Misconduct(11)

I hated heels, but tonight was “make a good first impression,” kind of occasion, so I’d suck it up. I’d filter in sneakers and flats throughout the school year, though.

The outfit was conservative but stylish, and after I did my light makeup and my hair in loose curls, pulling back the sides and fixing a clip to the back of my head, I dressed with care, making sure not to wrinkle anything.

This was a brand-new start, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

Once I’d fastened my watch to my wrist and put in the diamond studs from my parents, I smoothed my hand down my shirt and skirt, brushing off lint that wasn’t really there.

Perfect.

I checked the windows, the stove, and both doors, making sure everything was secure – twice – before I left.

When I arrived at the school, in the heart of Uptown, I still had a couple more hours before the open house began. I checked my mailbox in the teachers’ lounge, made some extra copies of my parent letter, and double-checked my laptop and projector to make sure my PowerPoint presentation was set to run.

We were supposed to have a mini speech ready to go when parents arrived, but I’d gauged – hopefully correctly – that parents would filter in and out, visiting classrooms in no set order, so I’d just designed a presentation with pictures and captions to play in the background. They could watch it or not.

Student textbooks were on the desk for their perusal, and copies of my syllabus and calendar with my contact information sat on a table by the door.

Other teachers at our staff development days this past week had talked about bringing cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries to offer parents when they visited their rooms, but after the school nurse scared the shit out of us with the EpiPen training on Wednesday, I’d decided not to take any chances with allergies. Bottled water, it was.

I let Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” play lightly in the background from my iPod dock as I walked around, double-and triple-checking everything to make sure the room was ready to go, for not only tonight but for tomorrow, as well.

“Are you Easton Bradbury?” a voice chirped behind me.

I turned, seeing a redhead in a navy blue A-line dress hovering at my classroom door.

“I’m Kristen Meyer,” she continued, placing her hand on her chest. “I teach Technology and Earth Science. I’m right across the hall.”

I put a smile on my face and walked over, noticing that she looked only a few years older than me.

“Hi.” I shook her hand. “I’m Easton. Sorry we didn’t meet this week.”

Our staff meetings were mostly departmentalized, and since I was US and World History, she and I had probably been in the same room for only a few hours during our staff meetings before we’d split off into groups.

Her red lips spread in a beautiful smile. “This is your first year?”

I nodded, sighing. “Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve done observations and a practicum, but other than that, I’m” – I exhaled a nervous breath – “new.”

“You’ll get that crash course tomorrow.” She waved her hand, walking past me into the room and looking around. “Don’t worry, though. The first year’s the easiest.”

I pinched my eyebrows together, not believing that for a second. “I’ve heard the exact opposite, actually.”

She twirled around, looking completely at ease with herself. “Oh, that’s what they tell you to give you something to look forward to,” she joked. “Your first year you’re just trying to keep your head above water, you know? Learn the ropes, get paperwork done on time, spend countless hours preparing one thing only to find out the lesson bombed…” She laughed.

“What they don’t tell you,” she continued, leaning against a student desk, “is that college prepared you for nothing. Your first year, you’re learning to teach. Every year after that you’re trying to be successful at it. That’s the hard part.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically, laughing and putting my hands on my hips. “I thought I learned to teach in college.”

“You didn’t,” she deadpanned. “Tomorrow is baptism by fire. Get ready.”

I looked away, straightening my back. It was my brain cracking the whip, so I wouldn’t scowl.

Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.

I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own – which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.

My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.

What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?

“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”