4. Georgia

FOUR

Georgia

Lina opens the door to the classroom labeled ‘302’ on top, gesturing inside like a game show host. I start, unprepared for the chaos in front of me. The substitute teacher looks like a child herself, so young, standing at the front of the classroom, hair frizzed, glasses askew. If you looked in a dictionary for “stressed-the-fuck-out”, her image would be below. My eyes dart around, seeing what I have to work with, plotting my next steps with the efficiency of an army commander.

The desks are still in rows ( gasp ), and children are running around the classroom, a group of four having a meeting by the pencil sharpener ( what is it with the pencil sharpener? ). Three students hide in the corner, under a kidney table, slamming laptops shut ( how did you get those? ), eyes shifting to the adults that have now entered the room. The rest of the students sit at their desks, little bodies twisted around as they chat animatedly with their neighbors, as if they are at a happy hour for kids.

A little boy sits by us, small for his age, hair in locs, with huge, dark eyes magnified by thick, blue glasses. He sees us enter the room and calmly closes a fantasy paperback as large as his head. He folds his hands in front of him and smiles at us, looking very much like he is prepared to deliver a speech to the Senate.

The closet doors are wide open, spewing backpacks and lunch boxes and water bottles from its gaping maw.

I know Emmanuel has entered the room when I hear his audible gasp. “Oh, poor baby,” he says, moving towards the substitute teacher, who is likely on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Lina moves forward to snap at a brown-haired, blue-eyed student who is standing on a desk. “Max, not safe,” she barks, pointing to the ground.

Emmanuel leads the substitute teacher out the door, murmuring in a calm voice, telling her to go take a break; we have it from here.

I watch as Max, who had initially stepped off his desk when Lina asked him to, begins to climb the desk again now that Lina’s turned her back. “Hey,” I say, moving to stand right next to him. I point to the floor, hoping my proximity pressures him enough to climb down. He does, and I stay there.

I cup my hands around my mouth, preparing my Cafeteria Voice, the one I’ve honed for eleven years, the one I can amplify to an unnatural decibel. “CLASS 302. IF YOU HEAR MY VOICE, CLAP ONCE.”

Students look at one another, voices lowering to a murmur, clap sounds scattering around the room.

“Let’s try that one more time,” I say calmly, at a more reasonable volume, not needing Cafeteria Voice now that I can be heard. “If you hear my voice, clap once.” I hear claps around the room. “If you hear my voice, clap twice.” Double claps.

I smile, comfortable in my element. The room is now silent, faces attentive and turned to me, and I know it isn’t because of my Superior Classroom Presence, but because I am a stranger and these third graders are curious about me in the way eight-year-olds are all curious about strangers. I know to take advantage of it, anyway.

Lina and the rest of the third grade team take seats around the classroom, all of them smiling at me encouragingly.

Emmanuel, however, has his pointer and middle fingers pointed at his eyes. He slowly and dramatically turns both his fingers to point directly at Max, glaring, eyes narrowed.

Max groans and sits on his bottom.

I smirk, loving that this team already has my back. “Good morning, class 302. My name is Ms. Baker.”

“Good morning, Ms. Baker!” Lina, the third grade team, and a handful of students chant dutifully.

“I’m here to do a fun little writing activity with you all. I promise you’ll like it, and you’ll even learn a little something at the end,” I say, circulating the room. “You’ll even get to move around,” I say, looking pointedly at Max, who is fidgeting in his seat. “But first, let’s set up some ground rules.”

After setting some classroom expectations, I outline the demands of the writing lesson, distributing materials from my backpack as I go. I keep the desks in rows, not having the time to move them, working with what I have. After checking to make sure the class understands the assignment, I clap my hands together. “All right,” I say. “Go for it.”

The classroom explodes into a flurry of motion and sound. This , I think, smiling widely, this is what it’s all about .

I am moving through all the groups, trying to avoid answering any questions, instead prompting students to ask a friend in their group to help them figure it out.

I glance over to Lina and the third grade teachers, all of them taking notes in a notebook, smiling faintly.

I clap my hands loudly, in a rhythm, clap-clap-clapclapclap , pleased when the class stops what they are doing and imitates my clap, little hands coming together in the same rhythm: clap-clap-clapclapclap. That little call-to-attention is common across elementary schools, but I still send a blessing to Class 302’s second grade teacher for teaching them that one. Thank you, sweet darling angel.

“All right, Class 302,” I announce in Cafeteria Voice. “Your five minutes are up. Everyone move to your right!”

After some initial confusion regarding the complexities of left vs. right, little bodies crashing into one another, as everyone clearly has varying opinions on the matter considering they are all facing in all different directions, I show each group which station to move to next instead.

