Pete burst through the gymnasium door with an entourage of teenage boys on his heels. Had he been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the bell ring? Sheesh. The guys headed for the changeroom, and Pete met Will in front of the storage room.
“Hey, man, sorry I had to disappear,” he said. “I’m sure Ledgey told you what happened. Those are the less pleasant aspects of the job.”
“No problem at all. The supervision was a breeze.” And you can go ahead and miss all of yours from now on if it means I get to hang one-on-one with Rebecca.
“Great! We’re on deck twice a week. Ledgey has two shifts, and Robinson has one. Have you met Margaret yet?”
The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t remember meeting her. Then again, there’d been so many new faces and names, he could hardly keep track. “I don’t think so.”
Pete jammed his hands into his pockets. “Hell of a teacher. She’s been here longer than all of us, but we’d be lost without her. She teaches PE during our prep. If I were you, I’d ask if you can observe her one day during second period. You could learn a lot from her.”
Rebecca taught PE during second period, too. Maybe they’d combine their classes so he could observe them both. For educational purposes, of course. “Sounds good, Pete. I’ll set something up.”
Pete glanced to the clipboard Will held in a vice-like grip. “We didn’t get a chance to go over your notes . . .”
“Oh, Rebecca actually helped me at lunch, gave me a few pointers.” A few of the boys started filing out of the changeroom, and Will’s pulse picked up. And his mind suddenly went blank. What had she said? Were the icebreakers a good idea or a bad idea? How many drills were too many?
“Perfect.” Pete opened the equipment storage, pulled out a mesh bag of footballs, and threw in some pylons, cones, and jerseys. “Okay, it’s showtime, kid.” He slapped Will on the shoulder. “Let’s head over to the bleachers.”
They walked the width of the gym as the last of the students trickled in from the changeroom and took their seats on the bleachers. Unlike in science class this morning, all eyes were riveted on Will, sizing him up.
“How you guys doin’?” Pete asked the group, engaging in a bit of back-and-forth banter with a handful of students. “So, boys”—he clapped his hands to garner their attention—“Mr. Whitney’s taking over the teaching reins for the next couple months, three days a week, as we discussed.”
“Maybe you won’t end up failing after all, McCann,” one of the guys chimed in, much to the amusement of his peers.
“This isn’t a free ride, Mr. Harrison. I’ll still be here every class, and now instead of one person watching you, there’ll be two. I expect you boys to work hard and be on your best behavior, you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
Pete mimed handing Will the reins he spoke of, then stepped out of the way. Game time. Whatever he said now would set the tone. He wanted what Pete had with them—a rapport, but more importantly, their unequivocal respect.
Will cleared his throat, leapt from the imaginary platform, and dove in headfirst. “Hey, guys. I’m Mr. Whitney, as Pete, er, Mr. Derenberger said. I’m really happy to be here for the next several weeks and—”
“You sure about that?”
Will searched for the voice, not certain if the comment was intended for him. “I—I’m sorry?”
“’Cause it looks like you’re lost. Last time I checked, there weren’t any prep schools around here.”
His eyes landed on a student in the back row of the bleachers, a tall-looking kid with an even taller fade. He couldn’t fathom why he’d bring up prep school, though, unless he just gave off that vibe. Which was an unsettling thought.
“Ryan,” Pete cut in, “knock it off.”
The kid shrugged. “I’m just trying help him out, man. Maybe you could draw him a map or somethin’. That shirt tells me Preppy failed geography class.”
All the guys were snickering now. He’d barely said twenty words, and they’d already turned on him. Jesus. In a panic, he diverted his attention to the clipboard he still clutched like his life depended on it, thinking he could bypass the formalities and jump right into the heart of his lesson. Wait. What had he said about his shirt? The familiar school crest came into focus.
