Chapter Text
The missive arrived in the middle of July, printed on the kind of cheap, flimsy printer paper that tears if you so much as breath on it the wrong way. You hadn’t planned to check your mailbox that morning, had only happened by the front office because the back entrance—the one closest to your classroom—was locked. Nifa, the shy, freckled secretary, called your name as you passed the plexiglass window of her office, lanyard swinging in your hand. No, you had no intention of reading whatever hairbrained policies the administration had dreamed up for the upcoming semester, especially not in July.
“That’s August’s problem, Nifa.”
The young woman coughed a little, a wince pulling her cheek upward. “Uh, I think you’ll want to see this.”
“I promise you, I do not.” You were already seeing it all over social media, anyway. Phone bans in several states, the incorporation of the Ten Commandments in classrooms. Whatever the demand, you weren’t prepared to deal with it. Not yet.
“Well,” Nifa said, rising from her desk. She was a small thing, dwarfed by a beige cardigan that would have suited someone four decades older than her. How was she not burning up? “I’m going to give it to you. I promised that I would. Mr. Shadis said you should have an email about this, as well.”
You hadn’t checked your email since June. Didn’t Shadis know that nearly ninety percent of his teachers worked summer jobs to afford a (barely) sustainable living? You weren’t going to commit too many hours to unpaid labor, classroom decorating aside. That, at least, you could enjoy in peace. Still, you accepted the letter from Nifa, thanked her, and proceeded down the kindergarten hallway.
And stopped not even a third of the way to your classroom because in bold, black letters, your vice principal had delivered unto you a fate worse than death.
~
“I just don’t see why this is that big of a deal.”
You punch the focaccia loaf harder than it deserves. It was rid of its air pockets three thwacks ago. “Are you familiar with the antichrist? Like, conceptually?”
Your mother cocks an eyebrow. She’s got some flour there, remnants from wiping at her forehead while laminating the croissant dough this morning. “I didn’t think I raised you to be so spiritual.”
Dimples forming beneath your fingertips as you stretch the dough on the metal pan, you groan. “It’s a proof of concept. A yes or no will suffice.”
“Fine. Yes, I’m familiar.”
“Okay. Now, imagine an entire room filled with twenty-three tiny, sticky-fingered antichrists, each with their own hierarchy of needs and demands. That’s second grade. A bunch of four foot something demons sent straight from hell.”
She sighs. “When you’re done being dramatic, we need some help at the register.”
“These aren’t dramatics! This is a very real catastrophe!”
When you graduated from Rose University after a brief stint at Sina Community and Technical College, your Associates and Bachelors both in Elementary Education, you had your eyes set on teaching kindergarten. Bright eyes, sweet giggles, and the kind of educational theory that, in your mind, made the most sense. Some people meshed with multiplication tables, some with the first steps towards learning to read. It’s not uncommon for educators to have preferred grade levels, and though being asked—rather, volun-told—to switch grades is a distinct possibility, a fully-staffed school is a great way to ensure that you maintain your position.
Maria Elementary School had a robust staff until July, it appears.
It’s been weeks since you read the letter from vice principal Shadis, and his words still stick to your ribs like a too large meal.
Effective immediately, you will assume the role of second grade teacher. Please use the remaining weeks before professional development to relocate your belongings and organize your newly appointed room. Should you need any assistance, our lead second grade teacher, Ms. Petra Ral, will be of assistance.
Then, at the bottom of the letterhead in green italics:
We’re Titan Strong!
You sent a screenshot of the letter to Petra, who bothered to be upset on your behalf for all of ten seconds before sending a text that read, “jOiN uS.” Observant your administration is not; if they were, they’d know that the two of you have shared every workday lunch together for the last three years. Petra was a year ahead of you at Rose University and the president of the institution’s chapter of Kappa Delta Phi, the international honor society for education majors. When you started student teaching, she was there to dispense helpful advice like, “If they start swallowing a lot, grab a trashcan,” and, “Remember, no matter how weird they try to make the situation, you can make it weirder. Keep them humble.” When you picked up the gig at Maria Elementary, the two of you celebrated with an all-weekend margarita bender, which concluded with the both of you waking up in your shower, a consistent downpour of soft water soaking your clothes.
In short, you’re bonded for life. Still, you aren’t sure if even a commitment this strong can help you persevere through what’s to come.
“Wasn’t kidding about the help up front! Nina called out, so we’re one short today.”
To supplement your summer income—which, to be abundantly clear, is spread pay, and you are not getting paid for nothing, as so many people online seem to think—you work part-time at your family’s bakery during the summer and holidays. Briefly, you entertained pursuing an Associates in culinary arts before deciding that you wanted baking to remain a casual, beloved pastime, not a nine-to-five (or four-to-noon, as it were). When the call-ahead orders are multitudinous, you help your mother prepare bread loaves, cookies, muffins, and small cakes, but if the walk-in orders grow too hectic, you helm the counter. You ran out of your mother’s signature blueberry muffins in under twenty minutes during the lunch rush, and it’s been near chaos ever since.
The bakery itself isn’t terribly large. When you were in the fifth grade, your parents built an addition that now serves as a walk-in pantry, but the main building consists of the storeroom floor, the kitchen, and the office. Your mother, the phone squished between her ear and her shoulder, waves you onward as you pass her in the narrow hallway. In a stage whisper, she says, “I think he’s picking up an order.”
