I waffle between a heart or emoji or not, and before I can delete it, I add one and hit send.
He immediately hearts my text then changes it to an exclamation point, then lands on a thumbs up. It seems he’s trying out all the emoji reactions tonight. Then a bubble with three dots appears.
Tyler
I’d do anything for you three, Jo. Sweet dreams.
Despite my best efforts at keeping Tyler at arm’s length, my lips curl up in a grin.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Planning Period
Ms. Thomas,
Please come to my office during your planning period. I’d like to discuss your after-school program.
Thanks,
Principal Stanback
I don’t care who you are—adult, teen, or child—nobody, and I mean nobody, likes being called to the principal’s office. You can be ten years old, expecting your grandmother to check you out for your dental appointment, but when you’re called to the office you still get a sinking sensation in case you’re in trouble. That’s exactly how I feel looking at this email. And it’s the start of my planning period, so there isn’t even time to mentally prepare myself for this.
What about my after-school program could he possibly want to talk about? It’s been running like a well-oiled machine with the help of the counselor, Angie. She refers students, they showup, I see progress. We’ve both seen amazing growth in the kids I work with. A tenth grade boy came to me with anger management issues last year. With some inner mind work with oil pastels, a bit of nature journaling, and biweekly therapy, he slowly began to recognize his triggers and self-regulate. My colleagues all noticed the difference, thanking Angie and me for our hard work.
I slip my paint-splattered smock over my head, place all the water cups on the drying mat, and power walk to the principal’s office, tail between my legs. Might as well get this over with.
When I push through the door to the office, the secretary doesn’t even look up. Mrs. Archer is so old she was the secretary way back when I was in school here. She’s also deaf as a fence post.
“Mrs. Archer!” I call, raising my voice for her to hear me. Still nothing. “Mrs. Archer!” I call louder this time, waving my hands in the air.
Finally, she looks up, and I point a finger toward the principal’s office. She smiles and nods, and I walk down the short hallway where the counselor and principal’s offices are. Angie is out today, so there’s no one to overhear our conversation. Mrs. Archer certainly won’t. My stomach sinks in dread.
Coach Stanback—Principal, I mentally correct myself—originally grew up here, and about five years ago moved back to be our athletic director. I knew he’d been working on his Administrative Degree, but when the previous principal retired last year, I was still surprised he was hired for the position. Degree or no degree, in my not-so-humble opinion, he’s not principal material. He was a great coach and he’s still mostly concerned about athletics. Coaching is where he should have stayed.
Also, when he was in athletics, our paths rarely crossed, which is how I like to keep it. Before he was principal, coach, or even a grown man, he was Ian, one of my many high school boyfriends. We enjoyed plenty of weekends in the back of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, but it had a swift and messy ending whenI overheard him telling his buddies he didn’t really like me, he just felt sorry for me.
Rather than confronting him, he received the full wrath of my silent treatment. The next day, I showed up to school armed with two cans of sardines and the knowledge that he never locked his Jeep doors. I put both cans under the hatch where the spare tire was kept, and watched his face every afternoon as raw sardines baked in the parking lot, stinking up his car. He did eventually find them, but I never knew if he suspected me. Given I avoided him at all costs from then on, he probably did.
Upon moving back to Singing River and becoming my co-worker, he got wind I was divorced. This news prompts him to periodically ask me out, to which I always politely decline. We may have been young when he wronged me, but in his case, once a jackass, always a jackass. Plus, he’s a terrible conversationalist only ever wanting to talk about himself.
Trying to appear unruffled, I take a bracing breath, smooth a hand through my hair and hold my head high. His office door stands open when I approach, and he looks up, motioning me in.
“Josie, close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”
I grit my teeth. “Actually, I do mind. I’ll leave it open,” I reply, entering further to take the seat across from his desk.
He shrugs, like he’s sayingsuit yourself, and stands rounding his desk to lean his weight on the edge, much closer than I’d like. My chair is positioned so my knees nearly brush his, and though it makes me uncomfortable, I refuse to move them even a millimeter, lest he realize he has the power to make me uneasy.
“What’s this about, Ian?” I ask patiently.
He exhales sharply from his nose. “Josie, I won’t beat around the bush. Funding is tight. The board asked for suggestions for programs to cut, and I suggested they cut your ArtStrong program. They’ll be voting on this at the next school board meeting after the new year.”
Panic accompanies my developing anger, the world around me ceasing to exist, only his words echoing in my mind. CuttingArtStrong? I’ve worked tirelessly, building something special with those kids. And I’ve watched each and every one of them make incredible progress, dang it!
“Hasn’t Angie been sending the reports for each student? The data is there to back up the quality of my program, Ian.”
