“I can do that,” Jamie said. “Give me a sec to change into my sweats.”
“When you get back, I have to show you this text from Todd.”
Jamie rolled her eyes. “Text from Todd” was one of Leslie’s most frequently uttered expressions.
All set with her elastic waistband and a heaping bowl of pasta, Jamie studied the text. Saturday night is the better one this weekend, it read.
“Do you think he wants to go out?” Leslie asked, breathless and hopeful.
Jamie shoveled penne into her mouth with her free hand. “Yeah. I think he wants to hang out on Saturday,” she said, sarcastic. Leslie laughed and grabbed her phone back. As she chewed, Jamie pulled her laptop out of her backpack. While Leslie worked on a reply to Todd, Jamie logged on to Facebook. The profile pic in the upper-left-hand corner depicted the Liston Heights Lion, its mouth open, teeth gleaming. The name next to the thumbnail read, Lisa Lions.
“What are you doing?” Leslie lowered her iPhone. Jamie startled.
“Just checking Facebook,” she said, nonchalant. Of course, she hadn’t told Leslie about her second account, the fake one she’d made to keep tabs on the parents at LHHS. It had started innocently enough after Peter Harrington was fired. Although Peter had been a talented teacher—Jamie thought his lesson plan ideas were as good as Isobel’s and certainly better than her own—he clearly didn’t understand the Liston Heights culture. Maybe, Jamie had reasoned, if she did understand it—all of it, the parent side in addition to the student experience she’d lived—the mothers wouldn’t complain about her to Wayne Wallace like they had about Peter.
“Did you see Rebecca’s engagement photos?” Leslie asked, pulling Jamie out of her thoughts.
“Oh, not yet,” she replied, stalling.
“There’s a lot of gazing,” Leslie continued, oblivious to Jamie’s preoccupation. “And a ring shot. Gross.”
“I’ll check it out.” Jamie looked down at her own empty ring finger. Her OkCupid endeavors hadn’t been overly successful.
She navigated to the “Inside Liston” page she managed as Lisa Lions. She’d created the secret group using her second account when she’d first heard the words “declining enrollment” during the superintendent’s back-to-school address that fall during teachers’ workshops. In the beginning, she’d just friended the moms to see what they were like, and then she had the idea of giving them a forum to report on school quality. Although she felt weird about it, she’d started posting snapshots of controversial assignments and carefully worded personnel updates on the page. Sometimes between classes, she’d check for new comments, thrilling a little when something particularly nasty came up. Lately, parents had begun posting their own items—criticisms of hard graders and even a picture of Mr. Danforth’s rusted-out car. If this guy had any talent, he’d actually be making money doing something else, the caption read. She’d laughed at that, although she felt guilty and, if she was being honest, just a little bit jealous. She’d rather be noted for something positive, but no one ever bothered to post anything about Jamie at all. She looked the Liston part with her stick-straight brown hair and freckled skin, but her trendy boots and borrowed lesson plans didn’t generate any special interest.
Certainly, Jamie thought, the secret group was shady, but it did increase her job security, keeping everyone else in the department on their toes. And now Mary’s recent e-mail made it clear that someone would actually have to leave in order for Jamie to keep her contract. She wasn’t lying on Inside Liston, she rationalized, just amplifying other teachers’ choices and statements. Breaking, she’d typed after last week’s faculty meeting. Eleanor Woodsley flooded with requests to teach seniors due to her superior college essay coaching. This had prompted a comment thread about which teachers “ignored” the college process, which ones “half-assed” recommendations, and how to convince Sue Montague to honor teacher requests beyond the two the school currently permitted (because avoiding Mr. Limmer’s AP Calc was critical for maintaining the senior fall GPA). It was all interesting to Jamie, and it did help her understand the parent mentality.
“Okay,” said Leslie, interrupting again, “what do you think of this?” She shoved her phone into Jamie’s face.
Saturday would be great for me, the text read. Dinner?
“Too forward?” Leslie frowned.
