“I appreciate the offer,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it. “But I think I’ll just take the El.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Very.”
Reginald sighed. “Fair enough.” He inclined his head towards me and made his way to the door. “If you do hear from Freddie, could you let him know his old pal is worried? I’m going to try and do some reconnaissance in the meantime to figure out what’s going on.”
I couldn’t imagine what he meant by do some reconnaissance. Probably better that way. “I will,” I said. “I promise. And if you learn anything, could you let me know?”
Reginald regarded me, as though trying to make up his mind about something. Eventually, he seemed to come to a decision and smiled at me.
“I will,” he said.
* * *
The pictures on Harmony Academy’s website didn’t do the campus justice. It was big and beautiful, located on several wooded acres of real estate just a mile west of Lake Michigan. There was a small, half-frozen pond in the center of campus, with a paved path around it that suggested people liked walking the grounds here when the weather wasn’t quite this November-y.
I decided to wear my only pair of heels for this interview. Fortunately, they mostly matched my suit if you squinted and the light wasn’t too good. But I regretted this decision the second I walked under the archway that led into the administration building. They clicked loudly against the marble tile floor as I made my way towards the Head of School’s office for my eleven o’clock interview, echoing loudly inside the high-vaulted atrium.
The only other noise that registered was the beating of my heart, pounding in my ears like a drum. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this nervous. I thought back to my own serviceable, but generic, high school. There had been no marble entryways or art teachers who focused on found art back at Carbonway High.
I was as convinced as ever that any second now someone would appear in front of me and tell me they’d made a mistake inviting me here.
“Good morning.” The receptionist was about my mother’s age, dressed in a muted green dress that made me think of a spring day in the country. The desk she worked behind was almost as large as the bedroom in my last apartment. “You must be Cassie Greenberg.”
I gripped my purse a little tighter, a bead of sweat forming at the back of my neck. “Yes.”
She motioned to a pair of plush chairs at one end of the room. “Have a seat while I see if they’re ready for you. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“Water, please.” I was already nervous. Adding caffeine to the mix would be disastrous. “Thank you.”
Beside the chairs was a stack of glossy-looking brochures with smiling students in matching green uniforms on the cover. As I waited for the receptionist to return, I leafed through one of them, trying to absorb some of what I was seeing and willing my hands to stop shaking.
I pulled out my phone and reread the texts Sam had sent me this morning.
Good luck!!
You’ve got this.
He’d spent an hour with me last night going over possible interview questions and how I might answer them. He’d told me I hit every answer out of the park and that I was as prepared for this interview as I’d ever be. I only wished I could believe him.
“They’re ready for you, Miss Greenberg.” I looked up at the receptionist, who handed me a tall glass of water. “Will you follow me?”
I took the glass from her, gripping my purse strap with my free hand so hard my knuckles hurt.
The room the receptionist brought me to was small and much more casually decorated than anything I’d seen so far this morning. There was nothing on any of the walls other than a framed oil painting of a vase of sunflowers and a large window overlooking the grassy meadow behind the school.
“Have a seat.” A woman I recognized from my internet research as Cressida Marks, Head of School, sat smiling at one end of a small, rectangular table. Two other people I didn’t recognize were sitting beside her. One of them looked about my age, with flaming pink hair.
For reasons I couldn’t quite put into words, seeing that pink hair in a place that otherwise seemed so conventional and austere put me a little more at ease.
I sat in the chair across from them and placed my glass of water on the table.
I let out a slow breath.
I could do this.
“Welcome, Cassie,” the head of school said. And then, turning to the other people at the table, “Let’s start by introducing ourselves.”
“I’m Jeff Castor,” said the guy to Cressida’s left. He looked about fifty and had on a plaid bow tie with a rumpled white button-down. The absentminded professor vibes he gave off were immaculate. “I’m the vice principal for Harmony’s Upper School.”
“And I’m Bethany Powers,” said the pink-haired woman. “I’m the head of the arts program for the Lower and Upper Schools.”
“It’s great to meet you,” I said.
“You as well,” Bethany said. “So. Tell us a little about why you want to work as an art teacher.” She was riffling through a file full of printouts of the pictures I’d sent with my application. My beach landscapes from Saugatuck. The piece I submitted to the River North Gallery art exhibition. “It’s clear from your portfolio that you have a very specific vision, and that you are committed to a career in the arts. Why kids, though? That’s the piece we’re missing.”
It was a tough question, but a fair one. My résumé was long, but my experience with kids was mostly limited to art nights in the library. If I’d been asked to interview a new art teacher, and someone walked in the door with my credentials, I’d ask the exact same thing.
Fortunately, I was ready for this.
“I work at a library right now,” I began. “On Tuesday nights we have an art night, where parents drop off their kids and we spend two hours making things with them.” I paused, thinking back on the last art event we’d hosted. “I’ve found it incredibly rewarding to help kids who might not otherwise have exposure to artistic forms of expression realize their visions through paint and modeling clay.”
Bethany and Jeff each jotted down a few notes. Cressida Marks leaned forward a little over the table, hands clasped together in front of her. “Why haven’t you thought of teaching art before?”
I considered that. When I’d practiced interview questions with Sam last night, we’d agreed this one would likely come up. The answer we agreed I’d give, though—that I’d just been waiting for the right teaching opportunity to come along, that Harmony Academy was the first school I thought might be a good fit—didn’t feel right, now that I was here.