Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  Sitting there, I did what most people in my situation probably would have done—I tried to casually size each woman up, without making it too obvious or look like I was outright gawking! Each candidate could have easily been plucked out of a DIY or photography app. From their perfect fall fashion outfits that screamed professional, reliable, yet trendy, to their nearly identical designer bags that still smelled like new leather, right to their shiny, long manes of flat-ironed hair. I had wondered if we were competing to be Tinsley’s next algebra leave replacement teacher, or a top fashion mogul’s personal assistant!

  Farrah was so disappointed in me when I told her about the ordeal afterward.

  As a brand new sub standing in the main office, I looked watched as various members of faculty greeted one another, hurriedly emptied their mailboxes, and zipped right out to begin the school day. Not one person looked like any the teachers I remembered from back when I was a kid! I realized that, again, I was definitely the odd one out, and even felt downright dowdy in a black and white polka dot dress that grazed the tops of my knees. Having my hair tied back in a tight, conservative bun didn’t help, either. So I let it all loose, allowing my hair to fall in tangled, wild waves over my shoulders.

  By some stroke of unexpected luck, I managed to get to the classroom before the first bell rang, and had just enough time to crack open a textbook found left on the teacher’s desk. The room smelled like some mixture of old, polished wood and citrusy body spray, but contained all the hallmarks of a modern classroom with phone chargers built into the tables and even a huge, comfy sofa planted in the back designated reading area.

  Feeling panic slowly creep in, I frantically searched for any sign of what lesson the class was up to. Finding not a clue, not even a sticky-note, I fidgeted a bit with the teacher’s desktop and interactive whiteboard before the seats slowly filled with students.

  “Are you the sub?” A red-headed girl with narrow eyes and an unending splatter of freckles asked—though by the tone of her voice, it was more of an accusation than a question.

  “Yes, I’m Sa—Ms. Sloane.”

  “Nice dress,” she retorted snidely.

  “Oh yeah? Why don’t you go f—” I abruptly paused before finishing the rest of that sentence, realizing that I was the alleged respectable adult in the room and needed to set an example without cussing. “Thanks,” I said instead. “What I wear, however, is none of your bus—”

  “You look like you were running,” interrupted a tall blond who had parked herself on the sofa. “Did you run here?”

  A couple of the girls snickered.

  So this was how we were going to play it.

  “Yes, I ran to work,” I replied, my voice oozing with sarcasm. “Of course not. I took the subway, then walked the rest of the way.”

  “Do you live in Brooklyn?” asked a different generic blond.

  “Of course she doesn’t live in Brooklyn, Callie—she’s a substitute teacher,” said Stretch from the sofa. “Subs can’t afford Brooklyn—unless it’s the bad part.”

  “I bet she lives in Queens,” chimed in Red. “She definitely looks like she lives in Queens.”

  “Good call, Quinn,” another girl praised Red.

  Before I knew it, a room full of thirteen girls were cattily chatting amongst themselves, each dissecting her first impressions of me—everything from my messy hair, down to my unpolished (and bitten) nails—in the most unflattering manner possible. At no point was a single word related to Algebra I shared amongst them. I was losing the room, fast.

  “Ladies, ladies, settle down!” I exclaimed, mimicking teachers remembered from the past. “Now please, will someone open up to where we are in the textbook—”

  “We don’t read from the textbook, Queens,” the girl named Callie interrupted. “Mrs. Abrahms always introduces lessons using the interactive whiteboard—it’s like a chalkboard for the 21st century.”

  My face grew flush with embarrassment, quickly followed by anger. Clearing my throat, I shot back with, “I know what a whiteboard is.”

  “Where do they even get these subs from?” Callie wondered aloud, before sighing dramatically. “Is there some pool out there of otherwise unemployable losers that the schools pick from?”

