Newbie (14 page)

I was less than motivated to come to work this morning. Lately, each week seems to be harder than the last, and I am progressively less prepared. This week is right on target with the downward trend. Before the bell rings, Beth pops in my door. “Could we start working together on lesson planning again? I’ve got a lot of catching up to do since I’ve been out so long.”

Yay! Of course if it will help her. “Sure. After school?”

“Great, thanks. Your place or mine?”

“Mine. I’ll give you a tour of my cupboards.”

“T
he first year is horrific, isn’t it?” Beth says, sitting at my small table. “Mine was four years ago, and I can barely think about it without my right eye twitching. How are you holding up?”

A full confession pours out—working late hours and weekends for planning, lessons missed completely, worksheets—lots of worksheets and coloring pages—the whole ugly truth of the current state of this career-job thing. She listens and nods with a smile on her face.

“Wow, you’re doing great.”

My brain feels a little fuzzy, trying to understand what she means. “Beth, were you listening?”

She continues, “You’ve been able to keep your schedule mostly intact. When I started, it was months before I even had a schedule. Most new teachers can’t do what you’re doing. You’re kind of a natural.” She leans over and gives me a hug. “I’m glad you’re here, Sophie. Let’s see those cupboards.”

My arms tighten around her once more, then give her the tour, doing Vanna on each cupboard door. After the last door, we buckle down, creating nine lessons in two hours. That’s definitely a record for me. I wish I had a to-do List to check off, but settle for writing it at the bottom of my plan book, surrounded by little stars and smiley faces.

Mrs. Milton volunteers on both Monday and Wednesday, staying for an hour each time. She works with Archer for half an hour on some simple alphabet games I’ve borrowed from the kindergarten teachers. (For which I paid dearly by listening to another devil-spawn Chad story from Mrs. Lowe.) Then Mrs. Milton reads for ten minutes with three students who never complete their home reading.

Archer’s mother has agreed to meet with me after school on Thursday, so before I leave, I copy some of his more recent work to share with her. Jade’s mom hasn’t returned my calls yet.

On Thursday morning (Why is it always at two a.m.?), I wake up terrified as something in my sleep registers that grades are due next week. I was supposed to be grading these kids all along? What the crap? I write “grades” in the notebook on my bedside table, then turn off the light, and close my eyes.

I flick the light back on and write, “What am I grading?” There. I turn the light out and lay back on my pillow. Click. I grab the notebook again. “How many grades? What kind of grades? Which subjects?” Better. I turn off the light and try to relax. Click. I have to grade Archer? How can I do that? He doesn’t know anything. He can’t do any of the work. I can’t give him a grade saying he’s a failure. I write “Archer”. I don’t even bother turning off the light this time—I fall back on my pillow, using my arm to shade the light from my eyes. The same questions roll around in my brain, getting more and more tangled.

Finally, I know what to do. I write “Beth” on the paper and turn out the lamp. Does every new teacher have a Beth? I really hope so.

Sleep evades me, and my brain takes off on another tangent. Liam. Our only date was weeks ago. Sure, we see each other at work or talk for a few minutes at lunch or recesses. They are the best ten minutes of my days. But, no more dates. He’s busy coaching a soccer team for the high school. I’m trying to survive.

When
would
we date? I’ve had lessons to prepare, wood floors to fix, roommates to meet, more, always more, lessons. I go to work early and stay late. Maybe he doesn’t think we clicked. None of these thoughts make me want to sleep.

On Monday morning, I pop a bottle of Sprite into Liam’s mailbox in the office with a note. “Your Sprite’s on me today. See you later, Sophie.”

At recess, I get the next lesson ready, then stand at the windows and look at the mountains beyond the parking lot. The mix of clouds in the sky…What the…A large truck pulls up behind my car and hooks a cable to the back, then hauls it onto a platform in seconds and pulls away. What do I do? The side door says “Bucky’s Towing,” but I didn’t catch the whole phone number, 3-0-3 something. It’s too late to call my bank—the kids will be coming back in…well, now.

Oh, my gosh, I hope no one saw. I could say it’s just having trouble with the transmission—no, the AC. People here probably don’t even know which car is mine.

Beth comes to the door. “Your car was just towed away. Did you know?”

“Sure. I have a problem with the door locks.” Door locks? I said door locks?

Beth looks confused, but doesn’t say more.

Liam walks my students in from recess. “Bucky’s Towing just pulled your car away. Is everything all right?”

“I’m just having a little problem with the door locks. They’ll fix it and have it back soon. The keyless didn’t work.”

