I zone out for a minute when we’re discussing the efficiency of the lunch lines and find myself tuning in again to an entirely different topic.
“As you all go about your day, I want you to try to embody the acronym TEACHER. Terrific. Energetic. Awesome. Cheerful. Enthusiastic—”
“You missed H,” someone calls out.
Principal O’Malley stops and starts to backtrack, ticking off the letters on his meaty fingers.
Oh dear god…
“Doesn’t H stand for hardworking?” someone else asks.
“I thought it was helpful,” Noah chimes in, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
For ten minutes, the meeting gets derailed as Principal O’Malley takes a vote on whether we think H should stand for Helpful or Hardworking.
The tally comes out to an even split, and Vice Principal Trammell—the real brains behind the operation around here—steps in and politely suggests we move on to the next topic on the agenda.
“Ah yes.” Principal O’Malley clears his throat and affects a whole new solemn tone when he continues. “I have some horrible news to report. Our beloved Mrs. Mann was in a motorcycle accident yesterday.”
There’s a collective gasp from around the room, and then everyone wants details.
“Omg!”
“Poor Mrs. Mann!”
“She was struck by a motorcycle?!”
“She was riding on one,” Principal O’Malley clarifies.
Not possible.
Mrs. Mann is a sixty-year-old social studies teacher who weighs eighty pounds soaking wet. Her wardrobe is purchased from an Amish catalog. She shouts at students for running through the hallways yet chides them for being late. She once scolded me for not having better posture.
“She’s in a motorcycle club for ladies over sixty. Vests, patches—you name it. Anyway, yesterday, she had a little run-in with an ice cream truck and broke her wrist. Expecting a full recovery, but that means there’s been a shake-up with the Rome trip this summer.”
Every year Mrs. Mann and her husband—a history professor at the local college—voluntarily take a group of ten middle school students to Italy for a three-week study abroad program, and every year I think, Better them than me. Who in their right mind would volunteer to use part of their summer break chaperoning thirteen-year-olds in a foreign country?
“The students have already been selected for this summer’s trip, and you’ve probably seen them around the school, working hard to earn their fundraising dollars.” He claps his belly. “They got me one too many times with the chocolate bars, but I tell you what…they don’t call them World’s Finest Chocolate for nothing. I just can’t resist ’em.”
Having realized it might be best if she takes over, Vice Principal Trammell steps up, smiling politely. Without her, this place would unravel.
“We’re looking for two teacher volunteers to take the place of Mrs. Mann and her husband for the trip, which will span three weeks in July. Are there any takers?”
Crickets.
Vice Principal Trammell’s gaze sweeps the room, and we all look anywhere but her.
“Mrs. Vincent?” Vice Principal Trammell asks, sounding hopeful.
Mrs. Vincent is the Spanish teacher, but she’s one of those geniuses who speaks like eight languages, Italian being one of them.
She holds up her hands in defeat. “Oh man. I wish!” She doesn’t wish. “It sounds so fun. Rome in the heat of summer—sign me up.” She’s barely masking her sarcasm. “But I’m due to deliver my baby at the end of August, so I doubt my OB wants me traveling overseas that late into my pregnancy.”
Every pregnant teacher in the room breathes a heavy sigh of relief. What a perfect excuse.
If only I were pregnant.
Or married.
Or in a relationship of any kind.
My only commitment at the moment is with my dry cleaner. No one, and I mean no one gets chocolate stains out of fabric like he does.
Vice Principal Trammell purses her lips. “Right. Well, if any of you has a change of heart, please let me know. We need to fill the two spots by Friday or we’ll have to inform the students that the trip is canceled. It’ll really break their hearts.”
She’s digging deep with that one, trying to get us to bend.
For a moment, I start to give in. Maybe I should go. What a wonderful opportunity for these adolescents to explore the world and expand their minds.
Then I remember how Danny in my third period farted yesterday and the smell was so nauseating I was forced to evacuate my entire classroom until a custodian could come open the windows and air it out. I bet the scent will still be there today.
My heart turns cold as ice. If the trip is canceled, we’ll just wheel in an old TV on a cart and have the students watch a grainy documentary about Rome. They’ll be fine.
After the meeting, I stand and gather my things, neatly tearing off the top sheet of my notepad so I can trash it. Sensing early on that I wouldn’t need to take notes during the meeting, I doodled in the margins instead. Just idyllic little scenes of Noah getting struck by lightning. Falling into the lion enclosure at the zoo. Crying as his check engine light comes on.
All the teachers filter out, joking and talking with each other. I look up as Noah passes by on the opposite side of the conference table. He makes like he’s going to keep walking, then he suddenly stops midstride, rocks back on his heels, and looks over at me.
“Y’know, I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to go to Rome,” he tells me. “So unlike you.”
“I’m busy this summer.”
Not wanting to encourage him, I head over to the refreshment table so I can start to pack up my extra cookies. He rounds the table and meets me there.
“I’ll bet you are. Already planned your room decor for next year? I heard there’s a shortage on construction paper across the city.”
I go about my business as if I’m not the least bit bothered by him. It’s not as easy as it seems given his size. He’s six foot something. He should be gangly and awkward, but he’s not. He’s broad-shouldered and in my way.
I bat my eyelashes at him like I’m playing coy. “And what about you? What will you do all summer without children to terrorize?”
“My students love me.”