Enough. Time to peel away the prickly outer layers and get to the heart of this particular artichoke. “How does Dale plan to retain him? And what does it have to do with me?”
Very little, one hoped.
“Mr. Krause will teach AP World History, of course. But Dale didn’t want to give him the rest of Betty’s schedule. He thought three periods of Regular World History would scare Mr. Krause away.” The creases across Keisha’s forehead reappeared. “So Dale gave him your Honors World History classes.”
At last, there was the choke. Inedible, a fuzzy, breath-stealing lump in her throat.
And like an artichoke, her anger and despair contained layers. “Teaching Regular World History wouldn’t scare away a good teacher. Some of the most committed, kindest students I’ve ever taught—”
Keisha held up her hand. “You know that. I know that. But you and I also know Dale doesn’t agree. As evidenced by the term he employs for those kids.”
DOA. Dumb on arrival.
The first time he’d used that phrase in Rose’s presence, she’d nearly imploded with rage.
Over her two decades of teaching, she’d been assigned every possible U.S. and world history prep. Regular classes, for kids whose interests or skills might not involve history—or who might not have the time or energy to enroll in harder, more work-intensive classes. Honors classes, for kids willing to cover history in more depth and with more demanding assignments. And finally, Advanced Placement classes, for kids interested in potential college credit—and kids curious or ambitious enough to handle frequent, time-consuming homework and assignments that would stretch their analytical and writing skills.
She might not have taught regular history in a while, but that didn’t mean she’d disliked that prep. Every single one of the history classes had worth. Meaning. Importance. As did every single one of the students in those classes.
Dale didn’t see that. He never would.
In a just world, he’d have found a profession that didn’t involve schools. A job that didn’t give him any authority over students or teachers.
The world wasn’t just, though. She’d understood that before she’d even understood whatjustmeant.
She measured each word. Mentally rehearsed until they emerged low and calm, not volcanic with emotion. “What will I be teaching, then?”
“You’ll keep your three AP U.S. History classes. The other two will be Regular U.S. History.” Keisha’s warm gaze offered sympathy that Rose couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept. “I realize you haven’t taught that prep in a while. I’m sorry.”
Rose didn’t give a shit about teaching a different prep. Losing her Honors World History kids, though...
That gutted her. For more reasons than Keisha would ever know.
With an effort, Rose relaxed her jaw. A long, slow inhalation brought her temper back under her command and her common sense within grasp.
School hadn’t started yet. She could fix this, if only she found the right argument. “How exactly does Dale expect me to keep our AP U.S. enrollment high if I don’t teach Honors World History?”
Keisha took off her glasses and rested them on the counter, then rubbed her hands over her face. “I mentioned that concern. Dale wasn’t in a mood to listen.”
Rose’s AP U.S. History numbers were going to tank next year. No doubt about it.
Kids who took AP World History in tenth grade were going to take AP U.S. History as juniors, assuming the new teacher didn’t traumatize them. But that was thirty-five or forty kids, max. They couldn’t fill three AP U.S. classes, the number she usually taught.
Her Honors World History students made up the difference.
The administration called most of them “untraditional AP students.” Which meant, as far as she could tell, that they came from the same sorts of trailer parks and dilapidated apartment complexes she’d inhabited as a child.
Those kids had never taken an AP course. Had no intention of taking one. But they were motivated enough to enroll in an honors course. After a year in her class, the ones who respected and liked her also trusted her. Trusted her good intentions, her teaching ability, and her promise that she’d meet their efforts with her own.
They held their breath—knowing she would assign much more homework than they were accustomed to getting, knowing they’d have to juggle after-school jobs and responsibilities to their younger siblings, knowing they’d relinquish time spent asleep or with friends to complete assignments—and leapt.
And those tenth-grade Honors World History kids became eleventh-grade AP U.S. History kids. Lots of them. Her first few years, she’d had about forty students enroll in her AP classes. The year after she’d been assigned to teach Honors World History classes? Over a hundred kids had signed up for AP U.S. History.
She’d had to duck into the faculty restroom after seeing those class lists, spotting those familiar names, and realizing the trust her students had bestowed on her. The trust she’d earned.
Afterwards, the makeup repairs had been challenging, and her colleagues had probably seen the evidence of her tears.
For once, she hadn’t cared.