  My eyes scanned the room for the slightest inkling of support from a kind face, but I was only met with stares—some blank, others outright antagonistic. Quickly, I searched the entire room for anything—from chart paper displaying algebraic formulas hanging on the walls, to books that aligned Mrs. Abrahms’s shelves. Before I could say another word, the cell phones simultaneously came out—thirteen of them—and the girls began texting away.

  “I’ll be right back,” I stammered, before grabbing my messenger bag and running out the door; half-expecting to hear the room erupt into thunderous laughter behind me, half figuring they’d all be too busy on their phones to even care.

  “You there! Watch my class for a second!” I practically shrieked at a suddenly panic-stricken teacher who happened to be in the hallway.

  “I’m on prep… I have… a ton of copies to make,” she stammered while holding, as evidence, a stack of papers heavy enough to anchor a small boat.

  “Please. It’s an emergency. I don’t know who you are, but I promise to make this up to you somehow! I’m desperate. I can’t leave them in there alone!” I cried.

  The teacher nodded in reluctant agreement, took a deep breath, and entered the classroom.

  Feeling warmth from my face settling right down to the tips of my toes, at that moment all I could focus on was finding the main office. I ran throughout the hallways like an escaped mad woman on a mission, desperately peering into windows and counting off room numbers in hopes that, by some small miracle, I’d find that office.

  When I finally did, I felt immediately flooded by relief.

  “Excuse me,” I approached the office receptionist, suddenly embarrassed by the absolute absurdity of the situation. Not to mention, it was at that point when I realized the definite poor judgment on my part to leave a room full of students, even if another teacher was watching. What kind of message did that send? “Is there a restroom I can use?” I blurted out, slamming my messenger bag onto her desk.

  Great. No sooner than the words left my mouth, did I instantly regret them. Now, not only did I look like a completely out-of-place dork, but to anyone listening I sounded like someone suffering from some sort of early-onset bladder condition!

  The receptionist’s not-so-subtle eyebrow raise did nothing to quell my anxiety on that one.

  “Go out those doors and make a left. Third door to the right,” she replied curtly. The critical glare in her eyes clearly asked: Shouldn’t you be in class?

  “Thanks,” I mumbled under my breath as I gathered my belongings and made a beeline for the exit. So much for appearing poised, educated, and confident.

  As I hurried down the hall, I suddenly found myself in the uncompromising situation of realizing that I didn’t exactly remember whether the receptionist had said the third door to the right, or third door to the left. Or second door across the hall. Or third floor, second door to the left. And unlike most public restroom spaces that offered a semblance of a head’s up (like the word restroom written outside), each door looked identical and was unmarked. For all I knew, I could end up smack in the middle of an in session chemistry lab!

  “Miss. Are you looking for the bathroom? It’s right in front of you?”

  I turned to find three teenage girls standing right behind me. Perhaps a little too close? At first, I wasn’t exactly sure how they got there… but then I remembered I was in a school building.

  Something about this place made me feel like less of the decision maker Dad had rooted for, and more like a frightened field mouse realizing she’d just been spotted by a barn owl. Brushing a loosened wavy wisp of hair behind my ear, I quietly thanked the girls before opening the door.

  Consumed by growing anxiety that seemed to attack my entire defense
system like rapid fire, I cautiously stepped into the room, yet still didn’t quite register the sinister CLICK of a door latch that locked shut behind me. Reaching for the light switch, I soon realized that no, I hadn’t walked into the Tinsley’s ladies room—instead, I was stuffed inside the custodian’s closet. The three helpful brats had locked me inside!

  How was it that even in adulthood, I had managed to find myself becoming the target of prep school bullying? I really, really needed to remain below 68th Street.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you just did that!” I heard one of the girls squeal from the other side of the door.

  “Whatever. She had it coming,” said another. “Fresh-meat.”

  Wait a minute. Fresh-meat? They thought I was a high school freshman?!?!?! Did I really look that awkward and out of place? I wasn’t even wearing a uniform—were they really that clueless? And did I really need an answer to my own questions?

