From the Wreckage Page 13

  Sitting in David’s car in the parking lot of Commack High School, a tsunami of nervousness rises in my stomach. The morning has passed by in a blur of commotion and now here I am, twenty minutes away from the interview that could result in the beginning of my career. My brain flips through some of the earliest memories of me wanting to be a teacher. Even though I was laughed at for giving a spelling test during a career project in seventh grade, I held fast to my dream.

  And here I am.

  Somehow I managed to shower, eat, get dressed, and pull together my materials. Oh, and breathe.

  That last one is becoming more and more difficult as I stare at the face of the building. There are a few kids milling around the front entrance and there’s a palpable buzzing energy surrounding the place.

  Twisting in his seat, David faces me. “You got this.” He drops a hand to my leg, offering a gentle squeeze of support.

  He steps out of the car and walks around to my side, opening my door for me. “Such a gentleman.” Taking his hand, he helps me out of the car and I straighten my skirt. Thoughts of when my mom and I went shopping for this suit make me smile. Opting for something classic, with a touch of a modern flare, I feel confident and put-together. The slate grey jacket and pencil skirt with a tulip frill on the hem is the perfect combination of feminine and professional. A deep blue button-down blouse echoes the color of my eyes. Even though Jade dismissed the shoes as not nearly high enough, I can actually manage to walk in the three-inch heels. A definite plus if you hope not to fall on your ass in a room full of teenagers.

  After pulling my briefcase from the back seat, David hands it to me. Standing in front of me, he rests his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. “Good luck. Or break a leg. Whatever I’m supposed to say.” We share a laugh, but nervousness still washes over me. More in tune with me than I ever would have imagined, he picks up on the change. “Hey, we’ve walked through the whole lesson. It’s good. Really good. And what the hell do I know about English?” His casual and sweet smile reassures me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You got it. Now get in there and kick ass. I’ll be out here waiting for you.”

  When I turn to walk toward the building, he slaps my ass. “What the . . . ? Did you really just do that?” I ask, astonished by the slight sting his strong hand left there.

  “What? You’ve never been slapped on the ass for good luck before?” Leaning against the door of his car, his arms are crossed over his chest. A smug look spreads across his face and he smiles at me. “Oh, that must just be guys then.” He laughs.

  Stepping back toward him, I poke a finger in his chest. “Not funny,” I scold, but can’t help from laughing myself.

  Pinching his finger and thumb together in front of my face, he says, “It was a little funny.” Involuntarily, my eyes roll skyward and I laugh. “And now, see? You’re not nervous anymore.”

  He brushes a soft hand over my cheek, pressing his lips in the wake of his touch. Whispering in my ear, he wishes me good luck one last time before I walk away.

  From her perch at a desk in the main lobby, the hall monitor buzzes me in. I laugh a little noticing she barely lifts her eyes from the cross stitch she’s working on. Pulling her attention away from her project for a second, she checks my I.D. and then points me in the direction of the office I need.

  Another secretary greets me, letting me know she’ll tell the principal I’m here. As I wait in the main office, I take note of the general atmosphere. Teachers walk in and out of the office with ease, checking their mailboxes as they carry on casual conversation with their colleagues. Students laugh in the halls as the classes change. Even though I’ve only been here for less than five minutes, it feels comfortable and personable.

  “Ms. McCann,” a voice calls my attention away from the group of students standing in front of a locker out in the hall.

  Standing, I extend a hand. “Mrs. Gallagher. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely school.” I can’t exactly put my finger on her age, but if I had to guess, I’d say Mrs. Gallagher is somewhere in her mid-forties. Her blue eyes are bright and shining with enthusiasm. Wearing a black pant suit with a pink blouse, she looks every bit the professional, but the warmth and kindness in her face speaks to what I can tell is her kind nature.

  She smiles, saying, “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Please,”—swiping a hand to the side, she escorts me to her office—“come this way.”

