make the dots. They each choose a fairy-tale character to practice on that will hang over their desks when finished.

  Eleven thirty, finally. “Please put away your markers and line up for lunch.” After dropping the students off with the cafeteria aide, I head for the faculty room. I’m starving. Gulping down one Diet Coke while the kids were at recess is not enough. Beth waves me over from across the faculty room, pointing to a chair beside her. I pop my Lean Cuisine in a microwave and grab another Diet Coke. Beth is making introductions before I sit down. “Sophie, this is Kristen, Jan and Mel. Everyone, Sophie Kanakaredes.” Mrs. Hays purses her lips, throws her sandwich into a plastic lunch bag and leaves.

  Jan rolls her eyes. I think she’s unimpressed with Mrs. Hays theatrics. Then Jan says, “You’re the newbie.”

  I must look confused because Kristen adds, “Newbie. First-year teacher. You’re the new Shelli.”

  Okay?

  “We were surprised when you were hired,” Jan continues.

  Feeling even better about myself. But really, that makes three of us.

  “When school got out, Shelli was planning to come back this fall, but had to leave suddenly,” Mel says, then takes a bite of apple.

  “What happened?”

  Mel continues as pieces of apple float between her words. “Her husband is in the Air Force, and he was sent to Alabama for a year of training. She thinks they will be back next June.”

  “Back to Colorado Springs, or back here to Rio Grande Elementary?” I ask.

  “Both. That’s why you were hired on a one-year contract.”

  I really should have read it more carefully.

  “Everyone always thinks they’ll come back, but the Air Force could transfer her husband again,” Beth adds with a “don’t-worry-about-it” look on her face.

  “My students are the reading buddies for your class. We’ll start on Thursday, okay?” Jan states. It sounded like a question, but she stands to leave without my answer.

  By eleven forty-five, most of the teachers go back to their rooms, leaving Beth and me together. We chat, then at twelve, we head back to our rooms too. Thirty minutes for lunch is criminal.

  Students sit on the rug as I read a story aloud, their wide eyes fixed with rapt attention to the book as my voice lilts with the story. Lunch recess was great for them. They are so quiet, so focused. A little time to run off energy is all they need to get to work again. The story ends, then the students go back to their desks as we start writing time. Jacquie’s desk is empty.

  I can feel the blood in my head coursing faster. Where is she? “Shaunee, did Jacquie go to the bathroom?” Shaunee just shakes her head and continues writing her name on her paper. “Has anyone seen Jacquie?” No one looks up. My face, neck, and chest prickle with alarm. College never covered this.

  Ellie raises her hand. “Teacher, don’t you think you should call the office now? They need to know you lost Jacquie.”

  My heart is racing. I really did. I lost someone. After three deep breaths, I call the office to explain the problem to the secretary, Mrs. Johnson. Even after this confession, my dread kicks up to panic. In fact, it seems more real—she’s lost, and I’m to blame.

  “Okay, Sophie. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get back to you.” Mrs. Johnson hangs up before I can add to the conversation, apologize, or plead for amnesty. She seemed oddly unconcerned. I wonder if she understood?

  What do I do now? Am I just supposed to go on teaching? My stomach is clenched as if gripped by a tight fist—like when you first fall from the top of the Towering Death Drop in an amusement park. You’re scared and sick and filled with regret. Yeah, it’s just like that.

  It was too quiet and peaceful—I should have known Jacquie was gone. How can I keep teaching when Jacquie is lost? I’m sure her mom is terrified. Can anyone trust me again with their child? I failed my very first day. Not even a day—three hours. This is why I should be a real estate agent. You can’t lose people—just deals.

  During the next lesson, I glance back and forth to the door, hoping for Jacquie to enter. When anything outside the window moves, I look to see if Jacquie is out there.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Johnson calls. “Sophie, Jacquie went home for lunch. She’ll come again tomorrow. Her mom is explaining to her that first graders stay all day.”

  “She went home? She’s safe?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. Bye.”

  Note to self—count students after recess and lunch.

  By the end of the day, I’m trying to get the students to call me Miss Sophie, but that’s going about as well as Miss Kanakaredes. Ellie stops at the door as she leaves the room. “Teacher, actually, we’re just going to call you Teacher. Okay?” She’s gone before I can respond.

