Page 3 of The Headmaster’s Rule

With a satisfied sigh, I open my color-coded planner and check the lesson plan for our first day. Nothing too serious, mostly ice-breaker games and get-to-know-each-other activities to create a sense of camaraderie. The learning will come when the students feel connected and settled.

There’s a flutter in my stomach as I glance at the clock, grabbing a dry-erase marker to write the date in the top corner of the board. It squeaks on the board, but no ink comes out. I shake it and try again, then remember I brought my own. Pulling the rainbow set from my tote, I write the date and Miss Hart on the board in big, bold letters, adding a few flourishes. I’m considering whether to add another heart when a knock at the door startles me, and I stuff the pens away with heat in my cheeks, as if caught doing something I shouldn’t.

“Hi.” A pretty young woman pokes her head in. She’s a year or two younger than me, maybe twenty-five, with blond highlighted hair that falls in silky sheets over her shoulders. “It’s Eleanor, right?”

I smile tentatively, nerves flaring. Was I humming too loudly? Did I park in the wrong spot? Have I overdone the decorations?

“Uh, call me Nora. Hi. I don’t think we’ve met?”

She pushes the door open fully, grinning. “We haven’t. I’m Juliana. Danny told me you were new, so I thought I’d pop down and say hello.”

“Danny?” I echo.

“Danny Fells. The assistant head?”

“Oh. Right.” Danny. Come to think of it, he did ask me to call him that in our interview, but it felt too informal.

“I’m teaching English Lit on the second floor,” Juliana adds, and her friendliness helps settle my nerves.

“Nice to meet you.” I motion to the room—the sunflower garland I’ve strung above the door, the quote of the day pinned inside a bright leaf border on the front wall, the mini obstacle course I set up as a morning activity—and cringe. “Third grade.”

“Welcome to Wetherly, Nora.” Juliana’s gaze wanders around my classroom. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

I hesitate, unsure if she’s being sincere or sarcastic. “Thanks.”

“Are you ready?” She gestures over her shoulder, and I falter.

“Ready?”

“We have a faculty meeting on the top floor in five.”

Shit. The faculty meeting. I almost forgot.

“Yes, of course. I’m ready,” I reply, expecting her to roll her eyes or laugh about my forgetfulness, but she smiles kindly. I snatch up my notebook and slip my phone into my dress pocket, following Juliana into the corridor, relieved for the reminder. We take the main staircase, polished marble with a thick oak banister, framed black and white photos dotting the wall, highlighting the history of the school.

“Are you new to the area?” Juliana asks. She moves with a natural grace and ease, and my guess is she’s worked here for a few years already.

“I am,” I say, clutching my notebook to my chest like a life preserver. “Moved from the city during the summer.”

“Me too,” she says, which surprises me. I sneak a glance at her as she strides confidently up the stairs, as if she’s done this a hundred times. She’s dressed in crisp black dress pants and an ivory silk blouse, a delicate gold chain around her neck, complemented by the tennis bracelet on her wrist. Everything about her says poised and perfectly put together. She belongs at an elite prep school like this.

I smooth a hand over my red and white polka-dot dress, feeling out of place. I chose a turquoise-blue cardigan, sunny yellow flats, and barrette with a large sunflower to pin my tawny-brown shoulder-length hair back, and I cringe as I think about the cherry-shaped earrings dangling from my lobes, wondering what on earth I was thinking.

Actually, I know what I was thinking. That I love this dress, and these earrings always make me smile. That eight-year-olds want someone who feels warm and fun as their teacher, and that they are what matters most.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous to meet the other faculty members. Juliana seems nice enough, but what about the rest? I try to recall how Mr. Fells described the faculty during our interview. Friendly, I think he said. Locals who care about the school’s legacy. When I asked about the headmaster, Mr. Fells chuckled and said, You’ll get used to him.

I wonder what that means.

“I hope the headmaster is nice,” I say, when there’s an awkward lull in the conversation.

Juliana snorts a laugh. “I’m probably not the right person to ask.”

I glance at her curiously, but she steps ahead as we reach the top floor. We turn into the administrative wing, and I instinctively straighten my spine, as if I’m a student who’s been called to the headmaster’s office. It’s different up here, quieter, even with several faculty ahead of us filing into the conference room. The ceilings are higher, the air stuffier, and I take a deep breath as I follow Juliana into the wood-paneled room. She settles in at the long oval table, and I join her, squinting under the glare of fluorescent lights. The faint scent of lemon furniture polish lingers in the air, and I glance around at the teachers already here, catching up after the summer break over tepid coffee.

“Morning, everyone,” a friendly male voice calls from the front of the room.

I turn to see Mr. Fells cast his warm smile across the small crowd. Around forty, close to six feet with an athletic build and close-cropped hair, he was welcoming and friendly from the moment we met. If the rest of the faculty are anything like him, I’m going to like it here.