“They hauled it away for door locks? Maybe it was just the battery in your keyless. Why didn’t they just pop the door open with a slim jim? Even a wire hanger would have worked.”

Stupid. Stupid excuse. Of course door locks don’t make sense. “Well, I guess they do it differently. “Okay class, come to the rug.” I turn back to Liam. “I’ve got to run, see you later.” So. who
didn’t
see it get hauled away?

When I call Bucky’s at lunch, the person I need to talk to is also at lunch, and they ask me to call back. I don’t know when. I guess after school—no, I’m meeting with Archer’s mom. Tomorrow morning then.

After school, Archer’s mom comes in, and I begin by showing her some of his assignments. “Archer is very behind, but we’ll do everything we can to help him catch up. Was there anything his last teacher found to be effective for him?”

Archer’s mother shakes her head. “He’s never had a teacher. I’ve never sent him to school before.”

“Oh, were you home-schooling?”

“No. For the last three years, we’ve moved a lot. Archer’s dad was very abusive—to both of us. I’ve been hiding Archer.

As she continues to share some details, my heart feels heavy, and my chin quivers as I hold back tears for their challenges. She’s had to make some difficult decisions. My own father was a huge part of my life and security. Archer doesn’t have that right now. What can I do to make this better for this family?

“I thought if I sent him to school, his dad would find us, and I needed to keep us safe. But he’s gone now, active duty to Afghanistan. We’ll be okay for at least a year.”

She’s everything for Archer, now. I didn’t really understand the concept of
in Loco Parentis
in my Ethic of Education class. They were just words. I learned the definition—to stand in the place of the parent—and probably got it correct on a test, but right now, I really understand what it is and why it’s so important. When she enrolled Archer in my class, she asked me to act on her behalf—to teach her son, to give him a secure environment and improve their lives. Not to take her place, but to do for him what she would do if she could. It’s a sacred trust. She is giving me her most precious possession and the trust to serve him and her. I’m overwhelmed with the new insight I have of the work I am being asked to do. She, and every other parent in my class, is asking me to stand for them.

I push a tear from my cheek, and I explain to her what we’re doing in class and about the special tutoring Archer will receive from a volunteer, as well as mini-lessons from me each day. As we wrap up our conversation, I walk her to the door and give her a hug. She taught me today. Liam is leaning on the wall across from my door and follows me back into my room. “Hey.” His fingers clasp mine. “Could I give you a ride home?”

“I’d like that.”
Us-time.
This is exactly what I need. He’s not serious enough for this to be a relationship, and I shouldn’t be, but I really like being with him. I think I could like serious—with him, anyway. I ignore the pile of papers on my table and grab my purse and jacket.

Not even a date, and he opens my door for me. As we pull into my driveway, he asks, “There’s a football game on Saturday. Would you like to go with me?

Anywhere. “Sounds fun. What time?” For as long as you want.

“We can do dinner first. Can I pick you up at five thirty? That will give us plenty of time to drive to Denver.”

“Five thirty’s great. I reach over and hold his hand as he drives me home—still feeling a little tender from my meeting with Archer’s mom.

I walk to work again on Friday, but leave my door locked and shut the door behind me when I enter my classroom. I dial the towing company, but they refer me to my bank. When I dial the bank, I’m given my loan officer’s direct number. He answers, “Hello. May I help you?”

“Yes. I have a question about my car loan. My account number is 70329-011, and my name is Sophia Kanakaredes.”

After a pause, he returns to the line. “What can I do for you? He sounds cheerful and helpful. I’m sure he’ll be able to get this sorted out.

“I’d like to get my car back.”

“I can help you with that. Give me just a minute to add it up.” I wait. How long could it take to add up one missing payment? “The charges will be $1056.68 for the two payments, $150 for late fees, $125 for towing, $50 car storage if you pick it up today, and $350 for legal fees. $1741.56 is the total.”

“But I was only two days late!”
What are you trying to pull?
“One payment, two days.”

“I’m sorry, but our records show that the last payment we received from you was in August. Because the loan is new and you had only made two payments before you missed two payments, your loan is high risk. If you think this is an error, please bring your cancelled checks or receipts into our branch within ten days and we’ll make a correction on the account.”

“And remove the fees? And return my car?”

“We will make all the needed adjustments. Have a good day.”

That evening, I print out my bank statement. When I have proof, I’ll call back, and he will eat his words. And apologize. And give me my car back.

I look over my check register, and my bank statement, and my register again, and my statement again. How did I miss the payment, twice?

No car payment.

No car.