7. Oliver

SEVEN

Oliver

I’m running late this Monday morning, arriving fifteen minutes later than my usual seven a.m. I spent too long at the gym, thoughts tumbling over and over as I ran for far too long on the treadmill.

I thought about the informal offer that Superintendent Daniels proposed last week. I’ve spent my entire tenure as principal less than impressed with the various superintendents I’ve worked with. Most of them were clearly failed teachers, people who could not walk the walk but excelled at talking the talk. I’d be surprised if any of them spent over two years in a classroom. They viewed education as a ladder to climb, rather than a social service for their communities. I loved working in schools. I loved working with teachers, with parents, with my community members, having boots on the ground. I love working , instead of sitting far removed in the ivory tower of an office.

If I made it into the District office, if I ever became a superintendent, I could make a real, tangible impact on my community, instead of driving around in a tacky yellow Porsche, chatting and having coffee with the Mayor. I wanted this more than anything.

But first, would I even be able to succeed? Georgia Baker was a wildcard. I thought she was on drugs the first time I met her, for fuck’s sake. She clearly did not match my idea of what made a teacher a good one. All I know is that she won’t be escaping my wrath.

Thoughts still cycling, I walk through the lobby, sweating, cursing the Department of Buildings for their delays.

“Good morning, Ethel,” I say to our shriveled, beloved School Safety Officer, who just turned seventy-nine last year. The only real thing Ethel keeps safe in this school is the emotional well-being of every person in the building, students, staff, and myself included, which frankly, is enough for me to keep her around.

“Good morning, Principal Flores,” she answers. “What a beautiful day it is today,”

“A gift,” I reply, the same back and forth we’ve had every day in the five years I’ve been here. I go to place her daily coffee on her desk, starting when I see a coffee already there.

“Too good for my coffee today, Ethel?” I tease.

“Never, Principal Flores,” she answers, patting the empty spot next to the existing coffee. “A gal can never have too much coffee.” I place it down. “A nice young man gave this one to me this morning, said he was new,” she tells me.

I frown. “Young man?”

“Goes by the name of George,” she supplies, sipping the coffee that wasn’t mine with a pleased smile on her face. “Got me one of those syrupy sweet latte things that tastes like cookies. Way better than yours.”

Sighing, I give Ethel a salute. “Well, now I know what to get you. Thank you for keeping us safe, Agent Anderson. Have a great day.”

She salutes back, the end of our morning routine. I continue down the lobby, making a right at the end, passing by the main office, lights still off.

Standing there, in front of my office, holding a coffee like a peace offering, stands Georgia Baker, wavy hair framing her face, blue eyes bright, perfect pouty mouth tipped up at the corners in a small smile. She is wearing a flowing linen dress today, doing nothing for the curves I know hide underneath. I am irritated by her presence already, remembering her terrible lesson, regretting hiring her, annoyed by her efforts to suck up to me already.

“Good morning, Mr. Flores,” she says politely.

My eyes flick down to the coffee she is holding in her hands. “I don’t want that,” I tell her, turning to unlock the door to my office.

“Good thing then,” she purrs, taking a sip. “It’s mine.”

Touche .

I walk into my office, turning on the lights and the air conditioning, placing my bag and blazer on the coat rack. I push my sleeves up, hot, and Ms. Baker’s eyes flick towards my arms.

“I trust you will need to go set up your classroom, so I will make this qui?—”

“Oh no, it’s done,” she cuts in. “I was in at 6:30. Agent Anderson let me in.”

“There’s no way you could fully set up an entire classroom in,” I look down at my watch, “forty-five minutes.”

“You can if you’re Super Woman,” she winks at me.

I stare back.

She sighs. “I didn’t, actually. The third grade team did most of it for me on Friday after school,” she tells me. “They got my number from Lina last week and asked me how I wanted the class to look.” Something in her eyes grows darker, a strange reaction to this massive act of kindness from my team, especially after they’re the reason she’s here right now. “ I wasn’t sure they’d do it, but I just walked up, and they did. I just needed to fix a few tiny details, but I’m all set now.”

I’m so annoyed at my team for extending the courtesy to Ms. Baker, yet proud of their teamwork and efficiency, that I choose to ignore that strange moment of darkness. I sit in my chair behind my desk and gesture to the one on the other side. “Have a seat, then.” She obeys. “Let’s take this opportunity, then, to debrief your lesson from last week. Consider this your very first coaching session.”

