Dale didn’t see that. He never would.
In a just world, he’d have found a profession that didn’t involve schools. A job that didn’t give him any authority over students or teachers.
The world wasn’t just, though. She’d understood that before she’d even understood what just meant.
She measured each word. Mentally rehearsed until they emerged low and calm, not volcanic with emotion. “What will I be teaching, then?”
“You’ll keep your three AP U.S. History classes. The other two will be Regular U.S. History.” Keisha’s warm gaze offered sympathy that Rose couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept. “I realize you haven’t taught that prep in a while. I’m sorry.”
Rose didn’t give a shit about teaching a different prep. Losing her Honors World History kids, though...
That gutted her. For more reasons than Keisha would ever know.
With an effort, Rose relaxed her jaw. A long, slow inhalation brought her temper back under her command and her common sense within grasp.
School hadn’t started yet. She could fix this, if only she found the right argument. “How exactly does Dale expect me to keep our AP U.S. enrollment high if I don’t teach Honors World History?”
Keisha took off her glasses and rested them on the counter, then rubbed her hands over her face. “I mentioned that concern. Dale wasn’t in a mood to listen.”
Rose’s AP U.S. History numbers were going to tank next year. No doubt about it.
Kids who took AP World History in tenth grade were going to take AP U.S. History as juniors, assuming the new teacher didn’t traumatize them. But that was thirty-five or forty kids, max. They couldn’t fill three AP U.S. classes, the number she usually taught.
Her Honors World History students made up the difference.
The administration called most of them “untraditional AP students.” Which meant, as far as she could tell, that they came from the same sorts of trailer parks and dilapidated apartment complexes she’d inhabited as a child.
Those kids had never taken an AP course. Had no intention of taking one. But they were motivated enough to enroll in an honors course. After a year in her class, the ones who respected and liked her also trusted her. Trusted her good intentions, her teaching ability, and her promise that she’d meet their efforts with her own.
They held their breath—knowing she would assign much more homework than they were accustomed to getting, knowing they’d have to juggle after-school jobs and responsibilities to their younger siblings, knowing they’d relinquish time spent asleep or with friends to complete assignments—and leapt.
And those tenth-grade Honors World History kids became eleventh-grade AP U.S. History kids. Lots of them. Her first few years, she’d had about forty students enroll in her AP classes. The year after she’d been assigned to teach Honors World History classes? Over a hundred kids had signed up for AP U.S. History.
She’d had to duck into the faculty restroom after seeing those class lists, spotting those familiar names, and realizing the trust her students had bestowed on her. The trust she’d earned.
Afterwards, the makeup repairs had been challenging, and her colleagues had probably seen the evidence of her tears.
For once, she hadn’t cared.
Nothing in her adult life, other than her few close female friendships, had ever felt like that. Like a cloak settling on her shoulders, light and warm and hers.
Nothing. Not her wedding ring. Not her lavish home. Not her disorienting wealth. Not the man who’d bestowed the ring and the home and the wealth upon her, and then taken them all back.
That full-to-the-brim feeling, repeated each year, had helped sustain her over the last decade of teaching, despite long hours and piles of essays and staff turnover and administrative vagaries and the not-inconsiderable fury Dale evoked in her.
And now he was taking that feeling away.
After this year, a hundred AP U.S. History kids would dwindle to thirty or forty “traditional AP students” once more. Disproportionately wealthy, given the school population. Disproportionately white, too.
Her pulse pounded in her head in a violent thump-thump-thump, and her thoughts raced and scattered like sophomores after the last bell.
Deep breath. “If my enrollment drops substantially, I may not be given the resources I need to teach even a handful of AP kids. You know the superintendent is looking to cut costs.”
Keisha didn’t argue. “Unfortunately, I have more unwelcome news. As another enticement for Mr. Krause to stay, Dale wanted to give him your classroom, since you’ve had one the longest of anyone here. He said your becoming a floater might help”—she made air quotes—“shake up stale pedagogical practices and lead to greater student success in the long run.”
The school didn’t contain enough oxygen for the number of deep breaths Rose needed to take. Neither did the entirety of the Earth’s atmosphere.
Fortunately for the universe’s oxygen supply, Keisha immediately added, “But that’s not happening. I told Dale giving the new teacher your room would cause chaos within our ranks. Classrooms have to be allotted by seniority within our department, period. Otherwise, I’d spend all year fielding requests and complaints.”
Thank god for Keisha Williams, rightful queen of the department chairs.
“So our new teacher will be a floater, as usual.” After another rub of her face, Keisha put on her glasses again. “But Dale wants to minimize the number of places Mr. Krause has to go, so he’ll be teaching in your room during both of your planning periods.”
Both of them? She’d have zero quiet, private time in her classroom during the school day? For an entire school year, and possibly longer?
Her face, frozen in an expression of equanimity, felt as if it might shatter.
“If I could have convinced Dale to change his mind, I would have. I certainly tried.” Keisha’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “But he’d already given in on the issue of ceding your classroom entirely, so he couldn’t be swayed. I’m sorry, Ms. Owens. I know having your own space is…” She hesitated. “I know it’s very important to you. I wouldn’t take your classroom for both your planning periods if I had any other choice.”
Rose’s jaw made an odd popping sound. “I know. I appreciate it.” She attempted to marshal her thoughts. “Perhaps Mr. Krause could—”
“Excuse me.” A quiet knock sounded from the cracked door, matching a quiet male voice. “I apologize for interrupting, but I wanted to let you know I was here. A bit early, I’m afraid.”
After mouthing a silent I’m sorry to Rose, Keisha got to her feet. “Please come in, Mr. Krause.”
Rose did the same, watching as the door swung open.
And there stood the paragon. Martin, apparently. The man who’d inadvertently taken her Honors World History classes and—at least part of the time—her classroom.
For a paragon, he was awfully nondescript. Maybe mid-forties. White, with a slight tan. Lean frame. Brown hair sprinkled with a little gray. Watchful blue eyes. Standard button-down and striped tie above a pair of standard dark pants. Unremarkable features. Not ugly, not particularly handsome.
Hating such an unexceptional face might prove difficult, but she’d persevere.