Nothing in her adult life, other than her few close female friendships, had ever felt like that. Like a cloak settling on her shoulders, light and warm andhers.
Nothing. Not her wedding ring. Not her lavish home. Not her disorienting wealth. Not the man who’d bestowed the ring and the home and the wealth upon her, and then taken them all back.
That full-to-the-brim feeling, repeated each year, had helped sustain her over the last decade of teaching, despite long hours and piles of essays and staff turnover and administrative vagaries and the not-inconsiderable fury Dale evoked in her.
And now he was taking that feeling away.
After this year, a hundred AP U.S. History kids would dwindle to thirty or forty “traditional AP students” once more. Disproportionately wealthy, given the school population. Disproportionately white, too.
Her pulse pounded in her head in a violentthump-thump-thump, and her thoughts raced and scattered like sophomores after the last bell.
Deep breath. “If my enrollment drops substantially, I may not be given the resources I need to teach even a handful of AP kids. You know the superintendent is looking to cut costs.”
Keisha didn’t argue. “Unfortunately, I have more unwelcome news. As another enticement for Mr. Krause to stay, Dale wanted to give him your classroom, since you’ve had one the longest of anyone here. He said your becoming a floater might help”—she made air quotes—“shake up stale pedagogical practicesand lead to greater student success in the long run.”
The school didn’t contain enough oxygen for the number of deep breaths Rose needed to take. Neither did the entirety of the Earth’s atmosphere.
Fortunately for the universe’s oxygen supply, Keisha immediately added, “But that’s not happening. I told Dale giving the new teacher your room would cause chaos within our ranks. Classrooms have to be allotted by seniority within our department, period. Otherwise, I’d spend all year fielding requests and complaints.”
Thank god for Keisha Williams, rightful queen of the department chairs.
“So our new teacher will be a floater, as usual.” After another rub of her face, Keisha put on her glasses again. “But Dale wants to minimize the number of places Mr. Krause has to go, so he’ll be teaching in your room during both of your planning periods.”
Bothof them? She’d have zero quiet, private time in her classroom during the school day? For an entire school year, and possibly longer?
Her face, frozen in an expression of equanimity, felt as if it might shatter.
“If I could have convinced Dale to change his mind, I would have. I certainly tried.” Keisha’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “But he’d already given in on the issue of ceding your classroom entirely, so he couldn’t be swayed. I’m sorry, Ms. Owens. I know having your own space is…” She hesitated. “I know it’s very important to you. I wouldn’t take your classroom for both your planning periods if I had any other choice.”
Rose’s jaw made an odd popping sound. “I know. I appreciate it.” She attempted to marshal her thoughts. “Perhaps Mr. Krause could—”
“Excuse me.” A quiet knock sounded from the cracked door, matching a quiet male voice. “I apologize for interrupting, but I wanted to let you know I was here. A bit early, I’m afraid.”
After mouthing a silentI’m sorryto Rose, Keisha got to her feet. “Please come in, Mr. Krause.”
Rose did the same, watching as the door swung open.
And there stood the paragon. Martin, apparently. The man who’d inadvertently taken her Honors World History classes and—at least part of the time—her classroom.
For a paragon, he was awfully nondescript. Maybe mid-forties. White, with a slight tan. Lean frame. Brown hair sprinkled with a little gray. Watchful blue eyes. Standard button-down and striped tie above a pair of standard dark pants. Unremarkable features. Not ugly, not particularly handsome.
Hating such an unexceptional face might prove difficult, but she’d persevere.
Keisha looked between the two of them. “Mr. Krause, this is Ms. Owens, your colleague. You’ll be teaching in her classroom for two periods, and you’ll be working together on issues related to the AP program in our department.”
When he moved closer, Rose took a certain grim satisfaction in the realization that she stood taller than him, at least when wearing heels.
She was a forty-two-year-old professional, and she’d act like a forty-two-year-old professional. And forty-two-year-old professionals shook hands with new colleagues and offered help, no matter how violently frustration and fury hammered at their temples.
She extended her hand, and he took it.
“I’m Martin.” The handshake was brief, his hand dry and warm, his gaze direct. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Under his scrutiny, she struggled to remain as smooth and impervious as a polished diamond. “And I’m Rose. If you’d like, I can stay until after your meeting with Keisha and answer any questions you might have about our Honors World History curriculum and our AP program.”
Keisha answered for him, her smile rife with both relief and gratitude. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Ms. Owens.”
Martin echoed Keisha’s thanks in a low murmur.