  There are two other offices in the short hallway down to her office, both empty. When I walk into her warm and inviting office space, I see two other people waiting for me. “Ms. McCann, this is Mr. Gildon and Mrs. Reese, the two assistant principals. Please, have a seat.”

  We all greet one another and before I realize it, the interview is underway. After telling them about myself and my experience in student teaching, they ask me a slew of questions. Thankful for the late night round of rapid fire questions from David, I am more than prepared on all fronts. We covered diversified classrooms, inclusion instructional models, interdisciplinary curriculum development, and common core learning standards. When the interview segment is over, I feel confident that I’ve nailed it.

  “You really know your stuff,” Mrs. Reese asserts, tapping together a stack of papers in front of her. “I have to say, I’m impressed and a little surprised you haven’t been snatched up by some other district.”

  “It’s a saturated market,” I explain away my rather unfruitful-to-this-point job search. “But I’m very honored at the opportunity here.”

  “I just have one final question,” Mr. Gildon interjects, leaning forward on the table.

  “Of course.”

  “If you were to be offered this job, and I happened to walk past your room one day, while you were teaching of course, what would I hear?” His somewhat cryptic question throws me off track for the briefest of seconds.

  Saying the first thing that comes to mind, I utter, “Laughter.” All three administrators give me a confused stare. It’s clear they don’t know what to make of my answer, so without waiting for any further questions, I explain, “What I mean is that, no matter the objective, no matter the novel, or short story, or poem, at the heart of every lesson I’ll ever teach will be to enjoy life. If you can’t enjoy what you learn, if you can’t devour the true essence of life by reading the words of others, then there’s no point in it. My goal will always be to help my students achieve the most they possibly can, academically speaking. But when they’re out of these walls, when they’re out in the real world, if they’re able to smile and laugh, to see the positives through the world of negatives . . .” Pausing, I take a deep breath and gather my final thoughts. “Then I know I’ll have done my job.”

  Pushing her chair back, Mrs. Gallagher stands. “Very well said.” She rewards me with a proud smile. Mr. Gildon and Mrs. Reese stand from their chairs. Looking up at the clock, she says, “It looks like fifth period is about to start in roughly fifteen minutes. Let’s make our way up to the classroom for your demo. There’s no class in there now, so you can have the space to yourself to prepare your lesson.”

  When the bell rings, dismissing fourth period, a rush of anxiety and excitement floods my system. Mrs. Gallagher sits in the back row, Mr. Gildon and Mrs. Reese on either side of her. Their somewhat stoic stares do nothing to help calm me down.

  Remembering something that always stood out to me when I was in school, I move to stand by the door. Greeting the students not only helps calm my nerves, but I hope that it makes them feel more at ease with me. I learned very early on in my student teaching experience that students are not always warm and receptive to someone new in their classroom, especially if they are firmly attached to their current teacher.

  As the bell rings signaling the start of the period, whatever nervousness I feel evaporates. Truly in my own element, the words of my lesson flow from my mouth with ease and eloquence. In my planning, I’ve basically memorized the story I’m teachin
g. With the help of a few eager volunteers, as a class we read Joyce Carol Oates’ short story Journey fairly quickly. On the surface, the story is nothing more than a traveler on a journey, narrating the obstacles and victories he encounters along the way.

  However, upon a closer reading, and after a few guiding questions from me, the students begin to see the metaphorical meaning behind the words on the page. It’s about much more than a road trip. The story is actually a parable to how people should lead their life, how they should take the proverbial road less traveled.

  After modeling the first example, the students work in small groups to decipher the many metaphors and symbols in the story. Much to my delight, they actually seem to enjoy the story and they’ve mastered the tasks I’ve given them.

  With three minutes left to the period, I write the final example on the board, and tell the students they’ve done a wonderful job. “So for homework.” My words are met with a collective and audible groan from the class. “I’m just going to ignore that,” I say with a dismissive laugh. “Anyway, at the end of Journey, we’re left with the image of the traveler, resting against a tree as he reflects on the choices that brought him to this point. For homework, I’d like you to take the place of the traveler, and write a brief metaphor for your own life and the choices you’ve made. It can be in a poem, or a narrative. Even a visual design. Just something that conveys the lessons you’ve learned and the choices you’ve made.”

