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“Natasha,” McKenzie said. “Don’t you have something to say to Ms. Ellis?”
The teen narrowed her eyes at Jo and remained silent.
“Natasha,” he prompted again.
Natasha’s lip curled as she locked eyes with Jo. The sheer hatred in the girl’s gaze made Jo shudder. “Sorry you got your lip busted. Next time, stay out of my way.”
McKenzie’s chest lifted on a sharp inhale. “Natash—”
“She ought to be fired.” The blonde in the doorway—Natasha’s mother, Jo presumed—stabbed a finger in the air, aimed toward Jo. “She had no right to put her hands on my child. Had no idea what that other girl said about her. From now on, I expect this woman to report to me every day on Natasha’s progress—academically and otherwise. And if Natasha sees fit to take care of gossip again herself, that woman had better not interfere.”
“If an incident occurs in Ms. Ellis’s classroom, Mrs. Bennett,” McKenzie said tightly, “Ms. Ellis has no choice but to address it, just as she did in this instance. And district leadership has also decided to leave it up to Ms. Ellis as to whether charges will be filed against Natasha for striking her in the face.” He leveled a look at Jo. “Though I’m sure that’s not what Ms. Ellis wants. She, like district leadership, cares deeply for all students, and I don’t think she’d want one unpleasant mistake to mar a student’s permanent record.” He paused, holding Jo’s gaze, then asked, “Do you, Ms. Ellis?”
Jo lifted her bloody chin. “Or the school’s record?”
He blinked, then stared back at her. “Excuse me?”
“You mean, you don’t want to mar the school’s record either.”
He didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. McKenzie had a family to support. Everything he did was in support of his efforts to boost Stone Hill High’s public image and ensure he kept his position—a position that paid triple the salary of the average classroom teacher who worked tirelessly in the trenches.
This was McKenzie’s first year serving as a high school principal. Prior to his current position, he’d taught U.S. History and coached football for a few years before being promoted. McKenzie was a good guy, but an inexperienced and ill-prepared leader, which, over the years, had become the rule rather than the exception in public education as more and more experienced educators left the profession.
Jo looked at Natasha again, her eyes searching the younger girl’s face as a residual trickle of sympathy moved through her. She’d noticed Natasha on the first day of class seven weeks ago, the girl’s stony expression and disdainful gaze having caught her attention, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
Natasha, like so many other students at Stone Hill High, was hurting—that had been easy to detect. No teenager her age became so hardened, angry, and cynical without external influence of some kind. But despite repeated—and exhaustive—attempts, Jo had failed to reach her. And even now, Jo, lip split and dignity stripped, still found herself wanting to reach out, to strive to make a connection of some kind. To prove to Natasha that someone did, in fact, care.
“Natasha,” Jo said. “Hurting someone else won’t solve your problems, and the only reason I teach—have ever taught—is to educate, protect, and support students like you in a healthy way. If you need help, I want to help y—”
“I’m not listening to this, bitch.” Natasha spun around, pushed past her mother, and stalked out of the office. “Let her press charges. I don’t give a damn.”
Natasha’s mother shot Jo one more hard glare, then left, too, following her daughter down the corridor.
Jo stood silently for a few moments, her breaths coming in tandem with the painful throb in her bottom lip. Her mouth had begun to swell and the adrenaline that had shot through her veins for hours had subsided. She felt heavy suddenly, as though her limbs were made of dense concrete.
“I won’t file charges.” She removed her classroom keys, which were attached to a lanyard, from her neck, then lifted the lanyard over her head. “And I won’t be back.”
McKenzie’s mouth opened, then closed, soundlessly, as she handed him the lanyard and keys as well as the unused tissue he’d given her earlier. He stared down at them then lifted his head, a stern gleam in his eyes. “You signed a contract, Ms. Ellis, and we’re not even two months into the current school year. If you leave now rather than honoring your obligations for the full year, I’ll be obligated to report you to the Professional Standards Board for neglecting your duties. Your teaching certificate will be suspended or, possibly, revoked. And there’s a financial penalty for breach of contract.”
Jo shrugged. What did it matter? She’d been broke for ten years. First, she’d struggled to pay her way through four years of college to earn a teaching degree, and for the past six years, her teaching salary had been barely enough to pay for her tiny, one-bedroom apartment and buy groceries, which left her with nothing left over to save. So, what was one less paycheck anyway?
She headed for the door. “I’ll mail a check to you to cover my financial obligation for breach of contract. Do whatever you have to do as far as my teaching certificate. I won’t need it again anyway.”
“Ms. Ellis.” His voice changed, the stern bravado fading, a desperate tone taking its place. “You’ve done an exceptional job in the classroom for six years. You’re appreciated and we need you—especially now that we’re understaffed. Please don’t give up now. We’ll sit down and talk. Explore your ideas and find a compromise.”
Hmm. If only he’d said that years ago . . . and if only he meant it now.
“Please don’t go,” he said.
Jo kept walking, shocked by the depth of her apathy. “I’m already gone.”
The sun hit her hard when she stepped outside the building, her eyes squinting, her injured mouth tightening painfully against its warm rays. She forced her legs to keep moving until she reached her car, then got in, cranked the engine, and drove away, refusing to allow herself to look back.
She’d sacrificed so much for a thankless job—including precious time she should’ve spent with Earl, helping to ease his burden at Lone Oaks Crossing—serving gate duty at athletic events, staying hours after school to tutor struggling students and conduct parent conferences, grading lesson plans at night, writing lesson plans on weekends and holidays, holding down a second job and attending professional learning sessions during the summer break. Years of time she could never recover.
Teaching had been a mistake. One she’d rectify, starting now.
Jo drove on, past the apartment complex that housed her meager belongings, through the bustling city limits of Stone Hill and into the rural landscape that lay on the outskirts of the small Kentucky town, her hands and foot sending the car in the familiar direction of her childhood home.
