1
Thea
The website I checked out last night said that a yellow cardigan gives off cozy vibes, while my navy-blue dress screams professional. I studied it super seriously because I wanted to get the psychology right. I wanted to walk here today and have every student, every parent, every co-teacher look at me and think:Wow, she really knows what she’s doing.
But now, as I walk into the halls of Hillcrest Primary School, I’m not so convinced anymore.
I bet veteran teachers don’t agonize over first impressions. They don’t start questioning their outfit halfway to class. But I’m fresh out of college, and this is my first paid teaching job. I packed up and moved to this small mountain town, which I only knew existed because of Google Maps and this job listing.
I peel the cardigan off before I even reach the classroom door and drape it over one arm. For a town perched this high in the mountains, I expected cool mornings. Maybe a nice breeze to blow my hair at just the right time. Or that crisp mountain air everyone keeps talking about.
This is anything but crisp.
This heat is brutal, and it reminds me why I hate baking when it’s hot outside. This dry and aggressive blast that wilts you before you can even pull the tray out. Sweat is already gathering in my armpits. So much for my brilliant first impression.
“Good morning, class,” I announce, stepping into the room with windows almost as big as the doorway. They’re letting in every bit of the morning’s dry heat.
Sixteen little faces stare at me, but I’m not looking at them. I’m turning my head left and right, searching for any sign of relief. And… just my luck. There’s no AC.
“My name is Miss Walsh, and I’ll be your new teacher.”
“Where’s Mrs. Leyton?” A boy in the front raises a hand.
“She’s home with her new baby,” I say. “She’ll be home with him for a while, so I’ll be your new teacher until the end of the school year.” I smooth the front of my dress. Two months. I’m here for two months to cover an emergency maternity position. Not exactly the career break I was hoping for, but a job is a job. “I’m excited to be here with you.”
“You don’t look like a teacher.” A girl in the third row with pigtails scrunches her nose at me.
“What are teachers supposed to look like?” I keep my smile steady. All that effort practicing in the mirror…
“Old,” she says matter-of-factly, and a few kids laugh.
She thinks teachers are old? But the previous teacher is on maternity leave, not on retirement. Maybe not exactly twenty-two like me, but still, she can’t be that old. But… do I really look that young? That’s worrying. What if the principal thinks the same thing?
Okay, deep breaths. You are qualified. You have a teaching degree.
“Okay, okay, settle down class,” I say, reaching for the stack of blank cardstock I prepared last night. “Today, we’re making name tags. I want each of you to write your name and draw something.” I hold up a blank label for emphasis. “I’ll make one too, and we can all introduce ourselves properly once we’re done.”
The cheerful buzz starts almost immediately as they pass around the cardstock. I let out a low breath. This is fine. I can handle this. I grab a folder from my desk and fan myself.
Surveying my Grade 2 students, I notice a girl at the back. While the rest of the class chatters, she sits in the very back row. Still. Her dark hair is braided. That part is ordinary. Her posture is not, though. Her shoulders draw in, and her hands fold on the desk, an obvious attempt to occupy the smallest possible space.
This isn’t shyness.
This is the default posture of a child who learned early that staying small is the safest option.
I know that feeling. When I was young, I worked hard not to draw unnecessary attention to myself. My reasons may be different from hers, but the way her fingers pinch together is like looking at my younger self.
Suddenly, all my petty irritations about the heat and my outfit evaporate.
I move toward her desk cooly, as though I’m checking everyone else.
She picks up a marker, but her hand hovers over the blank label without making contact. When I reach her desk, I crouch slightly.
“Need some help getting started?” I keep my voice low, which is difficult when I’m already anxious.
Her shoulders jerk once. Her eyes meet mine for barely a second before flickering away.
“I’m Miss Walsh,” I say. I keep my voice level, even as my heart is already palpitating. Of all the things to walk into on a first day, please, please don’t let this be what I think it is. “What’s your name?”
