1. Georgia

ONE

Georgia

I am both late and wet for my interview.

Both are marginally connected. I am late because I am currently in a bodega, begging the cashier for napkins to dry myself off.

“One dollar,” he says.

“Are you serious? For two napkins? Three at most?” I half-shout.

He eyes me carefully. “For three napkins, and with that attitude, two dollars.”

I tear open my backpack and scoop my hand down into the cavernous, terrifying bottom, producing exactly five quarters, two dimes, seven pennies, hundreds of mysterious crumbs, and the little bits of paper that come off when you rip pages out of a spiral notebook.

“This is all I have,” I say, dumping the whole handful onto the counter, like a backhoe unloading its contents.

To his credit, the cashier recoils only slightly, but I watch as his eyes count my pile. He sniffs and removes exactly three napkins from underneath the counter. I grab them and run, not bothering to zip my backpack .

“Have a great day,” I throw behind me.

He grunts in return.

I am wet because I am sweating, because it is one of those unseasonably hot and humid September mornings in Brooklyn, where the smog and car exhaust and air itself coalesce into a viscous, living soup. I had decided to wear my best “I’m a professional; please hire me” outfit, which unfortunately for me consists of slacks, a blazer, and (WHY?!) a long-sleeved blouse, all made from the best synthetic, unbreathable material a teacher can afford.

“In case you get hot and have to take your blazer off, Georgia. You need something profesh for underneath, too,” said my roommate Eloise last night, throwing the blouse at my face as we rummaged through our closets for an outfit. I acquiesced, mainly because Eloise has a Good Head on Her Shoulders, while my head is mostly Only on My Shoulders Because it is Physically Attached.

So I’m dressed to impress in my teacher best—desperation quite literally a stinky cologne. Because I need this job. I need this job, and I need to keep this job. I need to get out of the hellscape of my current school, and I have those two letters burning a hole through my DOE file. The two write-ups from my unreasonable administration.

Not to mention this is my fifth interview. I’ve been offered a position at every school I’ve interviewed at, only to have it taken away at the last minute due to budgeting issues. It’s the middle of September now, and schools aren’t interviewing anymore. I got lucky with this one. This is my last chance.

I sprint-walk down the block, strategizing the best way to maximize the efficiency of the three napkins that have the absorbency of a piece of cardboard. One for my back, and one for each armpit .

I live exactly seventeen blocks from PS 2. The school is in Fort Greene, and my apartment is in Prospect Heights, which means there is no real subway or bus route that would be more efficient than walking. I could have taken two buses, but that transfer wasn’t worth the risk. I lament this with every drop of sweat snaking down my back.

The school yard appears on my left, surrounded by a fifteen foot tall rusty chain-link fence. There is a playground structure, one of the sad ones, with only one slide and two towers with a bridge connecting the two, the plastic bleached long ago by the sun. There is, or was, a track painted on the asphalt, circling the play structure, the paint patchy in some places and nonexistent in most. Two basketball hoops stand, their nets long gone, metal brown. They tip forward slightly, as if impacted by and never repaired after particularly exuberant slam dunks.

I continue down the block and stop in front of what looks like the garbage area of the school. I wedge my way between two dumpsters. The smell is overpowering, a distinct smell of rotting milk cartons and decaying apples. I throw my backpack on the ground, forgetting that I hadn’t bothered to close it. My demo lesson materials: small bits of paper, pens, markers, crayons, scissors all explode out of my backpack. Cool, cool .

Taking a deep breath, I look at the napkins wilting in my hand, and make a mental map of the pools on my body. I mop at the worst of the offenders and start down my “Positive Affirmation Playlist”. My therapist recently recommended reciting a list of positive things to and about myself during periods of “high stress”, and I’ve employed this strategy with various levels of success.

I am talented and intelligent.

I am bold and brave.

I will not stress over things that are out of my control. Like these giant pit stains. Leaving earlier and walking slower could have prevented these giant pit stains .

I believe in myself and trust my ability. You’ve been doing this for seven years!

I have the power to be who I want to be. I am an amazing teacher, with bold, innovative ideas.

Anxiety, shame, and fear do not hold power over me. Except maybe a little right now. Also, maybe you could have gotten those napkins for free if you were a bit nicer.… Also, WHY DID YOU NOT CLOSE YOUR BACKPACK?!

