“Read the Prologue and write a summary of Act I, Scene 1, for tomorrow,” I asked when the class finally came to an end. I knew I sounded like I was begging, but I was beyond caring. I just wanted them to leave!
Instead of rushing out, though, the entire class formed a line at my desk to discuss their individual issues. Why the fuck had I made that offer? One by one, they approached me with detailed explanations as to why I was to avoid giving them too much homework. Apparently these kids were busier than Zabar’s on Saturday morning: Hebrew class, swimming lessons, yoga, ballet, painting, ice hockey, and the most anticipated and dreaded bar or bat mitzvah. A tiny boy wearing glasses was last on line, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of him.
“I’m Michael. My mom told me to give you this,” he said, handing me a small card.
“What is it?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.
“It’s from my mother. She wants to have you come over for tea or something. She likes to meet all my teachers.” I looked down at the heavy cream card:
Sarah Worthington
740 Park Avenue
212-546-7388
“Nice card stock, Michael,” Blair called out casually as she left the room. Card stock? How did a seventh-grader know about card stock?
“It’s really embarrassing,” Michael offered, blushing at Blair’s compliment.
“No…it’s sweet. I’ll call her. Thank you, Michael.”
“You’re welcome.”
Michael kept looking at me. Why wouldn’t this kid leave? Couldn’t he see that I just wanted to bury my head in the desk and cry?
“Yes, Michael?” I asked, drawing on my last ounce of patience.
“I thought it was a really good poem. The Frost thing. I liked it.”
Yeah, right. I was not going to fall for this again.
“I heard you laughing,” I replied shortly, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Only Blair’s posse and Benjamin,” he conceded, then looked at me seriously. “But not everyone.”
“Everyone was laughing,” I mumbled bitterly, sinking in my seat. From my lowered vantage point, Michael no longer seemed so little. His brown eyes seemed almost wise as they peered at me behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Everyone does what those three do,” he admitted, “but a lot of us find them annoying. And they always do stuff like that to new teachers and subs. They’ve been doing it since kindergarten.”
I looked up at Michael gratefully, not quite sure who was the teacher at that moment. “So my lesson didn’t totally—?”
“Oh, it totally sucked,” he interrupted immediately. “I was just saying it wasn’t all your fault. And the poem was kinda cool.”
The bell sounded for the next class and I found myself grinning as I watched him dash out of the room.
“You shouldn’t say suck,” I called after him, knowing I sounded exactly like my mother. I didn’t think he heard me, but all of a sudden I heard a locker door slam and a high-pitched “Sorry, Ms. Taggert!”
Ms. Taggert. That was me. I was a teacher at Langdon Hall. This was my dream job and I was not going to suck.
8
Resolve was one thing; momentum was another. After my first class—how did Michael put it…totally sucked—I was determined to do better. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and prepared to approach my next lesson. Unfortunately, my next lesson wasn’t for another three hours. A full day of classes was apparently too “public school” for Langdon, so its faculty taught just three hours a day. My students had all gone down to the science wing, and the halls were eerily silent. Not sure where I was supposed to go next, I wandered out of my classroom only to bump into Sarah Waters.
“Anna!” she gasped dramatically, putting both arms up.
Maybe she needed to pop another pill and calm down?
“I was just trying to figure out what I should do with this time,” I explained defensively. Hmmm…What was that smell?
“Do with this time? What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m wondering if there’s a mistake in my schedule.” I know that smell. I know that smell. “I mean, it looks to me like I don’t have any classes till 1:25. Surely that can’t be right?” God, that smell is so familiar. What is it?! “Would you mind taking a look at my printout?”
“Eeks!” Sarah threw her hands up again as I handed her my schedule. “Watch the nails!”
Aha! Nail polish! I knew it! Sarah’s nails did indeed look unnaturally shiny and wet.
“We have a lot of time free.” She grinned sheepishly. “Langdon teachers single-handedly support Blooming Nails.”
