Newbie (4 page)

The mound of paperwork at the district office feels eerily like a mortgage closing with something like a ream of paper and dozens of signatures, but also includes getting fingerprinted to investigate my criminal background. Do speeding tickets count? Even if they’re not very recent? I make it back to the school a few minutes before Mr. Chavez returns from lunch.

A short, strawberry-blond with an athletic build like she has been a cheerleader her entire life comes bouncing into the office. Her bright blue eyes and overly plucked eyebrows give her face a constant expression of delighted surprise.

“You must be Sophie. I’m Beth. Our classrooms are across from each other. I was glad to hear you’re starting on Monday. I hope you don’t mind I’ve been organizing your classroom. Actually, I started before it was your classroom, knowing someone would be there. I had two ideas I thought would really work well, so I did one for me and one for you. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, I’ll help you redo it. I’m all set with mine. I just finished stapling the fabric to the bulletin boards. I have some fabric for you to use if you want it, I’ll help you put it up—it can be tricky on the corners.” She stops, and large dimples like exclamation marks punctuate her smile.

Had she even taken a breath? “It’s nice to meet you, Beth. I’ll come by your room this afternoon. Will you be around for a while?” She nods. “And thanks. The room sounds perfect.” Wow, I like her. It’s a relief that Mrs. Hayes won’t be my only teammate. I give Beth a grateful smile and turn to see the principal. “Hello, Mr. Chavez.”

He gives me the grand tour of the building—library, cafeteria, faculty restroom locations, workroom. I meet the custodian and get the keys to room 113, then meet the secretary, Mrs. Johnson, again, but as a new faculty member this time.

As soon as Mrs. Johnson leaves, Beth Norwood comes in. We walk around the room, which looks amazing, and she explains the additions she’s made but tells me about herself too. She has a light airy voice but a surprisingly loud laugh. I also learn that she got married two years ago to McKay Norwood, a human resource manager in some Fortune-500-type-company in Denver. They were high school sweethearts in Idaho. I’m surprised that she’s only two years older than I am and seems to have so much confidence as a teacher.

“Did you get your class list?” Beth sets two markers and some nametags on the table.

I snatch the list from the folder and sit beside her. She comments on the students whose names she recognizes and tells me about their siblings she has taught. “Elli is such a cutie. You’ll love her. She’s Mr. Chavez’s daughter.”

“The principal?” The principal’s daughter is in my class? No pressure there.

I don’t know how to admit this, but I’m not a teacher, a fact I completely evaded in the interview, especially in front of Mrs. Hays, but Beth seems more like a friend. “Beth, I don’t really know how to teach or what to teach. The room is ready, it looks great, but Monday morning, the students will show up, and we’ll have to do something.” My face feels both hot and cold, and my palms are clammy.

“Oh, I put a few things in the file cabinet for you, well, before I knew it was you. They’re lesson plans I use to get the year started. Some of them are lessons I’ve left for substitutes, so they’ve been tested by someone other than myself. I think they’ll work well for you. We can talk through them.”

We finish and leave the school together. The room is inviting, and I have lessons to teach. “Thanks, Beth, for everything.”

She gives me a one-arm hug. “You’ll make it. We’ll do it together.”

That night, I scan teacher websites for ideas, hitting a site hosting blogs from teachers and read through a few and decide to start one of my own.

August 18, 2007

Sophie’s Blog:

Keys, a Room, and a Friend

I know it’s still summer outside, but I haven’t seen it for two days. That’s how long ago it’s been since I was handed keys to my room. My room. I’ll soon be sharing it with my students. Somewhere, those children are shopping for back-to-school clothes or backpacks. Normally I wouldn’t have thought about this at all. I was a real estate agent forty-eight hours ago.

My official mentor, the person the principal assigned to help me, is Mrs. Haze, also a first-grade teacher. I haven’t seen her at all. She must have come in to my classroom sometime during the night and dropped off a large pile of coloring pages. A sticky note on top suggested I use them to fill up the time of the first week while I adjust. I’m not sure she’s here to help.

I
t’s crazy how many cars are in the parking lot. The first day of school must be a big deal here. I drive around but can’t find a spot, so I park Gustavo on the street down the block and around the corner from the school. I check my phone—eight o’clock. I’m not late. I have a full book bag hanging from my right arm, which is also curled around another large stack of books. My left arm is balancing a box—uh-huh, more books. I thought I parked closer than this. My triceps are burning, and I feel a little winded. This is a great workout. I won’t be one of those teachers whose flabby underarms swing as they write on the whiteboard.

The street looks creepy as shadows from tall buildings on either side darken the sidewalk. The sun’s been up for a while, and the streetlamps have already switched off. Dark clouds are moving in, dimming the sky even more, threatening rain before I can get inside. Please don’t rain. Please don’t rain.

I round the corner expecting to see the crosswalk, parking lot, and the school entrance just beyond, but I don’t. Where is it? Where am I? I decide to enter the building on my left and ask for directions. Since my arms are full, I kick the button for the automatic door opener and enter the lobby. The double doors swish closed behind me, but no one is there. No doors line the hallways—they’re just flat walls. There’s nowhere to go. I turn around. The door I just came through is gone. An alarm sounds and I startle, dropping the books and the box.

Oh, my alarm. I bolt upright and realize it was just another weird starting-school dream, which I’ve had every day since being hired.