I look back at the ground, where the contents of my backpack lay strewn all over the soaked ground of the school trash area. My printed lesson plan lies in a slightly orange and chunky puddle of garbage juice.

“Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK!!!!”

“Hello?” asks a male voice on the other side of the trash bin.

“Shit,” I mumble, emerging like a trash siren from between the dumpsters, wet and holding a wad of disintegrated napkins resembling a lump of chewed gum in front of me like an offering. “Sorry. I do my PAP out loud sometimes. You weren’t supposed to hear that. I’m not very good at it. And sometimes I get frustrated and yell at the end.” I’m rambling as I step out to the sidewalk, dismayed when I see a Very Attractive Man, his thick and wavy dark hair pushed back from his face, tall body filling out a navy suit, staring back at me.

He blinks.

“PAP, as in, Positive Affirmation Playlist. Not like the smear. Although, I don’t think I would be very good at that either,” I continue. “Do you have any napkins? Or do you think you could help me pick up my things?” I glance down his body. “Actually, I don’t want you to ruin your suit. But do you have any napkins? Or a handkerchief? You seem like someone who would carry a handkerchief. ”

He is silent, thick eyebrows furrowed, full mouth and pillowy lips slightly agape. Confused. Likely horrified.

“Actually, just hold this,” I tell him, depositing the dissolved napkins into his outstretched hand. He looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect himself to extend the courtesy. His face is a slow transition into disgust as he realizes his mistake, and he drops the lump into a nearby dumpster. I use my arm as a rake and scoop my things into my open backpack.

We look at one another for a beat or two.

“The methadone clinic is just a few blocks away,” he suggests, in a voice like sandpaper, gesturing down the block. “Do you need...”

I stare, cringing at the dampness on my hand after scooping the last of my fallen items, mind whirring, when it clicks. “Oh! Oh. No. I’m okay. That’s not me. Or for me. But it’s okay if it’s for you, or for anyone else, for that matter.” I start to move away, zipping my backpack this time. “Well, have a great day!”

His head tilts as I pass him to walk towards the main entrance of the school. Sighing, I don my blazer and hope the school is air-conditioned.

PS 2 is one of those nondescript New York City public school buildings, likely built in the early 1900s. The school is a giant, uninspiring, rectangular prism (a vocabulary word I learned during my one year of teaching 6 th grade; thank you middle school, but never again), spanning half the block, three floors high. The original first floor is a worn brick, but the top two floors clearly came later on, made of cinderblock and stacked on top, making the whole thing look like a Sims house after you finally switched to exterior mode and realize you forgot to change the facade.

I make the turn towards the main entrance, about to walk up the steps, when someone clears his throat behind me. “Where are you going? ”

The voice is familiar.

I whirl around.

Very Attractive Hot Suit Man is standing behind me. He repeats his question, this time with impatience, thick eyebrows still furrowed. He may as well have his arms crossed, may as well be tapping his foot.

“Why are you following me?” I ask instead of answering.

“Again, do you need help getting somewhere? Do you have a social worker I can call for you?” He doesn’t answer my question either. We both seem to be lacking the basic foundational skills required for ‘communication between two parties.’

I decide to be the conversationally adept one of the two of us and answer his question. “This is where I’m supposed to be,” I say, gesturing to the words PUBLIC SCHOOL 2 engraved into the stone above the main entrance.

“I don’t think so.” He takes a step closer, carefully, as if he is approaching an angry, cornered bear and not a twenty-eight-year-old teacher with an anxiety disorder and ADHD.

“Why not?”

“I would be highly concerned for the safety and well-being of my school if you were.”

My school . Blood rushes through my ears.

I think back to last night, when Eloise and I did extensive Google searches (“DEEP DIVE!” I yelled, when we opened open our laptops) on PS 2 and its administration.

In District 13, which stretches from Brooklyn Heights all the way over to Bed-Stuy. Almost 1000 students. Pre-K through 5 th grade. Diverse student body. Diverse staff, similar demographics. Test scores went up significantly since the current principal took over the school.

Interviewing for a 3 rd grade general education classroom. School website claims their instruction is “rigorous” and “student-centered” and “hands-on” and “project based”, which means they are doing what every other school in the city claims they are doing, which really means nothing at all.