  “HEY! You little rats! Let me out of this thing!” I pounded furiously on the closet door. I stopped myself from adding, “I’m not a freshman, I’m a substitute teacher,” because for some reason I suspected that would not exactly help my cause.

  All I heard in response was a series of amused giggles.

  “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” I kicked the door as hard as I could, gearing myself up to slam the full weight of my body against it. If this was my payment for listening to Mom’s advice about nabbing a real job, those prep brats were about to witness the full force of my retribution.

  “I SAID… LET… ME… OUT!”

  The door swung open.

  “Well, hey there.”

  And luckily I didn’t bank on that perfectly executed flying karate kick that I had envisioned, because on the other side of the door stood a very concerned (and very, very handsome with incredible green eyes) teacher who couldn’t have been much older than myself.

  “Three brats just locked me in the closet!” I exclaimed, before going into full-on rant mode. “And I really need to use the bathroom, yeah, I know. TMI. But those little jerks told me this was a bathroom, and that’s why I’m here. Well, I’m also here subbing for Mrs. Abrahms’s Algebra I class, which is downright ridiculous in its own right. Not teaching. Teaching’s not ridiculous. I mean, my mom is a teacher, I’m guessing you’re a teacher, so no, I’m not calling you rid—”

  Green Eyes held his hands defensively out in front of him. “Woah, now! It’s okay. It’s okay. What happened? Start at the beginning.”

  I sighed deeply and paused. Exactly how could I explain this one without really coming across like a pathetic fool? For the first time in a very long time, my eyes started to well up with tears. I had really messed things up this time.

  “I was subbing for Algebra I,” I began, “but then the girls made me look like a complete idiot. And they’re all still there, with a teacher. At least I think she’s still with them. If not, well then I’m going to be fired AND sued. Then I was looking for a bathroom… when three very entitled brats—emphasize entitled—with fantastic hair tricked me into going into the custodian’s closet. Then they locked me inside!” I felt my face grow several shades of red with embarrassment. “Then you found me. Hey, shouldn’t you be in class too?”

  Considering everything Kat must have been going through at that very moment, I couldn’t help but feel like an overly dramatic fool.

  “First-period prep. I was headed to the copier,” he said.

  “Ahhh. Gotcha.” I wiped at my wet eyes with the cuff of my dress sleeve, unwittingly smearing their saltiness against my lips and tongue. “I mean, I found another teacher to watch them for me, but still.”

  “So, my take away is that the Abrahms girls are at it again—nothing new there. I’ll go in and read them the riot act. Give me a moment; I’ll text Alvarez first and ask her to peek in and see what’s going on.” Jake pulled out his phone and tapped, what I presumed was, an SOS message to a teacher called Alvarez.

  “As for the three very, emphasize entitled, brats with fantastic hair who locked you in the custodian’s closet,” he continued, “Well, not to sound obnoxious, but you just accurately described about 95% of the students who go here.” He held out his hand and helped lead me back out into the hallway. “I’m Jake, by the way. It’s nice to meet you—”

  “Sage Sloane!” I blurted.

  Seriously. I actually gave him my first and last name. I just wanted to smack the side of my forehead.

  “Ms. Sloane. That’s a great teacher name! See that. You’re already there!”

  “Doubtful.” I pulled my arms close to my chest and rolled my eyes. “I was mistaken for a freshman,” I mumbled. “A high school freshman. I’m not even in uniform. You know what? I think I’m just going to leave. Least I didn’t quit my job at the grill. I’ll just stay there until something better pans out.”

  Jake’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Seriously. Can’t they get a sub?”

  “Yeahhh, about that” he scratched his head, “that sub would be you.”

  “Goddammit,” I swore.

  “You kinda have to stay. But I’ll go in with you now and shut the whole thing down for you. Granted, they’ve probably texted every other girl in this school by now, so they’ll all go for your jugular as you teach various classes throughout the day, but on a positive note—welcome to your first day of teaching!”