  A hand shoots up from the row in front of Mrs. Gallagher. It’s Robbie, a boy who hasn’t said or done much through the period. Despite my best efforts, I could not get him to lift his pen for much of the forty-five minute lesson. My heart soars when his hand goes up, thinking maybe I’ve reached him.

  “Yes, Robbie.” I can’t hide the excitement in my words.

  A deep voice issues from his mouth as he shakes his too-long hair out of his eyes. “You know none of us are going to do this, right? I mean we don’t have to. You’re not even really a teacher.”

  “You’re right,” I respond without missing a beat. “I won’t be here tomorrow and I’m not your real teacher. And you’re right in saying that you don’t have to do the assignment. The truth of the matter is that you don’t have to do anything. Your life is your choice. But let me leave you with this. If you spend your life looking only to avoid doing the things you’re asked to do, you’ll never learn what you’re capable of. By side-stepping the tasks that seem unappealing or difficult, you’ll never know what you’re truly able to do.”

  On my last word, the bell rings, dismissing the class. Not in a million years could I have timed it better. When the last student leaves the room, Mrs. Gallagher apologizes for Robbie’s behavior. “But for what it’s worth, I think you handled that very well.”

  “And I loved the truth in your response. It echoed everything you demonstrated in your interview.” Mr. Gildon extends his hand, congratulating me on a lesson well-done. Then he excuses himself and Mrs. Reese as they have a child study team meeting to attend.

  As the bell to start the next class rings, I realize the room is empty. “No class in here this period,” I say.

  “No, but that works out well for us. Please sit.” Mrs. Gallagher pulls two desks to face one another, prompting me to sit.

  “Thank you again for this opportunity, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  Waving away my formality, she says, “Please, call me June.”

  “Of course.” It’s impossible to read her, so I sit and wait for her to say something.

  “We did an exhaustive search when this position opened. Sifting through nearly a thousand resumes, we went through rounds and rounds of interviews. It took us weeks to narrow it down to two prospects. And we really felt like we had the cream of the crop in our grasp.”

  Smiling, I bite back the sting I feel at knowing that I wasn’t one of her top choices.

  “But clearly I was wrong.” Her words barrel over me. “You did a phenomenal job today, especially for having very limited time to prepare. If my husband hadn’t given me your name, I would have had to start all over.”

  “I’m sorry,” I spit out, confusion spilling from my mouth. “Did you say you received my name from your husband? I don’t mean to sound rude at all, but who is your husband and how did he get my name.”

  Shooting me an equally confused look, she says, “Oh, I thought you knew. I mean I assumed you knew. He’s a captain in the FDNY. One of his firefighters gave him your name, asking if he could put in a good word for you here. He did and here we are. And I’d love to have you on staff at the beginning of the school year.”

  An odd mixture of elation at landing the job and frustration at David’s interference bubble in my chest. But I bite it back, not wanting to be anything but professional in the face of my future boss.

  Holding out my hand, I reply, “I’d really be honored. Thank you so much.”

  As we exit the classroom, navigating our way through the quiet hallways, she explains that, pending superintendent approval, she’d love to have me on staff over the summer for an interdisciplinary curriculum writing project. It will revamp the current approach to reading and writing. When she tells me she thinks I’m the perfect fit, it’s impossible for me not to feel proud.

  After another thirty minutes of signing paperwork, all of which she’ll pass along to administration, we say our goodbyes. “I will be in touch later this week with all the final details. I don’t foresee any problems with the rest of the process, though you’ll definitely need to come back in to at least meet Dr. Ruddard.”

  “Absolutely. And thank you again, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  Stepping out into the sun-lit sky is a stark change from the fluorescent lighting of the building. After adjusting to it, I spot David’s car immediately. It’s right where he’d parked earlier, almost two hours ago. As I walk toward the car, he steps out, a bright and hopeful smile on his face.