He hadn’t thought twice about it that morning. He’d just grabbed the first T-shirt and pair of shorts he could get his hands on and threw them into his bag. Wearing another’s school’s colors was bad enough, but he’d taken the faux pas up a billion notches and flashed the Crestwood logo. Here. In a school filled with kids who’d never had it easy. They didn’t live in fancy homes or wear expensive uniforms. They didn’t have maids or cooks or parents who’d buy them convertibles when they got their license. And he had to go and flaunt his upbringing, put himself on a different level. Alienate every last one of them within seconds of stepping into the role as their teacher.
Fuck.
What had Carmen said to him? Be yourself? His past, the schools he attended, those things didn’t define him. He was here for a purpose, and he’d damn well make them see it. “I’m not lost, Ryan. I came here because I chose to come here. I wanted to teach at Kendal High.”
“Right.” He scoffed. “Bet it’ll look good on your rich-ass resume.” He unfolded his frame, climbed to his feet, and vaulted off the bleachers. “I don’t need this shit. I’m out.” His long legs carried him across the gym and out of sight within seconds.
Pete sighed. “I’ll deal with Mr. Purnsey,” he told Will. “You carry on with your lesson, and I’ll meet you guys outside.”
The very moment Pete left his side, the bleachers emptied and the guys started heading for the door leading to the back sports field.
“Yeah, uh, let’s head to the field, boys,” Will said, feigning like he had any kind of authority. He hustled over to the storage area and slung the equipment bag over his shoulder, then scrambled to catch up to them. That slice of pizza wasn’t sitting well anymore. His stomach roiled, his heart rattled in his chest, and he had no idea how to recover.
Once he made it outside, he was surprised to see the guys hadn’t bolted and were hanging out by the near goalpost on the field. He strode quickly toward them and dropped the bag on the grass by the post. Glancing down at his notes, he prepared to go over the first drill he’d planned, but before he gave any direction, the bag was pulled open, the balls were dispersed, and the guys spread out around the field.
“Okay, yeah, just warm up with some throws, and we’ll do the drills in a few!” he called out. This is going really well. At least the sun was shining, a nice breeze mixed in. Perfect football weather.
He’d played on his high school team for all four years and been starting quarterback for three of those years. While Kendal High wasn’t known for its academics, they boasted an incredibly successful athletics program and wound up competing for championships year after year in multiple sports. Though their schools would never meet in regular season play, he recalled seeing the Comets on the big stage more than once.
They weren’t exactly rivals. He hadn’t thought so, anyway—until today. And that rivalry had nothing to do with sports and everything to do with social class.
“Hey,” Pete said, jogging up next to him. “I let Ryan take a walk to cool off. He and I will have a chat later.”
Will nodded. “Sounds good.”
Pete surveyed the action on the field, then turned back to Will. “Bit of a rough start, hey?” He chuckled.
“You could say that.” He ran a hand through his hair and forced a laugh. “Do you happen to have a T-shirt I could borrow for last period?”
“I’ll get you a Kendal High T-shirt,” Pete said, his smile sympathetic. “To be honest, I never even noticed what you were wearing, but these kids . . . they pick up on everything.”
That was abundantly clear to him now. Lesson learned. He checked his watch, alarmed that twenty minutes of class time had flown by. “I
better call them in.” He took hold of the whistle that hung from his neck, brought it to his lips, and blew. The shrill sound pierced through the air but seemed not to even register for any of the participants. Is this thing broken? He blew again, this time waving his hands to signal for the boys to come in. Another failed acknowledgement.
“They’re feeling you out, testing you,” Pete said. “Trying to find your breaking point.”
Mission accomplished. “What should I do?”
“I’ll get ’em in. You set up whatever you need to.”
Will jumped into motion, gathering the cones from the bag and lining them up for a five-route passing drill. He made enough grids to split the guys into groups of three or four. By the time he’d finished, Pete had herded the teens back in, and they stood impatiently under the goalpost.
