write a PhD thesis, and suddenly you have to shift gears. This is my fourth year teaching, and the setup is the same. Come in, get your classroom. If you’re lucky, you’re assigned to the same room as the year before.
I wasn’t lucky this year. Just the opposite, in fact. They moved me from second to third grade—not a bad move—and down the hall to the third grade pod. That is where the good news ended. Principal Blunt assigned me to the least desirable classroom in the school, the only one in the entire building which has the windows partially blocked off by a not-well-thought out addition to the building. Lauren Blunt is a thoughtful boss, but somebody had to get “the cave”, which is what the other teachers call this room. Naturally it would be the newest third grade teacher. Why would the others move?
The room is clean, at least. In fact, it’s so clean that the scent of ammonia stings my nostrils a little. I walk to the back of the class and open my one functioning window in hopes of getting some fresh air into the room. I wonder what it will be like in here once it starts getting cold.
It’ll be fine. Because what choice do I have anyway? I haven’t been here nearly long enough for tenure. I walk back to my new desk and open up the backpack into which I’d stuffed as many classroom supplies as I could. Without the car, I’d walked to work this morning. Luckily, it isn’t all that far, a little bit less than a mile going south past Mount Holyoke College. I carried Mabel Stark in her cage, the tiny hamster running around, nose twitching, as she checked out the surroundings during the walk.
Inside the backpack I have construction paper, printouts, posters and other materials. I begin taping up the posters. I like teaching, and I like the kids to have fun and be engaged in class. I’m looking forward to taking on third graders this year. They’re high energy and interested in school, and they’re not jaded yet like the older kids. I treasure the enthusiasm.
It’s a little after lunchtime and I have my back to the door, taping up a poster in the back of the room, when I hear a knock on the door. I look back—it’s Sarah Higgins, the school secretary. She’s a sweet lady of indeterminate years, somewhere between forty and sixty. Laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, and graying hair.
“Hey, Miss Higgins—what can I do for you?”
“Intercom’s out,” she says. “They’re working on it. In the meantime, I wanted to let you know that you’ve got an appointment later on. Jasmine Welch and her older sister.”
“Oh Jasmine! I saw she was in my class this year. Why her sister?”
Her face clouds immediately. “Oh, my. You didn’t hear?”
How would I know if I heard? “Heard what?”
She sighs. “Jasmine’s parents were killed in an accident last week.”
Oh, no. Poor Jasmine. I remember her parents well from our parent-teacher meeting’s last year. Doctor Welch was a bear of a man who lumbered into my classroom in a way that made it seem like he had to stoop to enter the room. My overall impression of Jasmine’s parents was kindness, aliveness … they were people who loved their daughter, loved their lives. It’s hard to imagine them dead.
And Jasmine’s coming back to school right away? “Last week? And she’s coming back to school already?”
“I wondered the same thing—I can’t imagine what her family is thinking, putting her sister in charge. They must have grandparents or something. Her sister hasn’t even lived in South Hadley in years, she went off to be in the Army or something. Anyway, she called wanting to talk with Jasmine’s teacher, so they’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
I mutter a little under my breath as she leaves. Twenty minutes. Fine. I finish taping up the poster and walk to the desk. I still have a significant amount of paperwork to complete—lesson plans and timetables—but I barely have time to even get started. Five minutes later, there is another knock on my door.
My eyes widen a little and I feel my fists clench when I see a woman standing in my doorway.
Her hair is blonde, almost white, cut just shy of shoulder length. I’d guess she’s five foot six inches, and instead of jeans and a t-shirt, today she’s wearing a blue knee-length skirt and a black tank top. I’m male