Jamie’s eyes drifted back to her computer. “The tone is perfect. I’d say you have a date for Saturday night.”
“Pressing send!” Leslie giggled. “I’ll be right back.” She jogged toward her bedroom.
As she left, Jamie dismissed a pathetic message from Julia Abbott asking her to delete the drama board video. She couldn’t do that—the incident had massively increased her engagement on the page. She scrolled through the reactions to the queer theory handout she’d posted from Isobel’s class. She had never done that before, posted something of Isobel’s. To be fair, the parents had begun to discuss Ms. Johnson on their own. Several mentioned that their ninth graders had announced they never wanted to be mothers after Isobel’s most recent unit, on nineteenth-century women’s short stories. The yoga-pants moms hadn’t been happy with the literature selections featuring mothers going crazy, and they hadn’t needed any help from Lisa Lions to manifest those feelings.
And now, with the declining enrollment, Jamie didn’t feel she could afford to risk losing her teaching position. She had to make rent. Isobel had been nice to her, but in the end, wasn’t it every woman for herself? Wouldn’t Isobel, given her curriculum, agree that women’s ambitions were paramount?
Jamie had finished perusing the comments—one subset of parents was investigating whether Isobel actually had a college degree—and had her browser pointed to People.com for a quick break before grading when Leslie walked back into the kitchen. She brushed crouton crumbs from her sweatpants as she stood.
“Vodka soda?” she asked Leslie.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
When Isobel had made it through dinner and bedtime, she and Mark huddled together over their laptops. An open bottle of Pinot stood between them on the kitchen table, an upgrade from their usual boxed wine, given the circumstances. Mark crafted sentences while Isobel found and attached lesson plans and scholarly articles supporting her pedagogy. She and Lyle exchanged texts intermittently, and though Isobel searched for it, there wasn’t a bit of an “I told you so” tone to his messages. Instead, he offered his own suggestions and agreed to edit the first draft. Just after midnight, when Isobel and Mark had finished documenting her philosophy on teaching the works of Mark Twain and scanning her college transcripts (all A’s and a Phi Beta Kappa distinction), Mark leaned over and kissed the hair above her ear. “Let’s head to bed,” he said.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.” Isobel felt tears welling again. She’d sniffled through dinner, telling Riley and Callie that she was allergic to something in her classroom.
“Let’s just try.” Mark stood up, arched his back to stretch, and held a hand out to Isobel. She took it.
“I just can’t believe this,” she said again. She’d been saying it over and over as they worked.
“I know,” Mark said. She collapsed into him, feeling the soft terry cloth of his sweatshirt against her face, her glasses askew. “But it’s going to be okay.”
“The thing is,” she said. Her lips brushed his shirt as she spoke, and her chest felt tight. “If I lose my job, this whole thing will have been a colossal waste of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I came to Liston Heights to impact privileged kids, remember? That’s why I told myself I could even apply for this job. I was going to try to disrupt their thinking. I was going to prevent them . . .” She trailed off. She’d said this before to Mark. She’d said it to Lyle; she’d even told Eleanor some of these ideas. Maybe it was time to face the fact that she’d been wrong to come to Liston Heights all those yea
rs ago.
Mark squeezed her harder. “You’ve taught hundreds of kids there,” he said. “Thousands even, in the last eight years. I think your message has come through.”
“If what happens is that I get escorted out and Judith Youngstead takes my place, everything I’ve worked for is just gone. The school tells the kids that I was wrong or bad, even. The kids accept the status quo, which in the case of Liston Heights is incredibly unfair.” She imagined the horror and shame of emptying her desk and closing her classroom door forever. She imagined Lyle’s sad smile. He’d warned her, after all, and he’d been a good friend.
Mark didn’t respond right away. Then finally, he said, “You don’t have to be fighting all the time. You can do what Lyle and Eleanor and all the others do.”
Isobel pulled back from her husband, leaving his embrace. “What?” She felt a familiar indignation rise.
“Couldn’t you just tone it down, like Wayne and Mary said?” He sat back down in his chair.
