Newbie (34 page)

“Sophie, I thought things had changed for us after we slept together in La Junta.” The look on his face is insolent. So that’s how he is trying to save face, by throwing me under the bus. Shock burns through me. Liam swivels quickly, and his fist connects with Kevin’s nose, knocking him into the door molding and setting off the door chime. “Glamorous” sings again as I walk away.

Liam pivots back to me without giving Kevin another glance and wraps his arm around my waist protectively, leading me out of Kevin’s lies. He opens the passenger door of the Porsche for me, gets in the driver’s seat, and we leave.

Again, Liam is quiet. My thoughts are churning with disgust, embarrassment, and rage. He’s so quiet. How do I just keep blowing it with Liam? “Thank you,” I say in a small voice. “Thank you for punching Kevin’s nose and picking me up.”

Liam pulls the car to the curb and gets out. Then he opens my door and reaches for me. I step into his arms without saying anything. Neither does he. It feels so good to be with him. “You’re welcome. Call me anytime.”

“There’s something about La Junta I haven’t told you.”

“Sophie, you don’t have to say anything. I know who you are. And now we both know who he is.”

“Well, technically . . .”

Liam’s expression is gentle and relaxed. I wonder if mine looks the same. I doubt it with the anxiety raging over keeping secrets about our trip to La Junta.

“Well, technically, there was only one sofa sleeper where we stayed.”

“Yes,” Liam replies, “but that wasn’t what he meant by his comment. And he wasn’t really speaking to you, either. He got my reply.”

March 29, 2008

Newbie Blog:

I’m a Teacher

It’s obvious to me I’ve made the right choice to remain a teacher and drop the real estate career, which, I guess, is my fallback now.

I’ve dropped by the office three times today and haven’t seen Mr. Chavez yet. Finally, I ask Mrs. Johnson and am told he is at a conference and will be back on Thursday. I decide to email him.

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Subject: Meet with you on Thursday?

April 1, 20083:32 PM

Hi Jonathan,

Mrs. Johnson said you would be back on Thursday. Can I meet with you? There are a few things I’d like to talk over with you.

Sophie

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Everything about this decision feels right. If I hadn’t lived in Colorado Springs, if I hadn’t been a real estate agent when the market crashed, if I hadn’t gone to the interview, my life would be so different. Everything works out for a reason, doesn’t it? You just put all your possibilities into the universe and good things happen.

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Subject: RE: Meet with you on Thursday?

April 2, 20087:47 AM

I will be back in my office on Thursday, but Mrs. Johnson has already scheduled my calendar very full. May I meet with you after school on Friday just before the end of contract time? Would 3:00 work?

JC

__________________________________

__________________________________

Subject: RE: RE: Meet with you on Thursday?

April 2, 20083:32 PM

Hi,

Sure. 3:00 on Friday is fine.

Thanks,

Sophie

__________________________________

Tuesday after school, Mrs. Hays joins me and Beth for planning time to go over the last-minute details for our field trip to the zoo tomorrow. Buses have been ordered to arrive at nine—check. Lunch ladies are making sack lunches—check. Enough parent volunteers have responded to have two to three students per group—check. (As long as Mrs. Gregg doesn’t ditch out again this time—check.) Teachers are not assigned a group—brilliant—check.

“Parent packets have been made?” Mrs. Hays queries, looking at me.

“Check,” I answer brightly.

“They have a map?”

“Check.”

“They have a schedule?”

“Check.”
Seriously?

“Field trip and bus rules?”

Really. Do you think I’m incompetent?
“Check.” I smile.

“Do you mind if we look them over?” she probes.

By “we” you mean “you.” And yes, in fact, I do mind.
Maybe smug is how she always looks—her face relaxes into smug. I pull a red manila envelope off the stack on my counter and hand it to Mrs. Hays. She pulls the papers from the envelope and peels each one off the top, scrutinizing them.

What—no spelling errors?
“I also included a thank-you letter to the parents for their help with the field trip and a gift card donated by the new ice cream place by the grocery store. They’ll give each volunteer a free dish of ice cream.”

“How thoughtful,” Beth says.

Without looking up, Mrs. Hays shoves the papers back into the envelope. “This looks in order,” she drones.

“Check,” I answer brightly.

Every student is on time today, and my class is swelling with excitement and laughter. All my students have been here for at least fifteen minutes and some for thirty.

Beth pokes her head in my door. “Excited much?”

“You think?”

“Mine too. Put your groups together and run over the bus rules. I’ll meet you out front by the flagpole. I’m getting the lunches loaded.”

“You can’t do that! Let me.” Beth is seven months along now. The baby seems to be sitting in front of her and not actually inside her. From the back you would never know she’s pregnant, but from the side it’s like an inflatable beach ball with an outie has been stuffed under her shirt.