“Blumenfeld allows that?”
“Anna, there’s a lot of ‘better-left-unsaid’ over here. If you announce that you are getting your nails done during the three hours you are free, everyone will rush to point fingers. Sorry…no pun intended. You just have to, you know, learn to disappear.” Sarah looked around nervously and gestured for me to duck back into my classroom. “We use words like errand and bank to sneak out of the building, and then it’s up to you. Just avoid massages.”
“Why?” I couldn’t believe I was actually asking why getting a massage in the middle of the teaching day was out of the question.
“Because you have to keep the cell phone off. Essentially you can do anything just so long as it allows you to keep your cell phone on. I was getting my hair blown out once when the main office called to tell me that one of my students needed to speak to me.”
“What did you do?”
“I said I was at the bank, put my hair up, and was back in the building in under five minutes.”
“So I can just…leave?”
“Disappear,” Sarah corrected, blowing on her nails. “Just master the art of disappearance. And always leave your cell phone on.”
Alone in my classroom once again, I shook my head sadly at the thought of teachers needing to disappear. I had had all summer to myself. Why would I want to leave my dream job in the middle of the day? Feeling a bit sorry for Sarah, I decided to look for fellow teachers who also didn’t feel compelled to leave. These would be the teachers I would befriend, the colleagues I would spend free periods with. Together we’d create innovative lesson plans. We might even team-teach. What kind of person found happiness at a nail salon in the middle of the day? No wonder Sarah needed Prozac.
I popped my head into the classroom beside mine. Surprise! It belonged to bat-both-ways Randi Abrahams, the warrior princess of the faculty lounge. How bad could she be if she spent her free hours in her classroom? Wasn’t that the ultimate sign of dedication?
“Hi!” I smiled, suddenly feeling shy.
Randi closed the book she was reading and turned it over as if I had just caught her with porn.
“Hello,” she said coldly.
“Was that Romeo and Juliet?” I ventured bravely, thinking how wonderful it was that Randi liked to be “in the know,” that she liked to be aware of what her students were learning in other classes. Maybe I should ask her for a copy of her history textbook?
“No, it’s not,” Randi answered icily.
“Oh.” I couldn’t believe it. If any lie went down in the history of stupid lies, this had to be it. What was the point?
“I was just wondering what we were supposed to do now? I mean, I don’t teach another class for three hours,” I asked.
“When the school year progresses, there will be meetings. And this is also a time to call parents. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Taggert, I really need to get back to what I was doing.”
“Oh,” I faltered, now scrutinizing her like a maniac, “of course. I’m sorry to bother you.” But I just stood there, unable to move.
“Can I do something for you?” she asked coldly after a minute.
“Um…er…would you like to go to the cafeteria with me?” Ugh. I sounded like a middle-schooler incapable of going to the cafeteria by herself. Randi caught the insecurity with an almost imperceptible r
aise of her right eyebrow.
“I haven’t decided when I’m going to lunch, Ms. Taggert. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to my work.” Randi turned back to her desk and pretended to become intently focused on the piece of paper in front of her. What was her problem? Maybe Damian Oren, with all his dark views on the private-school world, was the only voice of reason. I left the room, but not without one last glance at Randi’s flawless highlights and Cartier watch.
The cafeteria was in the middle of a full-blown food festival. An Indian food festival. Bhangra music was playing loudly, and in the far corner professional dancers were doing a traditional dance in traditional costume. In the other corner of the cafeteria chefs tossed breads in the air in front of a sign that read: SAMPLE NAAN, THE TRADITIONAL BREAD OF INDIA! The lunch ladies were serving dishes that all had neat little signs beside them: TANDOORI CHICKEN. BASMATI RICE. CHANA MASALA. ALOO TIKKA. LAMB KEBAB. Lines of little ten-and eleven-year-olds mingled with adult teachers and high school students, all piling their plates with the exotic cuisine.