“I can’t believe you’re saying that,” Isobel said, her voice rising. “You know that when I took this job, the goal was to make the kids think, to stop them from treating other people like nothing. If there’s anything I learned from my father—”
Mark’s voice was level, but firm. “Your whole life can’t be about atoning for your dad’s sins. It’s been almost twenty-five years. You can let it go now. Back off just a little bit and keep your job.”
Isobel took two steps away from him. “Keep my job?” she repeated.
“Don’t you want to?” Mark asked. “The money’s good, and we’re saving for college. I have to imagine it’s harder to get a teaching job after you’ve been fired. You’d probably have to go to some place like East High. That was stressful in its own way, and it was expensive. You spent a quarter of your salary on classroom supplies and extra snacks for the kids.”
Isobel gritted her teeth. She looked away from Mark, at the family room; one of Riley’s sweatshirts was crumpled at one end of the couch. She thought back to the many times her mother and sister had similarly told her she could forget her father’s indictment and subsequent imprisonment. But Isobel knew that wasn’t true—it was the easy way out. Something in Robert Miller had allowed him to steal from the Rochester Area Charitable Foundation. He’d taken money from people in need. And he’d also stolen from her friend Meera and from other families just like hers. It was Isobel’s duty to foster empathy, to make her high school students see issues from others’ perspectives. She had to keep them from making Robert Miller’s mistakes.
“I don’t think you understand.” The fact that he didn’t made her desperate.
Mark stood again and looked past her toward the stairs. “I do understand,” he said, “but you’ve done it already. You’ve been paying for your dad’s mistakes since you were a kid. Now you can do something for yourself and for your own children. You can keep your job.” He walked past her toward their bedroom. After a few minutes of standing in the kitchen replaying his words, she followed him. There wasn’t anything left to do, and she was tired.
WAYNE WALLACE
After Wayne had dispatched Judith Youngstead to Isobel’s classroom, he grabbed a fresh Odwalla and turned his attention to the spreadsheet Amanda from HR had handed him that morning. It listed every kid in Isobel Johnson’s classes. He’d put it on a clipboard with the preapproved questions Amanda had provided.
“I have to call all of these?” Wayne had asked.
“Do a random sample of thirty-five,” Amanda said. “Sue will handle the student interviews, provided you want to do this one the way we’ve done the others.”
Wayne sighed. “It’s important to follow the protocol here,” he said, “especially . . .” He stared at his diplomas on the wall behind Amanda.
Amanda nodded. “Especially if we’re thinking termination.”
Now Wayne dialed the first number on the spreadsheet, the parents of a kid named Addie Anderson. Mother’s name, Rachel.
A breathless woman answered on the second ring. “Hello?” she blurted.
“Rachel Anderson?” Wayne asked in his usual genial tone.
“Yes.” Rachel’s voice sounded clipped. “Is this the school? Is there an emergency?”
“Oh,” Wayne said, realizing he’d forgotten to lead with the information that everyone was safe, “no. I’m so sorry to worry you. This is Wayne Wallace, principal at Liston Heights High School, but there’s no emergency. Everything’s fine.”
He could hear the woman breathing. “Whenever I see the school on the caller ID, I imagine there’s been a shooting,” the woman said.
Wayne stared up at his Yoda poster and sighed. The woman’s panic seemed a bit of an overreaction, but he wasn’t surprised. He got four or five e-mails per week about active-shooter preparedness. It was on the kids’ minds, too. That fall, one of the Liston Lights had profiled each of the school’s security guards on Humans of LHHS. “I’m happy to say that’s not why I’m calling today,” Wayne said. “There’s no emergency and”—he glanced at his paper to double-check the name—“Addie isn’t in any trouble.”
“What about Drew?”
“Drew?” Wayne repeated.
“I have a son in the ninth grade,” Rachel said. “You’re not calling about him?”
Let’s get to it, Wayne thought. “I’m calling to see if I might ask you a few questions about Addie’s experience in AP American Literature.”