She immediately begins to retort, but I hold my hand up. “May I remind you of something,” I tell her, “I am your direct supervisor. Your boss. I will give you feedback, and you will take it. There will be time for discussion at the end.”

She crosses her arms. “I was going to apologize again. I’m sorry if I took a tone with you during that. I was… surprised at the time, but I respect your position now.

I blink, taken aback. “Thank you,” I say, pleased. “I want to begin with what we stand for here at PS 9. You mentioned that you have a particular disdain for test scores and test prep. You said as much during our last conversation. I want to start by explaining the difference between the two. We are not a test prep school, and we do not teach to the test, but we do still care about test scores.”

I watch Ms. Baker nod.

“PS 2’s test scores used to be quite low. No one wanted to send their kids here. Enrollment was low. Unfortunately, high scores equals more students, which equals more funding. We really needed that funding. This school was falling apart.” I gesture vaguely toward the outside. “All our water fountains are new. Our old ones were all broken. Every lower school classroom now has a rug for students to sit on. Along with a color printer and a laminator, which you probably know are crucial to the success of a classroom,” I add on.

“Obviously,” she nods. “As well as air conditioning.” A dreamy look crosses her face. “High test scores equals more money,” she continues, almost facetiously.

“Listen, I may not agree with it either, but it’s the reality of the situation in New York City public schools,” I say firmly, annoyed by her tone. “When parents are looking at their school options, what do you think is the crucial piece of information they look for? How would parents, many of whom are completely lost when it comes to education, much less its methodologies and theories and practices, know what makes a school a ‘good fit’ for their kids?” I stand up to press the brew button on my coffee maker. “Parents see a school’s test scores are high, so decide to send their kids there. They just want what’s best for their kids. In education, students are assigned a dollar amount of funding. Students equal dollars. More students equals more dollars.”

Ms. Baker stares at me for a few moments, then raises an eyebrow. “I’m actually quite familiar with ESSA, Mr. Flores,” she tells me, referring to the Every Student Succeeds Act, the latest education law passed in the United States.

I blink, feeling my eye twitch, sensing a loss of control.

She smiles. It seems warm, but I can tell it’s contrived. “I know test scores are important. My classes’s test scores have always been excellent. I just didn’t agree with my previous school’s way of achieving those test scores. I don’t think that shoving facts down kids’ throats and expecting them to regurgitate them is the point of education.”

“I agree, Ms. Baker, but that doesn’t mean the classroom should become a free for all, in the way I witnessed last week.” I watch as she boils, a teakettle waiting to erupt. Feeling a sick satisfaction in getting a rise out of her, in the same way she is doing to me, I continue. “Even after debriefing with the team and with Lina, I learned that there was not any point in your lesson in which you would teach them anything. Letting kids explore is one thing, but actually teaching them is another. They’re eight years old. They still need explicit instruction.”

I list things that she could have taught, ticking them off my fingers, sentence structure, mentor texts, writers’ workshop, adding fuel to her fire. She’s doing an admirable job keeping it together, I have to say.

She sits stiffly in her chair, seemingly taking deep breaths, but the rage reflected in her eyes is a different story. “It wasn’t my best. I agree,” she says, through that fake smile, a bomb ready to detonate. I sit back in my chair, for some reason delighted at the feeling of pushing her buttons. “It was a poor judgement call. It won’t happen again.”

Wanting to dig the knife even deeper, I continue, “At PS 2, there is a focus on project based learning with explicit instruction built in. We teach skills, measure the outcomes, and adjust our instruction based on the data. There is no time for?—”

“ I get it ,” she erupts. We both stare at one another, shocked. A moment passes before she takes a deep breath. “I?—”

I cut her off. “You know, after that outburst, I don’t actually think you do get it, Ms. Baker.”

She sputters. “You?—”

“Me, nothing. This is my school. There is no time for messing around.” Her face flushes pink as she attempts to hold in whatever explosive thing she has to say next. “I want you to meet with me three times a week for official coaching meetings. I’m concerned about your ability to remain organized and accept feedback.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts’, Ms. Baker. We will begin next week. Please send me the first two weeks of your lesson plans.” I stand and walk to the door, opening it and gesturing outside.

Her eyes are frigid now, and for just a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard, if my often unreasonable tendencies to remain uncompromising and maintain control are rearing its ugly heads ( don’t be such a dick, Ollie , my sister’s voice rings in my head), but it’s too late to unpack this because she stands up and silently storms out of my office.

I stare at the door for longer than I care to admit.