Will put on his bravest face and walked over to the boys with way more confidence than he felt. “All right, guys, I’ve set up the first drill here to work on some passing routes. We’ll be practicing out, in, post, slant, and fly patterns. If you follow me over to the first grid, I’ll show you guys how it works.” He took three steps, then paused, realizing no one was following him. “Let’s go, guys. We don’t have a lot of time, and I’d like to try this with a defender on the second go around.”
“I didn’t know this was the NFL tryouts,” said a kid in a backwards baseball cap. “I just came here to play, man.”
“Jamal,” Pete cautioned.
“Coach, c’mon,” another teen piped up. “Can’t we just scrimmage?” The other guys clamped onto that idea and voiced their agreement.
Pete waited for them to quiet down before addressing the question. “Mr. Whitney is in charge today, so if you have any questions, you can direct them to him. As for the immature comments, you can keep those to yourselves or you’ll be spending some quality time with Mr. Dunn in the office.”
Will was at a crossroads. He could force them into doing a drill they had no desire to engage in, or he could give in, let them have their scrimmage, and chalk up a win for them in the walk-all-over-me column. Pick your battles, his behavioral psych professor had told him. In the grand scheme of things, this was a small concession. And maybe, just maybe, if it made the boys happy, he’d earn back a few of the points he’d lost for his attire.
He scanned the assortment of faces in front of him, waiting for him to make the call. “Okay. Let’s scrimmage.”
Whoops and hollers of approval erupted all around him. Pete offered to make the teams while Will retrieved the cones and set up a playing area. They both took a side of the field to referee the game. As the teams organized for the opening kickoff, Will’s thoughts circled back to Rebecca, and how she’d joined in the fun with her girls. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where these guys would ever welcome him to do the same.
Hopefully, his experience teaching the tenth graders next period would be a little less humiliating.
Rebecca kicked off her shoes and stored them neatly under her desk, then slipped on her slides. Sandals were fair game until the snow fell, even if the white stuff didn’t come until December.
Another day in the books. Other than the nosebleed, hers had been fairly standard, but she’d had Will on her mind a lot. Out of concern. There were some tough guys in his afternoon classes who took a long time to warm up to someone new on their turf. They wanted to know your intentions. If you planned to stick around or take off at the first available opportunity.
She couldn’t blame them for that. So many others had come to Kendal High thinking the challenge would set them up for success at their pick of schools. But they never seemed to pick this one.
She heard a key twist in the lock, then Will came slumping in, Berg a step behind him, sporting a grin. Will threw his clipboard down, collapsed into his chair, and dropped his head to his desk. Rebecca bit her lip and turned to Berg. “Rough day?”
“Little bit.” Berg laughed as he opened the fridge and pulled out a sports drink. “But he did good. Got through it. Tomorrow’s a new day, right?”
Will kept his face planted on the desk and groaned.
Berg lumbered over to Will’s desk and patted him on the shoulder. “Go home, have a nice meal, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll be a new man in the morning.” He placed the drink next to Will’s head, which perked him up. “Happy first day, kid. We’ll see ya tomorrow.” As always, Berg was one of the first to ditch when the bell rang, unless he had practice or a game to coach. Staff meetings kept him longer, too, but those only happened once a month. He never carried any baggage, other than his lunchbox, outside of this building, though. A trick some teachers never mastered. “Later, Ledgey,” he said before exiting.
When the door clicked shut, she turned back to Will who was sitting up now. That was promising. He’d also downed half the drink Berg had left him. “You okay over there?” she asked gently. “Because I’m starting to feel kind of guilty about eating that whole cookie.”
His lips curled into a smile, and she felt a warm sensation inside her chest. “You should,” he said. “My day pretty much sucked from that point on.”
“Aww. You wanna tell me about it?”
“Well, my first mistake was unintentionally wearing a Crestwood T-shirt and making enemies with every guy in the senior class.”