  “You were in there a long ass time. That has to be good, right?”

  “You jerk!” Poking him hard in the chest, he looks at me utterly confused about my reaction.

  “What the hell?” Rubbing his hand over the spot I just poked, he narrows his eyes on me, looking more than a touch pissed off.

  Not wanting to get into it in the parking lot for fear of making a scene that anyone can see, seething, I step into the car. He follows suit, huffing as he clicks his seatbelt into place. “Care to tell me what the hell the issue is?” Somewhat petulantly, I cross my arms over my chest and sit there silently. “Fine,” he spits out, turning on the engine.

  Wordlessly, we pull out of the lot. My mind races with a million different thoughts. They all collide together, confusing the shit out of me. Equally offended and elated, it’s clear to see that I’m a mess.

  “Just drop me off at the nearest train station,” I demand, thankful we’d loaded all my bags into the car before the interview. We drive in awkward and anger-laden silence for the next ten minutes.

  When he pulls into the lot of the train station, he pushes the button down on the auto-lock. Twisting in his seat, he faces me, scrubbing a hand over his face. And damn it, even when I’m pissed off beyond all belief, he’s still gorgeous. “How did the lesson go? The interview?” His jaw is clenched so tightly, I can see the muscles twitching under the strain.

  “Fine, thanks to you,” I pout.

  Realization unfolds on his face. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. Who the hell are you to interfere in my life like that? It’s none of your business. I can get a job on my own talents and hard work. Not because my boy—someone I know calls in a favor for me.” Out of breath, I slump against the seat.

  “So you got the job?” Hope springs into his voice, completely ignoring the way I berated him seconds ago.

  “That’s what you got out of what I said?” Sarcasm flies from my lips, only making him chuckle.

  Shrugging, he says, “I like to focus on the positives and not the irate woman sitting next to me. So?” he drags out the word,
leaning forward. “Did you get the job?”

  I nod. “Not officially yet. But it looks like it’s mine, barring any major objections from the superintendent.”

  “That’s amazing! Congratulations.” His happiness is contagious, but it’s not enough to crack my foul mood over him interfering.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten involved. Why did you do that?”

  “You mean Gallagher?” Based on the look on his face, the one that’s yelling what the hell is your problem, he clearly doesn’t see it the way I do. A frustrated puff of breath, accompanied by an eye roll is all I give him in response. “You know, your attitude is starting to piss me off. For a smart woman, you’re being quite obtuse here.”

  “Oh, really?” I sneer at him.

  “Yes, really. Now listen.” He leans forward, his face mere inches from mine. Hot breath caresses my cheek as the woodsy scent of his cologne makes my brain go haywire. “I will not apologize for helping you, for bringing your name to my captain knowing that he could potentially be the helping hand you’d need.” Raking a hand through his hair, he pulls on the ends, putting his frustration with me on full display. “You said it yourself. The market is saturated. Your chances of getting a job were pretty slim. So I helped. But all I did was help get your name noticed.” Knuckles graze my cheek softly before his hand cups my jaw, softly caressing the skin there. “No matter what I may have done to help, you’re the one who did all the work. Your intelligence and insight are what shone through and made it impossible for them to turn you down. All I did was point them in the right direction. And I won’t apologize for that.”

  Like a fish gasping for air, I open and close my mouth a few times. Nothing comes out and David takes the silence away by asking, “Now, did you almost say boyfriend before?” His eyes alight with humor and a touch of something so much more meaningful.

  “I . . . um . . . no wait. I’m still–”

  My words are swallowed up by his hot, hard kiss. His lips crush mine, his hand tangling in my long hair. My world spins so fast, I’m afraid I’ll be swallowed up by space itself. His lips make me feel as if gravity doesn’t exist. The only things capable of keeping me in place are his strong hands, holding steady to the side of my face and the nape of my neck. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against mine, running his nose along the length of mine. “Because if you were going to call me your boyfriend, you can’t yet.”