Then she marched down the hall without another word, her English Department colleague at her shoulder.
Terrifying, Ms. Wick had called Ms. Albright.
Mary Shelley had writtenFrankenstein, a story of horror and violence and transgression. And the author would be pleased about what happened to Mrs. Krackel? What precisely had Ms. Albright thought Mildreddeserved?
The halls of the school seemed to empty with astonishing quickness that evening, and by the time he’d stopped by his room to gather his briefcase and journeyed to the opposite end of the school, where Ms. Wick’s classroom was located, shadows were amassing in the corners. His footsteps echoed in an unsettling way as he strode down halls he’d rarely visited.
His pace quickened as he neared her door. It was getting late, and he didn’t intend to spend longer with his mentee than absolutely necessary.
She was sitting at her desk, her high forehead crinkled as she typed on her laptop. Another man, one less intent on the business at hand, one interested in such matters, might have called that evidence of her concentrationendearing.
Her shades were closed against the gathering dusk outside, and the overhead fluorescent lights didn’t entirely banish the gloom. To his surprise, however, the expansive room, stuffed with work tables and cabinets, was neater than Ms. Wick herself upon first glance.
He’d have time to inspect her classroom organization later. His first priority: making the rules and expectations regarding their relationship—their mentor-mentee relationship, that is—clear.
When he knocked on her doorframe, she looked up from her laptop placidly, with no sign of startlement.
Even as he approached her desk, he began instructing her. “Per Principal Dunn’s request, I will observe your seventh period class for five consecutive days, beginning this upcoming Monday. Since seventh period is one of my planning periods, I will stay the entire length of the class. As I observe, I will evaluate your performance based on criteria outlined in the memo you should have received via e-mail about the mentorship program last month. If you need another copy, I can forward one to you.”
“I don’t need one.” Her lips quivering, she shook her head. “Shockingly, I managed to keep track of the memo.”
Ignoring her impertinent choice of adverb, he continued. “After class, assuming you don’t have to leave for any necessary meetings, I will share my observations with you, and at the end of the week, I will write my initial evaluation, which, once approved by Principal Dunn, will be sent to you. After next week, we will meet monthly to discuss your progress or lack thereof. Other observations may occur, based on necessity. Any questions?”
If he’d expected her to be cowed by his blunt speech, intimidated into silence by the prospect of his judgment, he would have been disappointed. If anything, those hazel eyes of hers had brightened further, alight with…challenge? Amusement?
“Of course I have questions.” She propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her entwined, paint-flecked fingers. “How long have you been teaching, Mr. Burnham?”
His frown pinched his brows. “Twenty years last fall. How is that relevant? Are you concerned I have insufficient expertise in pedagogy to serve as your mentor?”
“No,” she said, one of her little buns now sagging only half an inch above her left ear. “I was merely curious.”
To return her question in kind would not indicate curiosity of his own, but instead provide necessary context for his mentoring efforts. Professionalism demanded more information, and he was always, always a consummate professional.
“And yourself, Ms. Wick? How many years have you been a teacher?”
“Twenty-four.” Her gaze remained solely on him, and he found himself shifting beneath its keen sharpness. “Before this, I taught near D.C., but I wanted to move closer to my parents. I’m an only child, and their health is getting more precarious by the year.”
Fortunately, she’d answered the question he wouldn’t have allowed himself to ask:Why did you change schools?
“Any other concerns or queries?” If not, he intended to perform a preliminary inspection of her room and evaluate her organizational system and abilities.
“Oh, countless. But we have plenty of time for those.” She smiled at him, very slowly. One might almost have called the expressionsmug. “That said, I should probably warn you about the unit we’re starting next week.”
He merely looked at her, waiting for whatever had prompted that mischievous curve of her pink, pink mouth.
Her explanation didn’t provide any clarity. “We’re tackling three-dimensional representation of objects and scenes and discussing the intersection of art and public service.”
That all sounded completely, laudably appropriate and professional to him. So why—
“Specifically,” she continued, “we’re studying Frances Glessner Lee’s mid-century efforts to advance forensic science through her Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death. Then the students will create their own educational dioramas, upon topics of their choosing.”
Unexplained death?What the hell?
She waved a casual hand. “And, of course, I’ll bring in an example of my own work as further inspiration.”
He blinked at her, still stuck on theunexplained deathbit. “Your…own work?”
“During summers and in my spare time, I create and sell my own dioramas.” Her smile was no longer merely smug. It was now a wide, gleaming, toothy taunt. “If I didn’t enjoy teaching so much, I might consider doing my dioramas full-time, since I’ve amassed an appreciative audience for my work.”