Assistant Principal: Lina Sanchez. AP Sanchez is the one who emailed me to come in for the interview.

Principal: Oliver Flores.

I cough.

He waits.

“Principal Flores, I presume?” I attempt weakly.

He has the aura of someone who is generally unimpressed. “Yes.”

I pull myself together bit by bit, wishing I had a whole-ass towel instead of three flimsy napkins and a prayer. “Hi, Principal Flores. My name is Georgia Baker, and I’m here for an interview?” I cringe as I listen to my voice rise at the end, a terrible habit of mine, forming my statements into questions and making me sound like a vapid, unconfident troll.

“Well, then,” he says, after a moment. “No.”

“Huh?”

“The job offer has been rescinded. We will not be moving forward with the interview process at this time. We are no longer looking to fill the position,” he says, suddenly an adept communicator and a facetious prick.

I frown. “AP Sanchez invited me in for the interview. Respectfully, I demand an audience.”

“This isn’t medieval England,” he says. “And if it were, I would be the king. And I’m denying your request.”

That would’ve been pretty funny if I weren’t so annoyed. But sheer desperation for a new job calls for desperate measures. “Please, Mr. Flores. Can we rewind the last fifteen minutes?”

“You mean when I caught you doing drugs behind my dumpster, rambling incoherent nonsense, your belongings strewn all over the ground?”

Feminist Georgia finally decides that she’s done being dismissed by this man and steps in to stand up for herself. “I was really hot and sweaty,” I insist. “It’s like, a thousand degrees out, and I was taking a moment to dry myself off before coming in here. I put my backpack down. I didn’t realize it was open, and all my stuff fell out. Then you came and startled me. I was having a rough morning, but I wasn’t doing drugs.”

The walkie talkie clipped to his hip beeps. “Principal Flores, you’re needed in the schoolyard,” a tinny voice says.

He picks it up. “Copy. Be there in a moment.”

He eyes me.

My heart climbs into my throat. Well, goodbye teaching career; it’s been a great seven years, but I’ll be fired and lose my license the moment I step back through the doors of my current school ?—

“Go inside and wait for Lina. I’ll meet you shortly.” He turns on his heel and walks back the way we came.

I blow out a breath.

This school better have air conditioning.

It doesn’t.

But I peer through the sweat running down my face, eyes burning, look around the lobby, and smile. It is decorated with artwork, student self portraits, colorful explosions of construction paper, crayon and marker streaky and uneven in that way that crayons and markers color paper. It is warm, both temperature and vibe-wise, comforting, directly in contrast with the Sims monstrosity outside. I cough a laugh at what appears to be the school creed painted on several consecutive banners stretched across the top of the lobby.

I AM AMAZING!

I AM RESILIENT !

I BELIEVE IN MYSELF!

I AM PROUD OF MYSELF!

I CAN DO HARD THINGS!

I LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES!

I AM ENOUGH!

It’s nice to know, so far, that regardless of the bridge troll guarding the school entrance, that the school appears to have values similar to mine. Student centered, with positive affirmations and student artwork. And according to the website, hands-on and project-based. But honestly, anything would be a step up from the military industrial complex my current school is currently contributing to.

I walk over to the safety desk to check in. The school safety agent is dark-skinned, hair gray and cropped close to her head, approximately ninety pounds soaking wet, and maybe one hundred years old. Her uniform hangs slightly loose on her, as if even the smallest size possible was still too large for her tiny, withered self. Her badge identifies her as Agent Ethel Anderson.

“Good morning,” I say. “My name is Georgia Baker, and I’m here for an interview?” I cringe again at the question in my voice.

Agent Waters smiles warmly, eyes cloudy with cataracts, and says, “If you’re just dropping off a student lunch, you can head straight to the main office and give it to Ms. Madge.”

“What?” I start. “Oh, no, I’m here for an interview?” I try to mime the concept of “interview”, looking like one of those old boxing toys as I pretend to hold a microphone in front of myself and in front of her.

Luckily for me, Agent Waters’ eyes seem unfocused, like she is looking through me, or behind me, or just can’t see me at all. She is still warm when she says, “I see. You quite late for school, young man! Go’on and go up to class.”