Rookie move , mentally smacking myself in the head. “That way,” I tell them, physically prompting some bodies over. “Move to that station. Move that way.”

“Okay, 302,” I say when each station settles. “Go for it.” Students, having enjoyed themselves at the first station, eagerly jump into the task of the next station.

Now, Lina and the third grade teachers are out of their seats, looking at my materials, joining in the discussions, joining in the fun.

I hear Tamika crack a laugh at the back of the classroom. “Yes, you got it!” she tells her group. I see Lina giving a high five to Max, who is bouncing on his toes.

I am giddy with joy when the five-minute timer on my phone goes off again.

“TIMES UP!” I yell in Cafeteria Voice, “Move to your next station,” I say, too excited. I’m on a high, taking a risk, that students would pick up on the pattern and move in the correct direction .

It’s a gamble that doesn’t pay off.

“We have to go this way ,” says one little girl with red hair and a galaxy of freckles on her face and body.

“No, it’s this one,” says another little boy, the fantasy-novel-loving-future-Senator, on the other side of the room.

“STOP PUSHING ME,” yells someone else.

Little arguments ignite around the classroom, and I freeze, fully aware of the very real potential for this to build into a blazing inferno.

Lina winces and gives me a pointed look. One that could mean, do you want me to step in ? Or this is your demo lesson, girl — handle it .

In the corner of my eye, I see Max shove, not push, two-handed shove , the little red-haired girl to the ground. Too late , I think, dismayed. She bursts into tears, and the classroom explodes.

The adults in the room all immediately move into Damage Control, an effort that is instinctual to all of us, like Cafeteria Voice, like riding a bike. Mia moves to separate Max and the girl. Lina quickly identifies the screamers and murmurs quietly to them, demonstrating deep breaths. Chaya hugs someone who was pushed, and Tamika takes the calm ones and depositing them into the seats of their correct station, separating students in a twisted version of triage.

I am yelling, in Cafeteria Voice, “302. ALL SOUNDS SHOULD BE OFF. PLEASE HAVE A SEAT. ALL SOUNDS?—”

Someone takes this moment to open the classroom door behind me, and all heads turn. In that instant, the classroom breathes a collective sigh of relief. Students smile. Max calmly takes a seat. The red-head, along with most of the class, is waving towards the door. Everyone is calm, except for me, because I want to slam my head against the wall.

“Good morning, Principal Flores,” they chant .

“Good morning, 302,” he says, in that voice like gravel, sounding even deeper and more delicious than I remembered from thirty minutes ago. “What’s going on in here?” he asks the class, warm but firm, turning to me. His frown grows even deeper. “I heard a lot of commotion in the hall.”

He walks around the classroom, looking at the work on student desks, picking things up, reading notes and student scribbles intently.

Lina begins to speak up, but I beat her to the punch. “Good morning Mr. Flores, nice to see you again. Want to join in the fun?” I tell him, smiling widely, eager to please and make him forget every single event from this morning.

He raises one perfect eyebrow. “Sounds like it got out of hand.”

I refused to be deterred. “We just got a little overexcited, right, 302? But we were having fun, weren’t?—”

“THE LADY DOESN’T KNOW RIGHT AND LEFT,” contributes Max from somewhere next to me.

Little fucking shit.

I open my mouth, but Mr. Flores cuts in. “Ms. Baker, I heard screaming and shouting from all the way down the hall. When I looked in the window, I saw several students being physical with one another.”

Mildly annoyed, I push back, determined to finish my lesson. “That was just a slight hiccup. We were getting back on track. I think?—”

“This is not a conversation I want to have right now, or here,” he gestures broadly, and I notice the heads of all thirty students, the four third-grade teachers, and Lina all bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Flores, like spectators of a particularly rousing game of ping-pong.

I take a deep breath. “Fine. If you’d let us continue, I’d love for you to join?—”

“Ms. Baker, I apologize for not being clear. Please gather your materials and your belongings and meet me out in the hallway.” I stare, openmouthed. He continues. “Ms. Sanchez, please meet us there.”

He looks at his watch. “Teachers, it’s about time for you to pick up your classes from the gym. You may leave as well.”

The third grade teachers file out of the classroom, all giving me somber smiles as they pass.

“Ms. Roberts,” he says to Mia, “please retrieve the substitute and tell her to return.”

“Don’t worry, girl,” Tamika whispers to me as she passes by. “We got you. We’ll explain to him later.”

I stand there, stunned, ears ringing. I feel a flush rising up my neck.

“Ms. Baker, are you planning on leaving your materials, or do you need help collecting them?” asks Mr. Flores, the weight of his stare heavy, tone clipped. Translation: get the fuck out, and now .