“I prefer Little Italy,” a familiar voice sounded behind me.
“Damian!” I cried gratefully. “Sit with me?” I hated that once again I was sounding like a pathetic and insecure middle-schooler, but I just couldn’t stand eating alone.
“Oh, no,” he laughed. “I come down every now and then to see the show, but I live off coffee during the day. Come see me later if you’re bored.” He gave me a sardonic wink and wandered leisurely down the hallway, slapping high five to a group of high school boys.
Alone once again in the crowd, I stood in line and allowed the lunch ladies to fill my plate with basmati rice and chicken tikka masala. Before I could stop her, she added a samosa for good measure. Facing the sea of people in the cafeteria, I had a flashback of my first day in the cafeteria as a sixth-grader. Where would I sit? Where did I belong?
Snap out of it, Anna! You’re being ridiculous! I forced myself to look around and notice the table arrangements. While students were sprawled in every direction, I noticed a small corner where two tables appeared to be reserved for faculty. I rushed over gratefully and slid into the first available seat.
“Hello!” I said brightly, and was greeted with cold nods. I hadn’t seen any of these teachers at orientation or in the halls. They quickly returned to their conversations, while I sat among them, picking at my basmati rice. It was like being at that restaurant with Bridgette all over again, only worse because this time there was nowhere to run. I worked here.
“What do you teach?” I asked with exaggerated interest, hoping that one of them would respond.
“Math,” a voice responded flatly.
I turned gratefully to my left and extended my hand.
“Anna Taggert, seventh-grade English,” I said in my friendliest voice. The woman I was facing appeared to be in her mid-forties with thinning brown hair that reached just below her chin level. Her watery blue eyes peered suspiciously at me and her thin lips were creased in a grimace. Since she was sitting I couldn’t make out if she was simply large boned or overweight, and the shapeless brown tunic dress she was wearing made it even harder to discern. She looked supremely irritated that I had interrupted her lunch, and my smile began to fade.
“I know who you are,” she said accusingly.
“I’m sure it’s easier for veteran teachers to know who the new teachers are,” I replied defensively, purposefully stressing the word veteran.
“I’m Dorothy Steeple,” she continued, irritated. “I teach…”
She stopped midsentence and I watched with growing fascination as she closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
“Seventh-grade math.”
Oh. We taught the same kids. Was I supposed to know that?
“I see! We have the same students,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “I’m so sorry, I still haven’t met all the seventh-grade teachers. And I’ve only had one section of my English class so far…the kids were pretty difficult.”
“Um…,” Dorothy said slowly, closing her eyes again.
I was really starting to wish that I hadn’t opened my mouth. What was I supposed to do when she closed her eyes? Wait with bated breath till she deigned to speak?
“The kids,” she said suddenly, her eyes now wide open, “are not the problem.”
There went the eyes again. If she was my teacher I would have killed myself.
“I never have difficulties in my classroom,” she declared. “Ever.”
“How nice for you,” I muttered, feeling more depressed than ever. My drinking-margaritas-with-the-teachers fantasy was growing dimmer by the minute. Not only were two of the teachers in my grade level not interested in becoming friends with me, but they were openly hostile. Mumbling something about having to prepare for my next class, I picked up my tray and headed toward the garbage.
“Anna! You cannot throw away food from the mother country!”
Ashok Mehta stood in front of me with his hands on his hips, staring indignantly at my full plate. His face was even shinier than it had been during orientation, but it had lost its plumpness. Maybe his first class had also taken a toll on him?
“I’m sorry, Ashok, I’m just not hungry. I actually love Indian food,” I promised, not wanting another confrontation.
“This is the time to stock up, though,” he said seriously, stepping aside as I emptied my plate.
“Huh?”
“I don’t know about you, but with rent and basic bills I barely have enough for dinner,” he complained, falling in step with me as we walked out of the cafeteria. Lifting the flap of his satchel, he revealed several tin-foiled packages.