“I—” I try, but give a “—yes. Thank you so much,” instead. She nods her head, and I walk towards the back of the lobby, where a minuscule sign shows the door leads to the main office. I open the door, and…

…a small moan escapes my lips. Cold. It’s cold in here. And not the “I’ll save some money on my electricity bill if I keep the AC at 71” cold. It’s the “I give no fucks; 55 degrees, bitches!” cold. I am standing there with my eyes closed, relishing, appreciating, thanking all the gods in the universe for hearing my pleas, when someone clears their throat.

“Hey! HEY! Close the damn door! How long do you think it’ll stay like this in here for, with you letting all the cold air out?” I open my eyes. A stout woman is glaring at me, standing with her hands on her hips. Her bright orange t-shirt says, “Live. Laugh. Leave me alone.” The words stretch tight over her chest, fading the letters and making them more wide than tall.

“I’m so sorry,” I start, closing the door behind me. “It’s just so hot outside, and I’m late, and wet, and it’s so nice in here, and…” I stop when she holds her hand up.

“Don’t worry, I’m already over it,” she says, sitting back down with a small oomph , her bleached blond blow-out not moving a centimeter out of place. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Georgia Baker?” I clear my throat. “I’m Georgia Baker. I’m here for an interview. I arranged it with the assistant principal, Ms. Sanchez,” I say brightly.

“Hi Ms. Baker. I’m Madge Hughes, school secretary. Everyone calls me Ms. Madge. Have a seat,” she says, gesturing at the two stained and torn upholstered chairs next to me. “I’ll text Ms. Sanchez and let her know you’re here.”

I murmur my thanks and take a seat, sitting on my hands to hide their tremble. Any amount of time sitting before a big interview is too long of a time for someone like me to be alone with her thoughts. I’m cold now, almost shivering, as the damp spots on my shirt (read: my entire shirt) are now freezer packs on my back.

“Can I use the bathroom while I wait?” I blurt out.

“Sure,” answers Ms. Madge. She gestures at a door in the corner of the main office. “That’s an adult bathroom.”

I try to channel Ms. Madge’s calm as I walk to the door. The knob on the door is an old one, an original to this building I assume, one of the oval brass ones, cast with “PUBLIC SCHOOL CITY OF NEW YORK” and filigree.

Once in the bathroom, I look in the mirror and take a deep breath, PAP-ping once more (“You know, it makes me profoundly uncomfortable when you call it PAP-ping,” I imagine Eloise saying). You deserve everything you want. You are beautiful. You are smart. You are a hard worker. You are a creative teacher. You can do this. I attempt to smooth some of the frizz of my wavy, mousy brown hair, an impossible task considering my morning. My blue eyes are bright, excited, with bags slightly dark underneath. I have my mom’s small, straight nose, a smattering of freckles over the top, and my dad’s full mouth. I slip into an unhealthy version of PAP, one in which I imagine in my parents’ voices. You are wondrous. You are brilliant. You are brave. We’re so proud of you.

I wrench the faucet open and splash my face. I pull out some paper towel, the sad, brown ones that are somehow even less absorbent than the bodega napkins, and blot my face. I watch myself inhale, exhale. Let’s do this, then.

Fifteen minutes come and go. I rifle through my backpack, now mostly devoid of coins and crumbs and paper bits and also slightly stinky, and begin cataloguing my damp demo lesson materials and reviewing my lesson plan in my head.

Parents come in and out of the office periodically, bringing their kids in late, feeling the need to apologize to Ms. Madge for whatever their reasons are, as if being solely responsible for the health and well-being of a living, breathing human isn’t enough.

A tall, willowy woman with a curly top knot walks through the door. She smiles at me. “Hey! Georgia, I presume?”

I nod. “That’s me.”

“I’m Lina Sanchez. I really apologize for being late. How was your trip over?”

“It was… fine,” I concede. “I don’t live too far away.” I force my voice down at the end of my sentence, affected by her cool, calm confidence. Something about her makes me relax. She has an easy smile, warm brown eyes, and a mop of curly hair tied up. She’s not dressed in the bureaucratic, stiff way some administrators are, the ones in suits who use their school-based positions to climb up to the Department of Education’s Central Office, Chancellor’s Office, whatever. She’s wearing skinny jeans and sneakers and looks like she’s prepared to work , not play the game.

“That’s great to hear. I think—” she begins, but I don’t get to hear what she thinks, because we are interrupted by the door to the main office opening again.

Here we go.