See Me After Class(3)

The smirk is gone.

The air in the room is tense.

And I’m pretty sure I just blew this interview.





“That’s Kelvin Thimble. He teaches geometry and dresses up every Friday as a character from Star Wars. Rumor has it he has a crush on Keiko.”

“Keiko Seymour?” I ask Stella as we’re huddled off to the side, glasses of champagne in hand.

Yes, champagne at faculty night.

Champagne at a backyard barbeque faculty night.

At least that’s what it was called when I received the email from Principal Nyema Dewitt.

Yeah . . . I got the job.

Shocking, right?

I couldn’t be more shocked myself, but Nyema said she thinks I’ll bring a fresh approach to the English department. She’s also excited about my coaching ability and immediately introduced me to Stella, the other volleyball coach. We’ve been hanging out for the past two weeks.

But back to the champagne backyard barbeque. According to Stella, the Friday before school starts, Forest Heights holds a party for the faculty where the newbies—like myself—can get to know everyone and where we can talk about our summer. When my Uber pulled up to the address on the invite, I wasn’t expecting to see to a lake house gated in by seven-foot-tall hedges.

But I did.

After I picked my jaw off the ground and made my way toward the white brick, Tudor-style house, I found Stella, who handed me a glass of champagne and led me to the backyard, where high-top tables were meticulously placed along the large stone patio. A pathway leads to the lower yard, which is covered in pristinely cut grass and at least a dozen lawn chairs that overlook Lake Michigan.

Let’s just say, Principal Dewitt is loaded.

“Yeah, Keiko Seymour. Is there another Keiko you know of?” Stella laughs.

“Guess not.” I glance around and say, “I thought this was supposed to be a backyard barbeque. This is more like an event thrown by the Great Gatsby himself. I mean . . . look, there’s a green light right there.”

“That’s Arlo Turner for you.”

“What?” I ask, facing Stella. “This isn’t Nyema’s house?”

Stella throws her head back and laughs. “How much do you think a principal gets paid?”

I shrug. “I don’t know . . . a lot?”

Stella shakes her head and leans in. “Houses along Lake Michigan are in the millions, Greer.”

“Okay, so who’s Arlo Turner?”

“Uh, he interviewed you for this job.”

“No, he didn’t.” I shake my head. “Nyema did.”

“Were their people sitting in the back of your interview?”

“Yesss . . .” I drag out.

She nods knowingly, a smile pulling up her lips. “Yeah, he was there, and this all makes sense. That’s why he wasn’t happy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Good Evening.” Keiko walks up to us, holding a cup of what I’m assuming is water from the clear liquid. She’s dressed in a modest green dress with red roses scattered haphazardly along her bodice. Her black hair is tied up into two pigtail knots with a few wisps framing the front of her lovely face. “I see that you’re partaking in adult effervescence during this professional sundown.” She sips her water. “Risk takers.”

“We didn’t sneak the drinks in, Keeks, they’re serving them,” Stella says.

“Maintaining a constant disposition while amongst colleagues would behoove you. Especially after last year . . .”

Okay, the interview thing could be put on hold for a second. Turning to Stella, I ask, “What happened last year?”

“Nothing. Had a few too many drinks,” Stella says, waving her hand in dismissal.

“On the contrary,” Keeks says, “she had precisely two IPAs indigenous to Chicago, three margaritas, one buttery nipple, and then schlepped her tongue over Brock “Romeo” Romero’s formidable abdomen, which was dappled in salt, right before consuming two tequila shots. She then proceeded to gyrate her exotic undergarments over her head while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. There’s a video of this exasperating occasion if you would like me to procure it for you.” Keiko adjusts her glasses and smiles.

“I think we’re good—”

“I’d love to see that,” I say with a laugh.

“I shall put a note in my phone to remind myself.” Right then and there, she takes out her phone from one of the pockets in her dress and types away. I know already Keiko and I are going to be great friends.

“Lovely, thank you, Keeks.”

“Yes, of course,” she says so seriously it makes me giggle.

“Anyway.” Stella faces me again. “I was talking with Gunner and Brock—”

“The physical education teachers, right?”

Stella nods. “They used to be professional baseball players. Both went to Brentwood, both had short careers in the majors. Gunner suffered from Pitcher’s Elbow—”

“A commonality among professional pitchers,” Keiko interjects. “Formally known as valgus extension overload, it’s where the valgus force from snapping your hand and elbow to the lateral side of your trajectory wears out the cartilage in your olecranon bone. Such trauma to your appendage results in swelling and immense pain. The solution would be to change the motion of your pitching arm, though in Gunner’s case—one of not being able to ‘teach an old dog new tricks’—he failed at expanding his athletic prowess, thereby resulting in early retirement.”