“Oh.” Rachel’s voice slowed. “I mean, sure.”
Wayne flipped the spreadsheet up and looked at Amanda’s list of questions. “Do you have the sense that Addie feels safe in Ms. Johnson’s American Literature class?” He grabbed a blue ballpoint from the Liston Lions mug next to his computer screen.
“Safe?” Rachel sounded panicked again. “Are you telling me there are violent kids in the class? What are you saying?”
Wayne glanced at the little screen above the touch pad on his phone. It showed he’d been on this call for only ninety seconds, and yet it seemed far too long. “Mrs. Anderson,” he said calmly, “I’m trying to get a feel for the student experience in Ms. Johnson’s English class. What are Addie’s impressions of the course?”
“Hmm,” she said. “To be honest, I wish Addie liked Ms. Johnson more. I got a good vibe from her on back-to-school night, but Addie’s totally blasé about her.”
“Can you say more?” Wayne wrote blasé in the line for notes after Addie’s name, the blue letters jagged and cramped.
“The teacher seems smart, right? Nice? I mean, I remember her talking about her credentials, and I was impressed. But now”—she held the vowel—“based on Addie’s experience, I’d say she’s marginal.” Wayne wrote marginal. “And,” Rachel added, “uninspiring.” Harsh, thought Wayne as he transcribed the woman’s final adjective and moved on to the next question.
ROBIN BERGSTROM
Later that morning, Robin sipped her five-dollar latte and opened her new Theater Booster Board notebook, ready for the last-minute meeting. It had been Vivian Song’s idea. Brainstorm! The text had read. 11 am at Starbucks? The other board members had immediately agreed, so Robin moved her client call back an hour. It seemed worth it to connect with the group. While the Booster Board was never something to which she particularly aspired, now that she had a seat, she realized its appeal. She felt powerful—a little bit special—making these decisions for the theater department.
Vivian’s lightning bolt that morning had turned out to be Statue of Liberty finishers’ medals for the annual 5K, fitting with the Ellis Island theme. “I was also thinking we could decorate the course with flags,” Vivian said, “like from countries the immigrants represent in the show?” Robin had just written these ideas on her clean page when she spotted Julia Abbott in line for a coffee.
For a second, Robin thought it couldn’t be, but Julia was unmistakable: the shiny blond hair, sig
nature black leggings, and long down coat. Julia’s quilted tote hung on her forearm.
Sally Hollister had pulled up the awards company’s website, and Vivian and Annabelle crowded in toward her iPad. Only Robin had noticed Julia, who at that moment turned toward the table where the women sat. Robin gasped as they made eye contact.
“Robin?” said Annabelle. “What is it?”
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. Annabelle followed Robin’s gaze.
“Oh, indeed,” Annabelle said coldly. “I should have known she couldn’t stay away.”
Although the meeting hadn’t been planned in advance, Robin admitted it was odd that Julia was here midmorning, just as they had gotten started. “Maybe she’s stalking me?” Robin said, not really believing it. The women laughed.
Julia raised a hand to the group and smiled. Robin waved back. The rest of them did not. Julia placed her order. Robin knew it would be a decaf almond milk latte with a pump of sugar-free vanilla. The espresso machine hissed, and Robin felt her ears getting hot.
“Let’s just get back to it,” Vivian said, determined. Her straight black bob curved perfectly under her jaw as she leaned toward Sally’s screen.
Julia tossed her ponytail, stuffed her phone in her pocket, and marched toward their table. Robin’s eyes widened. Before she could decide what she’d do, Julia was standing at Vivian’s shoulder. “Hi, Boosters!” she said brightly.
“Hi.” Robin offered a cool smile. Everyone else was quiet. The women’s silence buzzed in Robin’s ears, broken by the repeated slam of the espresso portafilter at the barista station. “We’re just working on the five-K,” Robin said finally. She picked up her pen. Why should I feel uncomfortable? she asked herself. I’m on the board. Julia, on the other hand, was clearly unwelcome.
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