  I turn off the lights, kick off my shoes, and lay on the couch in the book nook. If I quit now, then what? I’m obviously not suited to this. I didn’t even notice a student was missing!

  After a few minutes, the lights flick on, and I peep over the back of the sofa to see Mr. Chavez in the doorway. I right myself as he walks across the room. “Hi.”

  “Coming to see how your first day went.”

  Terrible. Children sucked on markers. I ate fast enough to have hiccups for the next half hour. I lost a person. “It was fine. Um, except for the Jacquie bit. Did you hear?”

  “Ellie mentioned it, and Mrs. Johnson filled me in as well. You know we lose one every year. They’re used to going home at lunch in kindergarten. Pretty scary. You okay?”

  “Yeah, okay after Mrs. Johnson called back. I’ll count them from now on.”

  “Good first day.” He walks back out the door.

  I cross the hall to Beth’s room and see her standing on a group of desks, hanging art projects from the ceiling over each child’s seat. “Come talk to me before you leave, ’kay?”

  Mrs. Hays steps in the threshold as I stand on one of the tiny desks to hang the art in my room. “How was everything?” she asks, her voice syrupy sweet.

  “Fine.” As far as you’re concerned.

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear that. It must have been a rumor that you lost a child today. It’s a relief to know our neighborhood children are in the professional and capable hands of someone who accepts her role of teacher as a moral responsibility. Bye now.” Just leave already. Her hand flicks over her shoulder and she departs as quickly as she darkened the door. What is her problem?

  Just as I’m hanging the art pictures above the last row of desks, a bee practically flies up my nose. In my panic, my head snaps backward while my arms flail wildly. I feel my heel slip off the edge of the desk. I try to step back onto the chair, but my balance is off. Overcorrecting doesn’t help much as I thrust my head and chest forward, but gravity and momentum are already winning.

  It isn’t at all like slow motion, but I am acutely aware of every movement my body makes. You really find out who you are when you fall off a chair. I know I’m not going to heaven because of the string of swear words racing silently through my brain before I hit the floor. I land squarely on my tailbone. No damage, but it really hurts. Just rub it out. Moving slowly, I try to shift down the hemline of my skirt which is somewhere near the top of my thighs, and notice the slit has ripped a couple of inches higher.

  As I’m pulling my skirt around to get a better look at the tear, he clears his throat. Of course someone saw. I look up to see him walking toward me…and he’s hot. He’s the man who held the door for me at my interview. When he’s closer, I know it is. Those eyes have to be unique.

  “Did you fall? Are you alright?” Instead of answering I’m just staring at his sandy hair and green
eyes. After my inept pause, when I should have been able to construct an answer (if I were any kind of normal person), he continues, “Beth asked me to drop these off.” He hands me a stack of flyers. “Are you all right?” His eyes flick to my skirt.

  I look down too and realize that the extra high rip is still turned to the front. There is no way to be stealthy about turning my skirt, so I drop the flyers low in front. Yeah, that’s not awkward. “All right, sure, I’m fine. Hi, I’m Sophie. It was a bee,” I say, pointing toward the ceiling.

  He nods without looking away from my face. “I’m Liam. We’ve met before. I held the door for you.”

  Yay! “You remembered. I really didn’t think you would, so I wasn’t going to say anything. Of course I remembered you—I mean, who wouldn’t with your green eyes. They’re more the color of evergreens than grass, or moss, but good moss.” Oh, Sophie.

  He smiles and glances down before his smile widens. He looks back up before he leaves. “Be careful up there.”

  “Right, thanks,” I mumble. Don’t check him out. He’s probably someone’s dad from Beth’s class. I do anyway. Confirmed, Hot Dad.

  I look to see that the bee is gone and get up on a chair to finish hanging the pictures.

  Beth stops by while I straighten desks. “Oh, good, you got the flyers. Put them…in the…kid’s…backpacks…tomorrow…Sophie? Did you know your skirt’s backwards? And ripped?”

  I reach down to spin my skirt back around. Nope there’s no way to save this. The slit can’t go in the back—too high—or the front—same problem. I swing it to the side and offer a feeble explanation for being disheveled. “I fell off a chair. I’m fine.”

  As we walk out together to the parking lot together, I ask, “We’re having a barbecue this Saturday. Would you and McKay like to come, about seven o’clock?”

  “Love to. What do you want me to bring?”

  “Chips or drinks, you choose.”