Sans the two sets of lacquered wood tables and chairs, there’s no real space to sit and dine. Black and white tiling, the same kind that your grandparents installed when they built the place sixty years ago, still catches stray beams of sunlight through the picture windows, and the ferns hanging above the sills are in need of a thorough watering. With the front door propped open and the line curling out onto the sidewalk, the summer’s heat coats the cool air in something thick and humid, and you bite the inside of your cheek and remind yourself that it could be worse.
You could be in a room full of seven-year-olds, gently explaining for the nth time that no, they are not allowed to eat erasers or summon Satan or whatever else second graders get up to.
On the other side of the display case stands the man about whom your mother must have been speaking. He’s not looking at you, too busy conspicuously checking the watch on his wrist, so he startles a little when you clear your throat.
“Sorry for the wait. Do you have an order with us?”
He nods. “Should be under Ackerman.” Then, like it’s an afterthought, he adds, “I placed the order yesterday.”
“Oh.” You packaged that order about an hour ago. “Give me one second, and I’ll bring it right out.”
You’re pretty sure he mumbles something about having taken too many seconds already, but you’ve worked here since you were fifteen. A comment like that isn’t going to land. Once, someone threw a petit four straight at you.
You caught it with your mouth.
True to your word, you return with the shiny, pink box embossed with your family’s logo. Through the clear plastic on the upper flap, you note the almond cookies, lemon bars, brownies, and fondant iced petit fours. As far as orders go, it’s all over the place, but you took care to keep them separated using white cardboard dividers. He’s still not really looking at you; rather, those gunmetal eyes are focused on what you assume is the slot in the wall behind you, the one that displays a sliver of the kitchen. Undeterred, you show him the receipt, taped to the left corner of the box, and reiterate the price he was no doubt given when he made the order.
He flips through a series of debit cards, and your eyebrows raise several inches. How many cards does one man need? There’s no more time to contemplate the veritable menagerie of plastic in his wallet, though, as he taps a blue card against the provided reader, selects the “25% tip” option, and grabs the box.
“Thank you.” Mr. Ackerman doesn’t move, though. If the movements of his pupils are any indication, he’s taking his sweet time to count every single item in the box, and while you manage to hold it back, there’s a retort to be made about someone else taking way too many seconds. “And you’re sure the almond cookies are gluten free?”
Did your eye just twitch? “They’re one of the few items on the menu that’s only offered without gluten, so I’m pretty confident.”
“And the brownies are the extra fudge variety?”
“Yep.”
He tilts the box this way and that. “There isn’t…” You’re not sure what he sees in your face, maybe murder, but his lips press together in a thin line, and he finally, finally takes the box from the counter and mutters a second, quieter, “Thanks,” before skirting around the rest of the gathered crowd. You hadn’t noticed it at first, but when he’s more intently entrenched in the masses, his height—or lack thereof—is much more obvious. You’ve got at least a head on the guy, if not more.
Could that be why he finally stopped talking? Figured you could take him in a fight?
It takes an hour to get through the rest of the line and two to make up for the time lost on tomorrow’s prep work. When three o’clock hits and your mother turns off the “Open” sign, your skin is tacky and dry from constant hand washing, and you’re certain there’s strawberry compote in your hair. Sagging against the front counter, you mumble, “Tell me I don’t have to be here at four in the morning tomorrow.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
You make a very loud, very undignified sound.
The truth of the matter, however, is that you’ll miss this. When you’re knee deep in grading and snotty noses and the annual first case of lice, you’ll pine for the sugar stuck beneath your nails and the crook in your neck from bending at odd angles. You might even yearn for the ridiculous orthopedic shoes your mother insists you wear when you’re on the job because well, they support your arches, don’t they? Who cares if they look stupid?
Soapy rag in hand, you set to work on the counters before sweeping and mopping. Your mother and two other temps make their way through their respective checklists, too, and when you grab your timecard from the shelf on the office wall, your mother squeezes your shoulder.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says, “but I think you’ll do a fine job.”
“If they don’t tear me limb from limb.”
Exhaling through her nose, she pushes past you to grab her own card. “You must have picked up these theatrics from your father.” She slides it into the time clock, faint red ink printing 4:02pm on her card before she puts it back on the shelf. “But, for what it’s worth, I mean it.”
You stamp your own card. “I know.” Then, lingering in the office that’s served as your sick station, your play pen, and sometimes, your secondary bedroom, you trace your finger over the top of the desk. “Mom, it’s such a pivotal year. There’s so much riding on this grade, and our test scores were already dipping last semester.” The largest, the worst of your fears crawls from your chest and out of your throat, burning all the way. “What if I can’t prepare them? What if I can’t get them there?”
What if you walk into the Open House event tomorrow only to realize that you are not and will never be good enough?
“But what if you can?” she asks. “What if you do? There’s really no sense in entertaining these scenarios so early. What have I always told you?”
“Only heathens don’t separate their laundry.”
She snorts. “No, the other thing.”
You know. Of course you know. “Failure is just one of many opportunities.”
Your mother drapes an arm over your shoulders and nuzzles your temple. “Exactly. Now, go take a shower. You smell like grease.”
It’s far from your first pep talk in that office. Throughout middle and high school, that same desk and armchair saw your first breakup, your first F on an exam, and your first ever panic attack. It was in that same room that you told your mother you weren’t going to culinary school, and several years later, leaning against the doorframe, you informed her that you had made an appointment to be sterilized. So much of you has been instilled in those four walls, so much wisdom imparted by your patient, whip-smart mother, and though it took less than five minutes, you know this conversation will be an important one for the records, too.
In fact, it’ll mark the beginning of the best and worst semester of your life.