She eyed the red T-shirt he wore now, with the KHS Comets logo on it. Truth be told, she’d noticed the shirt he had on earlier and wondered if he was trying to make some kind of statement with it. She was glad to hear it hadn’t been a deliberate slight, but the kids wouldn’t have seen it that way. “You look much better in your Kendal High shirt, anyway. I mean, the colors look better on you. They, uh . . . compliment your skin tone or something.” Really? Good grief.
Will laughed at her discomfort. “Thanks. I put this on before I taught the tenth graders, thinking it might make a difference. Nope. I can’t believe the mouths on some of them.”
“Being their charming selves, were they?”
“Uh-huh. So, I had one student storm out of the senior class, and the rest of them acted like I was invisible, and three of the tenth graders wound up in the office. None of my drills worked, and my whistle might as well have been made for dogs. I’m really kicking some serious ass with this teaching thing.”
Rebecca frowned in sympathy. “Trust me when I say this: We’ve all been there. I promise you, it’ll get easier.” She rolled her chair so she sat directly in front of him. “When I first started out, I’d have classes that zapped the life out of me. I’d go home and cry because I felt like I was failing, scared out of my mind to go back and do it all again the next day. But here’s the thing about teenagers: They don’t have good short-term memories. Every day is a new day to them, a fresh start. What happened today is already in the past. You have to learn from it and move on.”
He met her gaze, his blue eyes open and hopeful. “That’s comforting to hear. Uh, Pete mentioned that it might help me to observe Margaret Robinson during my prep. He said she’s a seasoned pro.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea!” She wheeled back over to her desk and logged into her computer. “She and I both teach during that timeslot—I’ve got my girls, and she teaches ninth-grade boys. We sometimes combine our classes.” Entering the online staff portal, she searched for Pete’s name in the teacher directory and clicked on his class lists so she could print them off.
Will wheeled his chair beside hers. All the blood rushed to her face and her heart rate kicked up several beats per minute, but she kept her eyes trained on the screen in front of her. “Whatcha printing?” he asked.
His warm breath oddly caused goosebumps to break out on her skin. She turned just a touch to her left, stunned and a little discomfited by his proximity. He was close enough that she could see the hint of stubble around his chin and mouth. A mouth with full lips that were pressed together, then parted the longer she stared. She jerked her gaze back to the screen. This was not a professional distance.
She sto
od, the abrupt action causing Will to roll back, and walked the few short steps to the printer to retrieve the pages she’d sent to it. Stacking them into a pile, she made her way back over to Will and handed the collection to him.
“What is this?” he asked. “Class lists?”
“Your homework.” His curious glance prompted her to explain. “These are the students in all of your classes—names and pictures. Study this tonight. Know their names tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She sat again and swivelled her chair to face his. “The best advice I ever received before starting my teaching career was from one of my college professors. She said, ‘Students don’t care about what you know until they know that you care.’ Learning their names is the first step toward proving that you’re invested in this, in them.”
“You’re right. That makes sense.” He secured his “homework” to his clipboard and tucked it into his bag. “Thank you for, well, everything.”
He smiled, appeared almost shy to her. Her first impression of Will was of a guy who didn’t often, or maybe ever, feel out of place. But here, now, he seemed to be . . . unsettled. She’d gone most of her life feeling like she didn’t belong, and it was only when she began teaching that she finally found her place. She couldn’t say for sure if this was the right profession for him—only time would tell—but he’d survived day one. That, in itself, was a victory worth celebrating.
“I’ll run your idea past Mags, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Why don’t you come by tomorrow? It’s supposed to rain, I think, so we’ll set up for indoor soccer or dodgeball in the gym.”
He finished the rest of his drink and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be there. Thanks again, Rebecca.”
She watched him walk to the door, and in that time, her brain tried to register why her own name sounded so foreign to her ears. No one here called her Rebecca. She responded to Miss, Miss L, Miss Ledgerwood, Becks, Ledgey. Short-forms and nicknames were easier, plus they created a sort of camaraderie. But she had to admit, the way he’d spoken those three syllables woke something up inside her. “The next cookie’s on me,” she told him.
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