  First day? That implied there would be other days to come. No thank you.

  “Are you kidding me?” My stomach dropped to the floor.

  “Ms. Sloane, please tell me you’re not one of those delusional people who actually thinks that teaching is easy.”

  “Of course not! And don’t think you earned extra brownie points there by calling me Ms. instead of Miss.” I scowled in defiance. “Where’s the real restroom? I’m gonna hit it before returning to class—alone. I don’t need your help. They won’t care that I left, anyway. I can finish the day out, and go home. There’s a whole group of candidates in there who actually want to be here.” Realizing how completely arrogant and snotty that came across, I quickly course-corrected. “Look, it’s not that this is a bad place. I’m just not cut out for it.”

  “Well, how do you know that if you don’t even try?”

  “Because it’s not my passion.”

  “Oh,” he said knowingly. “So you’re a dreamer then? This whole teaching thing isn’t for people with passion?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that!”

  “Why not? I thought that those of us who can’t do, tea—”

  “Stop that. Don’t make me out to be the bad guy. That’s not what I mean!”

  Jake smirked, “Relax. I’m just playing with you. So, Dreamer, if teaching isn’t your passion, what is?”

  I stared sheepishly down at the ground and traced a small circle with the toe of my shoe. “Photography. I actually intern at FEADURHEDZ—”

  “Woah, wait a second? Sloane? As in Mike Sloane?”

  Was there anyone under thirty in this city who didn’t know about my dad? “Yeah, you can say that. Mike’s my dad,” I admitted begrudgingly.

  “No way! You should have told the girls that! They’d be fighting to take selfies with you—not trying to push you over the edge!”

  “Believe me, it sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.” I paused. “I better tell the headmistress that this isn’t for me, shouldn’t I? That would be the adult thing to do. Admit failure. Not waste her time. Turn around and let the professionals handle it. Besides, a friend of mine called earlier today—she could be in trouble. Maybe this means I should be up helping her.”

  Jake smiled. “Again, just make it through the first day before making a final decision. It’s too bad though. Would’ve been cool to see you around here, Ms. Sloane. How did you end up here in the first place, if you don’t mind my asking? Let me at least let me show you where the real restroom is.” He began walking in the opposite direction of where I had originally headed.


  “Oh my God! Stop calling me that!”

  Secretly, I actually kinda liked the whole Ms. Sloane angle, but I wasn’t exactly going to let Green Eyes—Jake –know that. “And I’m here because… my mom helped me get the job. I sound like a real baby, huh?”

  “It would have been cool to see you around here, Sage. That better? As for your mom, don’t sweat it. We all have to start somewhere. So maybe if this doesn’t work out, we can see each other again at some point. Unless, of course, you’re too busy dream chasing. Ladies room is right there.”

  “Yes,” I smirked, feeling myself perk up a bit. “I would like that. That is all I have to say for now.”

  Without further warning, I promptly about-faced. If Green Eyes wanted to see me again sometime, he could figure out how.

  *

  Needless to say, that was my first and last day at Tinsley.

  I wish I could say that the majority of the job interviews I’d participate in shortly thereafter were nearly as entertaining as my one day stint as a substitute teacher, but sadly it felt as if the next two weeks were spent inside a revolving door. Aside from the initial letdown of realizing that I wasn’t going to follow in her footsteps, Mom was actually really helpful when it came to looking for opportunities that actually piqued my interest. With Kat up in Cos Cob looking after Parker while their mother was away, it got lonely in that Forest Hills apartment, fast.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Sage,” my mother advised, as we searched through countless job hunter sites and company homepages. In many ways, I wonder if her initial reluctance to watch me go down the artsy path had more to do with her rivalry with Dad, than fear that I was chasing after some unrealistic dream. When it seemed to sink in that I needed to go my own way on this one, she became less pessimistic and outright… supportive.