I sat in silence once again, watching as she scanned my cover letter. I noticed a small smile play at the corners of her mouth, and when she looked up her expression was almost warm.
“Anna, that’s a bold statement for someone so young, but a worthy sentiment. Here at Langdon we pride ourselves on being progressive. That means we take chances when others may not.” She paused. “I can extend you a one-year trial. I can make no promises that there will be a position for you next year, but for now the role of seventh-grade English teacher at Langdon Hall is yours.”
Oh, my God!
This was happening! It was actually happening!
“Dr. Blumenfeld, I cannot thank—”
“My biggest concern,” she interrupted, “is that you have absolutely no experience in the private school world. You will need a great deal of coaching—from how to handle your students to how to manage parent calls. Believe me, Ms. Taggert, there will be a great many parent phone calls, a great many expectations. I have a lot of résumés on my desk, but you are young and impassioned. We like that at Langdon Hall. I’m willing to take this risk.”
“I am beyond grate—”
“Ms. Rollins, my secretary, will help you fill out the paperwork. Congratulations, Ms. Taggert. And don’t thank me. The best thanks you can give me is to show me that I shouldn’t regret this decision.” I nodded furiously. As I reached out my hand to shake hers, she gave me an understanding smile.
“Oh, and Ms. Taggert, once a week our international chef creates a wonderful burrito in the cafeteria.” I stared at her, baffled. “With guacamole,” she added proudly, emphasizing the accent on the last e.
3
I spent most of July tiptoeing around Bridgette. I had fallen into a miserable pattern of watching an unreasonable amount of Lifetime television during the day, and then watching Bridgette get ready to meet her new analyst friends each night. I pretended not to care that her earrings cost more than what was left of my dwindling summer money, or that she was spending lavish nights at the Waverly Inn and Bungalow 8 while I languished on her couch, but I don’t think I fooled either of us. Our friendship was strained. That snow angel moment seemed so distant I found myself wondering if I had dreamed it. Had we really laughed ourselves silly over Spanx?
All the hours of Lifetime were taking their toll on me. I often woke up from my afternoon naps in a cold sweat: My parents were not my real parents, but a kindly couple from New Jersey whose own baby girl was now living with a family in Florida. Being switched at birth, I discovered after a particularly emotional four-hour movie, was actually quite common. I also found myself deeply distressed about the growing number of pedophiles preying on young girls in Internet chat rooms. I cried helplessly after watching the true story of the formation of M.A.D.D., and even harder during its rerun. There was also no doubt in my mind that all husbands had mistresses, and all mistresses had guns. Wives throughout America were in grave danger and nobody seemed to care. By the time The Golden Girls came on I was an emotional wreck. My life was in limbo, and Lifetime television was the only assurance I had that there were people in this world who were just as miserable as I was. Bridgette, however, seemed to have little sympathy for my situation. She grew increasingly hostile each night.
“Quel surprise,” she drawled sarcastically. “Another busy day for Anna.”
“It’s not my fault that my job starts later,” I said defensively. Why did Bridgette always have to walk in right in the middle of The Golden Girls?
“Ah, yes, the difficult life of teachers. These summers off can be such a drag.”
“Don’t you have to get to Bungalow 10 or whatever?”
Ha. That was a good one. Bridgette scowled and stormed off to her bedroom. I didn’t always win our little confrontations, but the occasional victories saved me from going completely mad. I longed for my new life, my new students, and my new apartment.
On August 1 I was up before Bridgette and almost mad with excitement to get off her couch and begin to live my life again. I was teeming with anticipation at the thought of seeing my new apartment. Langdon Hall owned brownstones in the neighborhood, one-bedrooms that they rented to faculty members at affordable prices. Everything about Langdon was so incredibly over the top, and I was certain that my apartment had to be equally impressive. Okay, maybe not Bridgette-impressive, and maybe not equipped with a twenty-four-hour doorman, but still somewhere I would be proud to call home.
“Call me when you get to your new place, okay? I want to come see it,” Bridgette said sleepily, still groggy without her morning Starbucks.
