Nyema’s eyes widen, and I know it’s a risky thing to say, but I feel the need to say it.
“I understand the importance of teaching them, but I also understand the importance of instilling interested reading habits into students. Some of those books come off as . . . stodgy, holier-than-thou, and frankly—boring.”
There’s a faint snort in the background, and I catch a hand scrawling across the clipboard.
“I see,” Nyema says. “What books would you say keep your interest?”
“Honestly?”
She nods.
“I love romance. I grew up reading it and it’s one of the reasons I love teaching Pride and Prejudice so much. With romance, I get lost in the story and tend to forget everything around me. Now, I’m not saying romance has the educational substance you’re looking for when it comes to teaching deep-rooted metaphors and symbolism, but it has offered me the chance to fall in love with reading. For someone else, it could be mystery, suspense, maybe a thriller, or even a fictional story loosely based on something true that happened in history. It doesn’t matter the genre, what matters is the escape. The appreciation for getting lost in words.”
Nyema smiles and is about to ask something when someone from behind her pipes up.
“So, if you seem to hate the classics so much—”
“I didn’t say hate,” I say quickly, the tone of the man’s voice instantly putting me on high alert.
“Excuse me while I finish my question, Miss Greer.”
Miss Greer.
The snap in his voice with those two words—it sends a shiver straight up my spine as I try to make out the faceless voice in the back.
“Pardon me,” I say, my leg starting to lightly bounce up and down.
“As I was saying, if you seem to dislike the classics so much, how do you intend to teach them? Because Forest Heights has educational expectations; as a teacher, you’re required to meet them.”
Oh God.
Nyema, completely unfazed by the deep-throated interruption from the back, sits and awaits my answer.
Swallowing hard, I say, “Great question. I would still touch upon all the required literature, but I’d teach it in a way that brings the words to life. I think it’s important to do more than just stand in front of a class and lecture.”
“Lecturing is an effective and proven way to teach, Miss Greer. Are you saying it’s not?”
“I’m saying it’s boring.” My heart dips, and I quickly search for the words to retract my answer, until I catch the slight smirk on Nyema’s face as she stares down at her paper. It’s a big enough smirk to give me the confidence to keep going. “Teachers who stand at the front of the class and demand excellence without doing the work are elitist and should possibly reevaluate their way of teaching. I plan on—”
“Are you calling me an elitist, Miss Greer?”
Dear Jesus, who is this man in the back?
“Um, are you . . . the lecturing type?”
“I am.”
I smile awkwardly and swallow. “Well . . . then I guess I am.”
Nyema interjects before I can say anymore. “I think I’ll take it from here.” Her eyes snap up to mine, and I can’t tell if she’s pleased, irritated, or horrified.
The smirk is gone.
The air in the room is tense.
And I’m pretty sure I just blew this interview.
“That’s Kelvin Thimble. He teaches geometry and dresses up every Friday as a character from Star Wars. Rumor has it he has a crush on Keiko.”
“Keiko Seymour?” I ask Stella as we’re huddled off to the side, glasses of champagne in hand.
Yes, champagne at faculty night.
Champagne at a backyard barbeque faculty night.
At least that’s what it was called when I received the email from Principal Nyema Dewitt.
Yeah . . . I got the job.
Shocking, right?
I couldn’t be more shocked myself, but Nyema said she thinks I’ll bring a fresh approach to the English department. She’s also excited about my coaching ability and immediately introduced me to Stella, the other volleyball coach. We’ve been hanging out for the past two weeks.
But back to the champagne backyard barbeque. According to Stella, the Friday before school starts, Forest Heights holds a party for the faculty where the newbies—like myself—can get to know everyone and where we can talk about our summer. When my Uber pulled up to the address on the invite, I wasn’t expecting to see to a lake house gated in by seven-foot-tall hedges.
But I did.
After I picked my jaw off the ground and made my way toward the white brick, Tudor-style house, I found Stella, who handed me a glass of champagne and led me to the backyard, where high-top tables were meticulously placed along the large stone patio. A pathway leads to the lower yard, which is covered in pristinely cut grass and at least a dozen lawn chairs that overlook Lake Michigan.
Let’s just say, Principal Dewitt is loaded.
“Yeah, Keiko Seymour. Is there another Keiko you know of?” Stella laughs.
“Guess not.” I glance around and say, “I thought this was supposed to be a backyard barbeque. This is more like an event thrown by the Great Gatsby himself. I mean . . . look, there’s a green light right there.”
“That’s Arlo Turner for you.”
“What?” I ask, facing Stella. “This isn’t Nyema’s house?”
Stella throws her head back and laughs. “How much do you think a principal gets paid?”
I shrug. “I don’t know . . . a lot?”
Stella shakes her head and leans in. “Houses along Lake Michigan are in the millions, Greer.”
“Okay, so who’s Arlo Turner?”
“Uh, he interviewed you for this job.”
“No, he didn’t.” I shake my head. “Nyema did.”
“Were their people sitting in the back of your interview?”
“Yesss . . .” I drag out.
She nods knowingly, a smile pulling up her lips. “Yeah, he was there, and this all makes sense. That’s why he wasn’t happy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Good Evening.” Keiko walks up to us, holding a cup of what I’m assuming is water from the clear liquid. She’s dressed in a modest green dress with red roses scattered haphazardly along her bodice. Her black hair is tied up into two pigtail knots with a few wisps framing the front of her lovely face. “I see that you’re partaking in adult effervescence during this professional sundown.” She sips her water. “Risk takers.”
“We didn’t sneak the drinks in, Keeks, they’re serving them,” Stella says.
“Maintaining a constant disposition while amongst colleagues would behoove you. Especially after last year . . .”
Okay, the interview thing could be put on hold for a second. Turning to Stella, I ask, “What happened last year?”
“Nothing. Had a few too many drinks,” Stella says, waving her hand in dismissal.
“On the contrary,” Keeks says, “she had precisely two IPAs indigenous to Chicago, three margaritas, one buttery nipple, and then schlepped her tongue over Brock “Romeo” Romero’s formidable abdomen, which was dappled in salt, right before consuming two tequila shots. She then proceeded to gyrate her exotic undergarments over her head while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. There’s a video of this exasperating occasion if you would like me to procure it for you.” Keiko adjusts her glasses and smiles.