One
Rose had been braced for calamity over a week, ever since she’d received the e-mail from Keisha. No department chair mandated a late-afternoon meeting with one of her teachers during the summer—especially not a week before they were due to report back to school—to relay welcome news.
So Rose didn’t expect to hear about improved student test scores, or new funding for the AP U.S. History program, or even the availability of that corner classroom she’d been coveting for years.
The problem: She didn’t know what she should expect.
No clues revealed themselves in the social studies department office. No memos rested on the counters lining each side of the space, and no new signs relayed red-underlined warnings on the cork bulletin board. No administrator lay in wait to reprimand her or demand her resignation, for whatever reason.
She straightened her pencil skirt over her thighs and checked her hairline for renegade strands, but everything remained in place. To the outside observer, she should appear unflustered. Unconcerned. And no matter what happened here today, that wouldn’t change.
She would not invite other people’s pity or spite into her life. Never again.
A rapid tap-tap-tap down the hall grew louder. A moment later, Keisha bustled into the office, her sunflower-patterned dress swishing with her every movement. She held up one finger, requesting patience, as she sorted through the pile of papers she held.
“Just a minute.” A frown creasing her forehead, she deposited the pile on the nearest counter. “I need to find…”
Rose settled back to wait. Keisha, without fail, shouldered responsibilities others shirked, which meant she was always busy. Always in a hurry. Always at least a few minutes late.
Under other circumstances, Rose would have befriended her without hesitation. But a smart, private woman didn’t cross-contaminate her professional and personal lives.
Unwilling to interrupt or rush her coworker, Rose bit back a greeting and surveyed the office again. Over the summer, the narrow room had attained a state of pristine cleanliness it would not achieve again until late June. Usually, piles of papers butted up against stacks of supplies and notebooks and textbooks and all the other detritus attendant with their profession, since at least two social studies teachers per year didn’t have their own classroom. Instead, they’d float from room to room with their carts, which they parked in the office during their planning periods.
Once the school year began, this space would seem to shrink to stifling proportions, and the quiet of this afternoon would seem a false memory. Thank Christ she’d been given her own classroom over fifteen years ago. With great deliberation, she’d positioned her desk in a corner of the room where no one could see her from the door’s little window. During her planning periods, she could slip off her heels, remove her jacket, and relax. Maybe listen to some low-volume music as she graded. Maybe cry, if she needed to.
Her first year of teaching, she’d cried all the time, usually in the staff restroom. After twenty years, weeping jags were rare, but they happened. Even veteran teachers had hard days.
Keisha jotted a note on one of her papers, then plopped herself down onto one of the worn swivel chairs and faced Rose with a sigh. “Sorry to keep you waiting. And sorry I had to call you in during your break. But I wanted you to hear this from me as soon as possible.”
Shit. Definitely bad news.
“I appreciate that.” Rose laced her fingers loosely in her lap, the picture of calm unconcern. “What’s going on?”
Keisha’s glasses slipped, as they inevitably did, down her nose, and she peered solemnly over the top of them. “Betty retired over the summer.”
Rose inclined her head. “I heard.”
“We’ve hired her replacement. Martin Krause. He’s a great pickup, and I think you two will work well together. But…” Keisha’s lips pursed in a brief grimace. “Dale got involved.”
The head of secondary social studies, based at Central Office. One of the few remaining throwbacks to the time when the school system had operated like a men’s-only country club, he occasionally elbowed his way into department matters, blustery and pompous and very, very aware of himself as a man with power over dozens of lower-paid, mostly female underlings.
His involvement definitely portended disaster in some form, still unknown.
“I see.” Keep your fingers relaxed. No clenching.
Keisha pushed up her glasses. “I imagine you do. Once Dale saw Mr. Krause’s pedigree, he insisted we take measures to retain our new teacher for more than a year or two.”
Their school, like many, had trouble keeping good teachers. Any teachers, actually. Some fled within weeks, leaving the department scrambling for long-term subs. Others departed over the summers, initiating yet more rounds of interviews and training.
Getting paid an amount commensurate with the hours they worked and the difficulty of their assigned tasks would probably help staff retention. But that wasn’t the point of this meeting, whatever the point might be.
Neither was her next question, but she had to know. “What’s his pedigree?”
Satisfaction softened Keisha’s expression. “Master’s in world history. Specialization in ancient civilizations. Twenty-five years of experience. Fifteen years of teaching AP World History with exemplary pass rates for the exam.”
Well, shit. That was a pedigree.
Rose had a master’s degree too, in U.S. history, as well as twenty years of experience. But very few job candidates could say the same.
Enough. Time to peel away the prickly outer layers and get to the heart of this particular artichoke. “How does Dale plan to retain him? And what does it have to do with me?”
Very little, one hoped.
“Mr. Krause will teach AP World History, of course. But Dale didn’t want to give him the rest of Betty’s schedule. He thought three periods of Regular World History would scare Mr. Krause away.” The creases across Keisha’s forehead reappeared. “So Dale gave him your Honors World History classes.”
At last, there was the choke. Inedible, a fuzzy, breath-stealing lump in her throat.
And like an artichoke, her anger and despair contained layers. “Teaching Regular World History wouldn’t scare away a good teacher. Some of the most committed, kindest students I’ve ever taught—”
Keisha held up her hand. “You know that. I know that. But you and I also know Dale doesn’t agree. As evidenced by the term he employs for those kids.”
DOA. Dumb on arrival.
The first time he’d used that phrase in Rose’s presence, she’d nearly imploded with rage.
Over her two decades of teaching, she’d been assigned every possible U.S. and world history prep. Regular classes, for kids whose interests or skills might not involve history—or who might not have the time or energy to enroll in harder, more work-intensive classes. Honors classes, for kids willing to cover history in more depth and with more demanding assignments. And finally, Advanced Placement classes, for kids interested in potential college credit—and kids curious or ambitious enough to handle frequent, time-consuming homework and assignments that would stretch their analytical and writing skills.
She might not have taught regular history in a while, but that didn’t mean she’d disliked that prep. Every single one of the history classes had worth. Meaning. Importance. As did every single one of the students in those classes.