“Okay,” I promised, reaching out to hug my very absent and increasingly distant summer roommate.
“I’ll miss you,” she murmured unconvincingly, giving me an icy hug.
“I’ll call you,” I replied equally unconvincingly.
And that was it.
I felt sorry for Bridgette. Who in their right minds would choose a life spent in a cubicle as opposed to a cheery classroom with colorful bulletin boards and a fresh, inviting chalkboard? Instead of Bloomberg terminals and maddening ticker tape, I would be surrounded by fresh-faced children, eager young minds ready to be expanded by my creative assignments. Maybe it was for the best that Bridgette and I were growing apart. I needed new friends who shared my passion. Already daydreaming of getting after-work margaritas with my new teacher friends and laughing about how adorable our children were, I splurged on a taxi to my new apartment.
There had to be some mistake.
The address—324 East 84th Street between Third and Lexington—was correct. But this was not an apartment building. It was a single glass door with a crack. Rusty buttons on the side panel indicated that there might be apartments beyond the door, but the paint was peeled off and the numbers were unreadable. Beyond the dusty glass, all I could see was one very long staircase. No elevator in sight. And certainly no doorman. Steeling myself, I put the key Ms. Rollins had sent me in the keyhole and found that the glass door, besides having a charming crack, also apparently did not lock. It swung open, inviting residents and muggers alike.
I freaked out.
Nearly breathless and panting after climbing the first story, I was greeted with three sad letters painted on the wall: ONE. My destination, I realized with total clarity, was FIVE. Or HELL. By the time I reached the fifth floor, I hated Bridgette and her elevator and her doorman more than ever. Apartment 5A was a tiny studio masquerading as a one-bedroom. A cement wall that didn’t quite make it to the ceiling separated the living room-cum-kitchen from what appeared to be the closet-cum-bedroom. Behind the wall-that-was-not-quite-a-wall was a bedroom that, with luck, could contain maybe a twin-size bed, a night table, and a small desk. That’s if I wasn’t planning on moving around a lot. I wanted to cry. How could I bring my parents here? How could I invite Bridgette to see this? Most sickening of all was how could I actually be paying twelve hundred of my eighteen-hundred-dollar salary for this tiny little hole? This was Langdon’s idea of a faculty “break”?
Stop it!
I had been wasting away on Bridgette’s couch for weeks waiting for this moment. No way I was going to allow myself to fall into another depression. I resolved to become the heroine of my own Lifetime movie: Anna Taggert, The True Story of a Manhattan Teacher Who Battled the Odds. A Lifetime heroine would use the three weeks before Langdon Hall’s orientation to make the best of her apartment! She would spend time in Central Park’s Sheep Meadow with educational books, rereading and highlighting passages on teaching technique! In the afternoons she would take blissful naps in the sunshine, lulled to sleep by the thought of all those gloriously empty penthouse suites towering over the trees. After all, most people who lived in homes like that had to work during the day so they could afford them. This Anna Taggert might be living in the tiniest hole on the island, but she was preparing for a career that was going to shape the minds of future leaders in this country.
God, I loved Lifetime.
The Spence
-Chapin Thrift Shop was down the street, and I figured I could find some affordable pieces that would make my apartment more homey. The irony of a teacher being able to afford only the hand-me-downs of private-school families was not lost on me, but true-story-Anna-Taggert didn’t let these things upset her. Even if I could find a simple desk and a night table I would be able to—
“Are you here to pick up Mrs. Carrington’s Fendi?”
“Excuse me?” I blinked in confusion as an elderly man in glasses approached me frantically.
“Mrs. Carrington. Fendi mink. It got sent over by mistake with the other clothes. You’re the nanny, right?”
So for one itsy-bitsy second the thought of saying “yes” and booking it out of the Spence-Chapin Thrift Shop with a Fendi mink did cross my mind….
“Um, no…I was looking for a desk. And maybe a night table?”
“Oh. Yes, well, look around.” The man gestured vaguely, losing interest. If I wasn’t Mrs. Carrington or the Carrington nanny I was clearly not worthy.