“I’ve got it,” I mumble, gathering my belongings and raking them into my backpack. I stand by the door and turn to face the class one last time. “Class 302, it was wonderful to meet you all. Thank you for hanging out with me,” I tell them, and walk out of the classroom with my head held high.

“Please take out a book and read silently until your teacher comes back,” Mr. Flores tells the class behind me. “I’ll be standing right outside.”

He steps out into the hallway, and it is intense, the feeling of mutual anger and rage, palpable and radiating between the two of us.

Keep it together, Georgia . “I had it covered.” I manage first, through a clenched smile that is likely bordering on crazed. “Respectfully, Mr. Flores, if you had just let me continue, you would’ve seen that my lesson was?—”

“Enough,” he says, eyes flashing. “What I did see of your lesson was that it was sloppy.” He holds up his hand when I sputter. “You have no classroom management. You managed to let a fight break out in the fifteen minutes you were in there. What was your teaching point? What was your learning target? You were too busy prancing around the room to teach them anything. What did they learn today?” He pulls out a piece of a paper he had taken from a student desk.

this is dum

“This is what they learned today, Ms. Baker,” he sneers.

“That’s one student-”

He holds up another piece of paper.

45 inches

“This was not a math lesson, to my understanding,” he finishes.

I take a deep, calming breath. You need this job, and you need to keep this job. “I apologize, Mr. Flores, but again, respectfully, you saw thirty seconds of the lesson, and that was two out of thirty students.”

“Ms. Baker, I must remind you who you are speaking with,” he tells me, a vein popping under his perfect skin. He moves closer, looming over me, golden eyes boring into mine. “You are here for an interview. With me. The boss of the place you are interviewing for. You listen to the feedback I give you, and you take it. Let’s also not forget the events of this morning, when I caught you literally in our trash . You are a disaster waiting to happen. You are a disaster that has already happened.”

Unbidden, my shithead of an ex-boyfriend’s voice pops into my head. You don’t know what you’re doing, Georgia. This is a disaster waiting to happen.

Lina steps between us, preventing a nuclear meltdown. “Oliver, too much,” she says, looking at him, appalled. “Calm down. I disagree with what you are saying,” she tells him. “Georgia was a very strong candidate today, and I think this is something that should be discussed between us and the grade team.”

Mr. Flores scoffs. He looks like he’s wrestling with something, like one of those ‘would you rather’ games, debating between eating the world’s spiciest pepper or waxing all the hair off his body. Clenching his jaw, he finally looks at Lina. “Finish the interview. Then send her to my office.”

He shoots me one last look, turns on his heel, and walks away.

Lina sighs, watching him go. She thinks for a second, then turns to me. “Georgia, I know I speak for the third grade team when I say this. We were impressed by your lesson. Mr. Flores did come in at an inopportune time,” she gently holds her hand up as I prepare to rage in self-righteousness. “But he is right. There were parts of your lesson that you could improve.” My shoulders slump. “Something we look for in teachers here are ones that will take feedback. Ones that are always ready and willing to learn. If we hire you, I would be your direct supervisor. Can you accept feedback? Are you willing to adapt?”

“Yes,” I insist. “I can. I agree that there were parts I should’ve changed, and I am happy to debrief with you about it now. But… he… I just…,” I stammer, still clearly affected.

Lina nods. “I understand. Like I said, he is intense. Many people are afraid of him. But believe me when I say his heart is in the right place. He cares deeply about this school. We all know this here.” I breathe. “If we hire you, I would be your direct supervisor, but he would still be your boss. Can you handle him? You are a strong teacher, Georgia, but you are not perfect. No one is. Would you be able to swallow your pride?”

Lina’s all smiles when she sends me down to meet Mr. Flores. “I hope we see you as soon as Monday,” she tells me.

He seems less angry now, more resigned, like he’s accepted that he does in fact have to participate in the world’s spiciest pepper eating contest or wax all the hair off his body.

He gestures to the chair across from his desk. I sit.

“Ms. Baker, I’ve had the chance to look over your file, and I have some follow-up questions for you. Do you have to be back at school? Is this a good time?” he asks, sounding impatient, like this is actually the absolute worst time for him, but he is talking to me anyway because he is a gracious and benevolent leader.

My heart drops, but this conversation is to be expected. I frantically review diplomatic answers in my head. You practiced this in front of the mirror, Georgia. You got this . “Sure,” I tell him, projecting a confidence I didn’t currently have. “I’d be happy to answer them now.”