“No, you didn’t…” I was torn between laughing outright that Ashok was smuggling his dinner from the cafeteria and the idea of doing it myself.
“You just—” Ashok paused and looked around furtively as if he were about to divulge a top secret, “—keep the Reynolds Wrap in your desk. One of the guys in the computer lab taught me this trick during orientation. We did the math. Not paying for dinner can save you a few thousand each year!” The thought of Ashok crunching these numbers with one of the computer lab technicians made me laugh outright. But he was right. Dinners would add up, and the free Langdon lunch was a perk we could make good use of.
“How was your first class?” I asked, changing the subject. The lunch smuggling had amused me at first, but I was starting to find the idea depressing.
Ashok’s face immediately fell. “They hate me, Anna. I gave them one hour of homework and they looked at me like I was the devil. They all started complaining and yelling so loudly that I thought Blumenfeld would hear and fire me. I gave up and cut it down to twenty minutes. I don’t understand it, Anna. Where I come from teachers are like gods. And only one hour’s worth of math homework is a gift, not a punishment!”
The bell rang before I could answer.
9
It was Sunday afternoon and I had spent the last six hours scouring every retail store on the Upper East Side for a job. There was no doubt in my mind that I needed something to supplement my salary, and somehow I couldn’t bring myself to follow Ashok’s example and bring home the Langdon lunch. While Mom’s check would carry me through (actually two—she had slipped another check into my purse as she and Dad had left), I just couldn’t keep accepting their money. So I paraded up and down Third Avenue with my I’d-like-to-speak-to-the-manager-about-a-part-time-job spiel. I went everywhere. Ann Taylor. Banana Republic. Gap. Even Talbots. Nothing. I was ready to declare Manhattan the land of zero opportunity. Feeling self-destructive, I decided to drown my sorrows in a four-dollar pumpkin spice latte.
Starbucks was a rare treat for me these days, which was probably why the mere thought of waiting on line and jostling for a table had cheered me up. I was tired by the time I reached the Starbucks at 75th Street and Third Avenue, but in better spirits. Actually, I was feeling almost giddy at the thought of my latte, which might have been why I was considering th
e extravagance of a pack of madeleines to go with it. I was scouring the pockets of my purse to see if I could come up with more than five dollars, when I noticed peanut-allergies Benjamin sitting at a corner table. He was furiously texting with both fingers and didn’t look up as I approached the table.
“Hi, Benjmain!” I said brightly.
Benjamin froze in midtext.
“It’s me! Ms. Taggert!” I could say the stupidest things sometimes.
“Um…hey, Ms. Taggert,” he mumbled, looking nervously toward the long line at the counter.
“I guess great minds think alike!” I continued, corny as hell.
“Um…great minds?”
“You know…you, me, this Starbucks? Great minds…we had the same idea so we both think—”
“Um, yeah, I got it,” he said, still looking a little panicked. Had I scared him on the first day? Was there something off-putting about me? I had to learn to be cooler!
“Yeah, I can be such a dork,” I grinned, rolling my eyes. “So it must be like the most embarrassing thing ever to run into your teacher outside of school, right?”
There! That was cool! I sounded more normal.
“I guess,” Benjamin trailed off, now slumping in his seat.
“Benjamin, I got your text right in time! I changed it to a peppermint mocha!” Both Benjamin and I turned toward the familiar voice. It was Randi Abrahams! When she saw me, her entire body stiffened. Benjamin looked equally stricken.
What was going on?
Randi was holding Benjamin’s peppermint mocha, so clearly they were together. If he was texting her…that must mean he had her number. Oh GOD! I knew what this was. I had seen it on Lifetime! This was the Mary Kay Letourneau story—a sick, twisted Manhattan private school version with peanut-allergies Benjamin and Cartier-wearing Ms. Abrahams as the principal players. I was going to report it immediately!
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