In a corner labeled CAMP GOODS, I found a used blow-up mattress and a pack of unopened sheets from Gracious Home that once cost $650. The thrift store markdown now had them priced at $25. What kind of people tossed out unopened sheet sets with a thousand thread count? A stack of throw cushions for $10 each would make the mattress double as a couch (maybe my apartment could have an Arabian Nights theme?) and a slightly chipped but sturdy-looking desk might just be—
“DO YOU HAVE MY MINK?”
The elderly man shot me a nervous glance and then ran to the door. At the entrance stood a petite woman with curling blonde hair and enormous sunglasses. She was wearing a tiny white skirt with a tight black T-shirt that had big, interlocking C’s on the chest. Little shining studs twinkled from the edges of her T-shirt and skirt. She looked like a BeDazzler-happy fourth-grader. With a very big head.
“Mrs. Carrington, we are so sorry!” the man gushed, holding up a long, caramel-colored mink.
“My nanny is retarded!” she sniffed in disgust, grabbing the coat. “What kind of human being can’t tell the difference between shearling and mink? My husband got me this coat for Valentine’s Day. He would have died!”
“We had a feeling there was a mistake. That’s why we called,” the man continued obsequiously. “We know how much your family donates to us, but of course we must all have perspective!”
Mrs. Carrington and her Fendi were already out the door.
“Excuse me,” I asked, “can you do better than $150 for this desk?”
“That,” the man sniffed haughtily, “is a Scully & Scully desk originally priced at…well a price you couldn’t afford, my dear. I’d take it at $150 and not ask too many questions. Remember, we are a charity store, so your money does go toward a good cause.”
I had a feeling he didn’t mean teachers.
4
My first day of school, at last. Langdon’s entry hall was full of teachers greeting and hugging one another warmly. I heard snippets of conversations—comments on new haircuts and summer vacations—while all around me people were breaking into loud shouts of laughter. Everybody seemed genuinely thrilled to see one another. A few of them were already poring over class lists and pointing at specific names with knowing looks and rolled eyes. I couldn’t wait to be a part of it all. But first I was going to make friends with the Krispy Kremes. I moved toward the food: A hearty setup of donuts, muffins, and bagels covered one table; another contained pitchers of juice and urns of coffee.
“Please help yourself,” a friendly voice greeted me.
I looked up to see a kind, gray-haired man with twinkling eyes and a Santa Claus beard.
“I’m Gerard Zimmerman, the school psychiatrist. We’ll be touching base later,” he said warmly, letting his eye scan down to my name tag. “Ms. Taggert.”
“Oh, Anna! Call me Anna!” I said quickly.
“Okay, Anna it is,” he beamed. “Ah, the kids are going to love you! We need a fresh young face around here.”
I stood there grinning madly, happier than I had ever been. I was a young fresh face! The kids were going to love me! Yes! Yes! Yes!
Teachers of all ages were now coming through the lobby in hordes, milling around the breakfast table and then heading into the auditorium in clusters. A few of them eyed me curiously, giving me tentative smiles.
I followed them into the auditorium, which looked more like the Majestic Theatre than a school. Red velvet seats in seemingly endless rows filled the room while the crimson and gold threaded carpet had all the opulence of Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter. Thick, maroon drapes curtained the stage, and the balconies curved gracefully above, showcasing even more seating. I melted awkwardly into a seat near the back of the auditorium just as Dr. Blumenfeld took the stage. Conversation immediately died as all eyes turned to her. There must have been over four hundred people in the theater, and not a child to be seen. Were they all teachers?
“Good morning, everyone. It is my pleasure to welcome this amazing and talented faculty back to what promises to be another wonderful year at Langdon Hall,” she said cheerily. The entire room broke into applause.
“Many exciting things have happened over the course of this summer. The math department enjoyed three weeks in Nepal and has wonderful slides from their trip to share in a later faculty meeting.”
More applause.