“Well, to be truthful, I only have one question, and I’m sure you already know what it is. What’s the deal with the two disciplinary letters I see in your file? Insubordination? Inappropriate conduct? Those are some serious allegations. You understand we cannot hire you if you’ve ever endangered the safety and wellbeing of your previous students.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Right, of course.” He’s admin; don’t talk shit about admin . “Well, it has nothing to do with my students, thankfully. My current administration and I have… a difference in opinion,” I tell him, using the politest phrasing I’d chosen for this exact moment. “I tend to be… adamant about my viewpoints. But to be clear, it’s only because I believe their policies are genuinely harmful to my students.”

He… grunts. “And what sort of policies may that be?”

I clear my throat, my conviction giving me determination. I know what I want to say, but I don’t want to misspeak, making it sound like I have some sort of white savior complex.

“Their policies aren’t… culturally affirming. Their disciplinary methods, their one size fits all, test preppy curriculum… They assume the worst of my kids. I’ve said as much to them and haven’t felt comfortable implementing their policies in my classroom. They’ve tried to take control of me and my students by writing those letters. But they aren’t fair.” My heart is pounding in my ears, and I hope that was an appropriate commentary on the absolutely insanely racist shit show that is my school. What I really want to say is that they are a handful of wealthy white women in charge of a school of children and families of color, and they are completely out of touch with the realities of the community.

Mr. Flores makes a noncommittal noise.

I surge on. “But that doesn’t mean my students are suffering. In fact, they’re thriving. I have virtually no send-outs in my classroom, no egregious behaviors. I believe in restorative justice, and we all take accountability for our actions in our classroom community. Meanwhile, admin are suspending other kids in the school left and right. These kids are eight years old! I want them to come to school, not be banned from school, so I try to protect them from that. Also, my test scores are superb. I believe in project based, culturally affirming instruction, and it seems to be very in line with what is happening at your school.”

There is a long pause, as if Mr. Flores is ruminating over my comments. Because he seems like a ruminator. One who ruminates. He doesn’t ‘think’ like the rest of us plebes. He ruminates. “All right, Georgia,” he says, in a voice that sounds like it, in fact, is not all right. “Well, I’d like to offer you the position of the new teacher of Class 302,” he says, voice devoid of any emotion.

I freeze, taken aback, because the words he says are so at odds with the tone in which he says them.

I process.

I’m about to break into a screeching ‘thank you’ before he speaks again. “Just know that this is out of sheer desperation to fill the position,” he tells me point blank, and then my heart drops and I’m suddenly very glad I didn’t genuflect at his feet.

“What?”

“We need a teacher for that room,” he shrugs. “But I’m still entirely unconvinced that you’re the best teacher for the job.”

I sputter.

“But before you accept, I have one caveat,” Mr. Flores says, his tone clipped and icy.

“Okay?” I think I’m in too much shock to acknowledge his rudeness.

“I am personally invested in the success of class 302,” he begins, his voice hard. “They’ve had a rough start to the year. I will be directly responsible for you as your direct supervisor. This means I will be the one conducting all of your observations and evaluations. I don’t want this to be a bait and switch, so know that I will be in your classroom a lot, should you accept.”

I pause, feeling the weight of his words. Fuck . “Define… a lot.” I ask.

“It could be anywhere from once a month to once a week, especially considering you will be new,” he answers, annoyance in his tone. “But as someone under my supervision, you will be under a constant microscope. At least until you prove to me you don’t need it. If you, in fact, don’t.”

I am silent, not sure I can handle that amount of micromanagement from an arrogant asshole, regardless of how handsome he is. But fuck, it’s either him or the shitshow I’m currently in.

Mr. Flores fills in the silence. “Believe me when I say that I am an excellent coach, and I truly care about the success of my staff and my school. The third grade team, in particular, respects the hell out of me. I’ve coached them all at one point.”

“Will you be my direct supervisor, like, forever?” I manage not to roll my eyes at his arrogance.

Mr. Flores laughs, but there's no warmth in it. “No, Lina and I like to switch it up every year. We split the supervision in half evenly, and we make sure we see different teachers every year. I would be out of your hair next September, and then it will be you and Lina.”

“Okay…” I stop and try to think this through. Just nine months with this jerk. I can handle it. I am confident. I am a good teacher. I will prove it to him. He will leave me alone after I do. He will give me my independence. “Okay,” I tell Mr. Flores. “I’m in.”

“Good. We’ll see if you can handle it.”

I smile, feeling excited despite the hiccup.

“Finish this week at your current school, and we’ll get all your paperwork transferred over. Be here next Monday, bright and early. I’m usually in by seven o’clock most days. Then you can set up your classroom the way you want.”

“Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds good. Hey Mr. Flores, thank you for this opportunity. I’m honored and excited to be a part of your team.”

Mr. Flores grunts. “Welcome to PS 2, Ms. Baker,” he says begrudgingly.