“Alright, lovers, I gotta go print some shit out before my next class. Try not to get her pregnant before fifth period,” Layla warns, pushing to her feet.
Nate chuckles. “No promises.”
She shoots him a playful look over her shoulder while my cheeks burn. I know Layla means well, but her comment adds something new to my already existing worry.
I push my rice away, no longer hungry.
My classroom is usually my safe place, but tonight, it’s something else entirely.
Parents are walking around the school, stopping into each of their kids’ classes. They listen in groups to my prepared speech about what we’re working on.
Some have questions or concerns, while others feign interest when they would obviously rather be elsewhere.
The first couple that stays for a one-on-one nod along as I talk about their son’s accomplishments, with proud smiles on their faces. They thank me, shake my hand, and move on.
That’s how it goes with most of the parents.
It’smostlyfine.
A mother with a sharp blonde bob slides into the chair across from me. “My daughter says you assign too much work,” she begins, her voice clipped. “She’s in advanced classes, you know. She can’t be expected to waste her timepainting.”
I nod, keeping my voice steady. “The assignments are part of the curriculum, ma’am. And this class is a requirement tograduate.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but I don’t give her a chance.
“But if she’s overwhelmed, we can always talk about accommodations.” I offer.
“She doesn’t needaccommodations,” she interrupts, looking like I’ve insulted her. I finish with something polite and useless as she stands and stalks off.
During a break, my phone vibrates on my desk multiple times.
Nate: Help.
Nate: Some lady’s asking if I want to come over for dinner to tutor her son.
Nate: I teach PE.
Nate: Send backup.
Nate: Or holy water.
Me: Poor baby. It must be so difficult being hot.
I tuck my phone away as the next parent enters my classroom.
The older man wearing a Rosehill Rams t-shirt immediately looks unhappy to be here, and trailing behind him is a kid I immediately recognize.
Jason Barnett, football player, homecoming king.
“Hello, I’m Ms. Patel.” I hold out a hand to shake, but the man doesn’t take it, his expression remaining hard.
“You the art teacher?” he asks, almost an accusation.
“Yes, sir.” I keep my voice calm even as my pulse jumps. “And you are?”
He jerks his chin toward Jason, slapping a hard hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m Jason’s dad. My boy’s the quarterback.”
There’s a hint of pride, but it’s edged.