“Our beloved Mr. Harry Agincourt published his first book on Caribbean literature, and Mrs. Rita Woodward received…”
Dr. Blumenfeld went on and on to mention accolades and various trips that the Langdon faculty had made over the summer. The music teacher had adopted an Ethiopian baby. Two ninth-grade history teachers had teamed up to teach a Cantonese cooking class. I could feel my excitement rising. This was a school that truly supported its faculty. I could just imagine sitting here next year and hearing Dr. Blumenfeld tell the faculty about my important summer accomplishments: “Our cherished Anna Taggert had a book of poetry published this spring regarding her experiences in the classroom. What an amazing feat for our beloved first-year teacher!” I vowed right then to spend a good portion of my evenings and vacation days dedicated to this task.
“And now,” Dr. Blumenfeld said suddenly, “it is my great pleasure and honor to introduce some new faculty members who will be joining all of you here at Langdon. As you all leave this meeting and head to your respective classrooms, I hope you will be sure to look out for these extraordinary individuals and make them feel welcome and at home.”
More applause.
“First, I welcome Doori Iwahara, who will be our new high school biology teacher. Doori hails from Japan, and came to America when she was eighteen to study at the University of Pennsylvania. She will be teaching three sections of ninth grade and two sections of tenth grade. We welcome you, Doori. Please stand up!”
I craned my neck toward the far left corner of the room where the minuscule Doori stood, shyly waving. She was wearing a tiny black jumper with a white tank top, and had a shock of pink hair on the right side of her head. I loved that Langdon embraced the personal styles of its faculty! I wondered if I should get a few highlights as well….
“Next, we have Ashok Mehta, who will be teaching sixth-grade math. Ashok comes to us straight from New Delhi as part of our Langdon Teachers-Without-Borders program. He studied at the Delhi Institute of Technology, and we are just thrilled to be welcoming you, Ashok! Please stand up!”
A large, dark-skinned man with thick glasses and wavy hair stood up and beamed. Unlike shy Doori, Ashok appeared absolutely thrilled with the attention.
“And finally, perhaps our youngest faculty member to be added to Langdon in a long time, I welcome the recently graduated and fresh-faced Anna Taggert, who hails from Columbia University! Anna will be teaching seventh-grade English with us this year, and we are sure she will bring her Mexican heritage to the classroom to make her lessons all the more enriching! Stand up, Anna!”
What…the…fuck?
I
stood up and managed a faint wave.
“And finally…” Dr. Blumenfeld paused a bit awkwardly, “I would like to reintroduce the faculty to someone we already know and love. Our beloved Matthew from the language department has made an important life decision and would prefer to be known as Mary. Mary, we support and welcome you as always to our community, and we will all encourage our students to do the same!”
Huh?
There were a few shocked gasps and whispered exclamations, and then everyone broke into applause as a tall and very sturdy-looking woman stood up in the corner of the room.
“Langdon is a progressive school. Our children, faculty, and outlook on life are always changing. That is precisely what makes us so very unique in Manhattan’s private-school world,” she finished, beaming at the entire room. The Langdon faculty broke into enthusiastic applause, and then teachers started to exit the theater in small clusters. I could tell the science teachers from their short-sleeved collared shirts and thin ties. The art teachers had random bits of “flair,” like purple tights or funky, pink-rimmed glasses. The room eventually emptied, leaving Doori, Ashok, and me to linger awkwardly. Where were we supposed to go?
“The new teachers can accompany me,” said a tall, lanky man. “I’m Jerome. You will start in the technology lab. I’ll give you your new laptops and set you up with faculty e-mail accounts.”
“New laptops?” Ashok burst, hardly able to contain his excitement.
“Oh, yes, all our faculty are given laptops!” Jerome confirmed warmly.
“To…keep?” Doori asked, her voice a barely audible whisper. Oh, boy, the kids were going to eat her alive, I couldn’t help thinking a bit smugly.
“To keep,” Jerome affirmed, and then gestured for us to follow him.
The Langdon Hall technology room looked like it was about to launch a NASA aircraft. The room was stark white and devoid of any windows. There were two long metal tables with more Apple computers than I had seen even in the store. At the computers were geeky-looking guys typing furiously, their eyes glued to the screens. They were way too old to be students, and since they were not at the assembly I wondered who they were.
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