Picking Up the Pieces (Pieces, #2)(5)

I spent the rest of the morning going back and forth between planning out the first month of school and playing on my phone. Before I knew it, our lunch break had arrived. As I made my way up the aisle, I heard Mr. Murdock’s deep voice beckoning me. “Miss Hamilton, I need to see you quickly before you go.”

I had no idea what he could want, so I told Tina to meet me in the lobby and I’d hopefully be out in a few minutes. As I approached Mr. Murdock at the front of the auditorium, I noticed a thin young girl with short black hair standing quietly beside him. “Lily, this is Trish. Trish, this is Lily Hamilton. She’ll be your mentor for the year.”

Did I hear him right? Mentor? Unless Trish needed someone to show her the most discreet places to get off on school property, I didn’t think I was the right person for the job. Do I even have a say in this? I opened my mouth to speak, but Mr. Murdock beat me to it. “Lily is one of the best teachers we have,” he said. “The kids love her, and she has some pretty innovative ideas in the classroom. I thought she’d be a great person for you to learn from during your first year.” My mouth closed as I felt a look of confusion sweep across my face. “As we say here at Swift now, she’s H.O.T. And Lily, I do apologize for not asking you in advance to be Trish’s mentor, but she was a last minute hire, and knowing you’re a team player, I knew you’d be on board.”

Trish grasped her weak hand around mine and shook it tentatively. “I’m so excited to meet you, Miss Hamilton,” she said in that eager “first-year teacher” kind of way. “I wanna be a H.O.T. teacher too.”

“No, it’s not a H.O.T. teacher because the ‘T’ stands for ‘teacher,’ so you’re saying ‘teacher’ twice,” Mr. Murdock corrected her. I could see how confused she was by his explanation. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget it.”

Fuck me, this is gonna be a long year.

***

I returned from lunch eager to set up my classroom, but after glancing at the afternoon agenda, I realized that we only had about an hour of time to ourselves that wasn’t taken up by meetings. Putting up bulletin boards and arranging desks would have to wait until after I met with Trish. She was clearly in need of a little guidance if she was going to survive her first year.

As I popped my head into Trish’s classroom, which was just down the hall from mine, I saw she already had her room set up. Her desks were arranged in groups of four, and brightly colored paper decorated her bulletin boards. “Wow,” I said, gesturing around the room, “looks like you’re all ready for the year. Do you have a few minutes to talk? I thought I'd just go over a couple of important things with you. You know . . . like where the vending machine is and the quickest exits to the parking lot," I said with a smirk. "And to see if you have any questions."

“Thanks, I think I’m almost all set. I’m just finalizing my syllabus now. Do you wanna look it over?” She moved from her seat so I could sit down at her computer.

My eyes scanned the document, and for the most part, it looked professional and covered all the necessary basics of the class. It wasn’t until I got to the end that a clear problem jumped out at me. “Wait, is this your home number?” I asked, pointing to her contact information.

“My cell. I wanted to make myself as available as I could to the parents and the students.” Her voice beamed with excitement. It was sweet. Naive, but sweet.

I shook my head. “You don’t wanna do that.”

“But if a student has a problem with homework, or a parent is concerned about their child, I’d like to be able to help.”

“Okay, I get that. But that’s not gonna be why they call. A kid’s not gonna call about homework. They’re middle schoolers. They’ll call to prank you. And the parents who call will call at all hours. You don’t wanna open up that door because once it’s opened, it can’t be shut. You can’t give students and parents access to your personal life.” I didn’t realize just how ironic that last statement was until I heard myself speak it. “Trust me on this one.”

Eventually Trish acquiesced, though I could tell she thought I was hurting her chances of forming instant connections with her students. I explained the basic school procedures: attendance, referrals, policies, and what to expect on the first day. This was her first teaching job since she'd only graduated in May, and I could tell she was eager to learn the lay of the land. So when she launched off into a monologue about how she was going to change the lives of all the troubled youths at Swift, I had to step in and bring her back down to reality. “Look, this may seem harsh,” I began, “but you aren’t going to make the difference you think you’ll make. Kids like Jake Robinson,” I said, pointing to her roster, “he won’t have a pencil most days. If you give him one and he actually uses it to write his name on his paper, consider that an accomplishment.”

Trish looked at me like I had just told her I’d mowed her puppy down with my car. On purpose.

“I know you probably think that’s harsh. But I’m just being honest. It’s the biggest mistake teachers make. The ones who think they can change every child’s life are the ones who get burnt out and feel like failures when it doesn’t happen. I don’t want you to feel like that. You’re not Hilary Swank in Freedom Writers. No teacher is. And by the way, hanging out with students is never an excuse for ruining your marriage to Patrick Dempsey.” I wagged my finger at her sternly before allowing a smile to spread across my face. My last comment served to lighten the mood for both of us. “No matter how good of a teacher you are, you can’t change everyone. And you have to be okay with that.” I could see Trish’s face begin to relax a bit, but the sadness in her eyes remained. “You have to be okay with the fact that you may only change one. And you have to be okay with maybe not even knowing you did. My point is that you just have to do the best you can and be happy with it . . . because your best will never feel good enough.” Jesus, I could be a real downer.