For the first day of school, I’m wearing a black pencil skirt that makes my butt and legs look totally great. Of course, no one will be looking at my butt and legs, but it makes me feel better about all the Phish Food I’ve had lately. My top is a pink gauze blouse. I love this blouse. It has a mandarin collar, short, puffy sleeves with little pearl buttons on the band, and tuxedo ruffles down the front. My shoes are strappy black slingbacks with low two-inch spike heels. My hair is down in loose waves. I look like a teacher in charge. I look trustworthy and serious.

By the time I walk to school, just three blocks, the dainty straps are cutting into my feet, and I’m ready to chuck my slingbacks in the recycling bin. Tomorrow, I’ll wear running shoes and bring my heels to wear at work. When the bell rings, I stand at the door to welcome my students, say hello to parents, and answer their questions.

“Yes, this is my first year teaching.”

“No, I’m not married.”

“I’m not sure yet how this school handles report cards.”

“Yes, I’ll devote a large amount of time to reading.”

“Oh, yes, math is important too.”

“Homework? I’ll look into that and get back to you.”

We get started a little late because of the interview/photo op in the hallway for the scrapbooking moms. Good thing I look fab. I introduce myself and write my name on the board—Miss Kanakaredes.

One girl yells, “You wrote Keslee, like my sister. See the K?” She rushes the board and jumps to point to the K. I turn her back toward her seat and begin to open my mouth, but another student quickly pipes up. “I can make a K, all by myself.” Comments popcorn from around the room.

“Is your name really Candy?”

“Our teacher last year gave us candy to be good when the principal came to our class.”

“I had Mrs. Thomas last year.”

“I didn’t go to this school last year.”

It seems every child in the room is telling a story or calling out some random thought. Is this what the first day of school is like? Are there are thirty rooms in this building all in complete mayhem? Do the children know that they could easily mutiny and take control of the school? When I did my student teaching, the children seemed cooperative for much of the day. What is going on here?

“Did you know my mom went to this school?”

“My mom is a teacher too. She says she has a bum deal this year.”

“We aren’t supposed to say ‘bum.’”

“It’s okay to say ‘bum’. That’s not the B-word.”

“The B-word is butt.”

Amazed at how quickly the conversation has gone astray, I hold up my hand and “shh” the class. “If you’re listening touch your head.” I touch my head, and a couple of students follow. “If you’re listening, touch your cheeks.” I have just about everyone now. “If you’re listening, touch your elbows.” I finally have all the students looking at me again. Oh, thank goodness that worked. We’ll have to practice the hand-raising thing.

Beth’s lessons work great and the morning moves along without a crisis. It’s a little awkward to try to sit on the floor. My skirt seems very tight and very short. Even sitting on a chair is problematic. The students’ eye level is about even with where my skirt ends. I finally turn my chair to the side and twist back around to see the students, which gives me a side ache, and my back hurts a bit. I’ll have to rethink wardrobe choices tomorrow.

Jacquie’s name is the first one I learn. “Jacquie, please sit down.” “Jacquie, look up here.” “Jacquie, put the objects back in the sorting boxes.” “Jacquie, stop talking now.” “Jacquie. . .”

At recess, several students pull plastic sheets out of their backpacks. Why did they slide them under their socks? When I ask Marcus, he says it’s so he can go to recess. What are they? I wonder if it is a rule, or if those students just have overly protective parents. They don’t seem bothered by them as they run to the field.

Right before lunch, we do an art project to learn how to stipple, using giant markers to make the dots. They each choose a fairy-tale character to practice on that will hang over their desks when finished.

Eleven thirty, finally. “Please put away your markers and line up for lunch.” After dropping the students off with the cafeteria aide, I head for the faculty room. I’m starving. Gulping down one Diet Coke while the kids were at recess is not enough. Beth waves me over from across the faculty room, pointing to a chair beside her. I pop my Lean Cuisine in a microwave and grab another Diet Coke. Beth is making introductions before I sit down. “Sophie, this is Kristen, Jan and Mel. Everyone, Sophie Kanakaredes.” Mrs. Hays purses her lips, throws her sandwich into a plastic lunch bag and leaves.

Jan rolls her eyes. I think she’s unimpressed with Mrs. Hays theatrics. Then Jan says, “You’re the newbie.”

I must look confused because Kristen adds, “Newbie. First-year teacher. You’re the new Shelli.”

Okay?

“We were surprised when you were hired,” Jan continues.

Feeling even better about myself. But really, that makes three of us.

“When school got out, Shelli was planning to come back this fall, but had to leave suddenly,” Mel says, then takes a bite of apple.

“What happened?”

Mel continues as pieces of apple float between her words. “Her husband is in the Air Force, and he was sent to Alabama for a year of training. She thinks they will be back next June.”

“Back to Colorado Springs, or back here to Rio Grande Elementary?” I ask.

“Both. That’s why you were hired on a one-year contract.”

I really should have read it more carefully.

“Everyone always thinks they’ll come back, but the Air Force could transfer her husband again,” Beth adds with a “don’t-worry-about-it” look on her face.

“My students are the reading buddies for your class. We’ll start on Thursday, okay?” Jan states. It sounded like a question, but she stands to leave without my answer.

By eleven forty-five, most of the teachers go back to their rooms, leaving Beth and me together. We chat, then at twelve, we head back to our rooms too. Thirty minutes for lunch is criminal.