“It’s okay, I’m just counting and supervising. Mr. Sam will be doing the lifting and carrying.”

Within half an hour, we’re seated on buses and bouncing over the roads toward the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

When we reach the zoo, we gather near the entrance. Mrs. Hays instructs the chaperones and students, “Lunch will be near the playground by Old Gnarly. Check your schedules and be on time. One of the teachers will be there all day if you need help. Remember to refill your water bottle often. Okay, have fun.”

The groups scatter, and I’m left standing with Beth and Mrs. Hays. The bus drivers have unloaded the wheeled ice chests and a power chair Beth’s husband insisted she use today. Good idea, since the trails in the zoo can be steep in places. Mrs. Hays and I pull the ice chests up the trail—definitely steep in places. By the time we reach the lunch spot, I’m surprised to see one of the groups from my class sitting on a bench, waiting for us.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as we approach.

Mrs. Neff, Dan’s mom, pulls me away a bit. “Mark threw up just after we got to the giraffes.”

The first exhibit?

“So we came right here. He seems okay now, but I wondered if he should sit for a while.”

Mark. Yes, he has a weak stomach and throws up easily, which I learned during my first observation. And again when someone at lunch spit their food out of their mouth. And again when a bathroom toilet flooded while he was washing his hands. Sounds like I can add motion sickness to the list, too. “Sure. If he’s feeling better after lunch, maybe he could join up with you again.” Then I turn to the students. “Mark, you can stay with us for a while. Would you help me with these lunches?”

After everything is set up, Mrs. Hays offers to take the first watch and stay at the playground. She turns to me and Beth and says, “Be back to help get things ready before lunch.” We assure her we will, and Mark joins us as we walk toward the Asian Highlands exhibits.

“Do you want to hear a joke?” Mark asks, then begins without waiting for my answer. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Hatch.”

“Hatch who?”

“Gazunheit.”

I laugh a bit. I think I’ve heard that one before, maybe in first grade. Mark launches into another one. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Dora.”

“Dora who?”

“The Dora’s locked, isn’t it?”

I give Mark a surprised look and laugh. These actually make sense, not like the usual first-grade knock-knock jokes: Knock, knock. Who’s there? Monkey. Monkey who? Monkeys are funny. I have a stuffed monkey on my bed at home.

See? No point, really.

We have spent most of the morning walking uphill and are finally walking down an incline toward Old Gnarly to set up lunch.

Soon Mark pops up with another joke. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Figs.”

“Figs who?”

“Figs your shoelace or you’ll trip.”

We meet with a group from Beth’s class and the chaperone hands a student to her. “I can’t keep her from wandering away. It’s nerve-racking.”

Oh, now I get it. We collect the misbehaving kids or those who need extra supervision. And this is why teachers are not assigned a group—check.

After eating their sack lunches the kids play on the playground, then the groups form up again and go to explore more exhibits.

“If it’s all right with you, I’m not feeling up to walking around. I’ll take the afternoon shift here again,” Mrs. Hays says.

The bus drivers eat lunch with us and offer to take the ice chests back with them, so Beth and I are free to visit the animals. We leave the playground area and I ask Beth, “So, this is a day off for Mrs. Hays?”

“Pretty much. Every year.” Epiphany number two: this is why Beth’s husband insisted on the power chair—check.

We head toward the monkey pavilion. We have also picked up one student from Mrs. Hays’ class. As we move from cage to cage, I notice that Mark looks green.

“Mark, do you need to sit down?”

He nods his head but runs for some bushes, and chucks his lunch. He pulls out his water bottle and rinses out his mouth. “It stinks here. Can we leave?”

“Yes. Would you like to stay at the playground? Did you feel okay there?”

“It was fine. It didn’t stink.”

I let Beth know I’m taking Mark back and to wait for me before they move on. It’s good to know that Mark has a very sensitive gag reflex for smells, and we steer clear of any animal cages along the way. I drop him off with Mrs. Hays and hurry back to Beth who has collected another one of Mrs. Hays’ students.

Our little group visits butterflies, hummingbirds, primates, hippos, and penguins before we start moving back to the entrance to meet the rest of the groups. We reach the meeting point near the stroller rental about twenty minutes early and decide to visit the giraffe-feeding station. I buy some crackers and we walk up the curving wooden ramp to stand at eye level with the giraffes. We take turns holding the crackers above the heads of the giraffes as their soft lips pucker and their long black tongues reach for the snacks. I take a few pictures with my phone, then we go to stand at the rendezvous point. Beth checks all her groups and sends them on to the waiting buses as does Mrs. Hays. All of my groups are back except for one—Mrs. Gregg’s group.

It’s ten minutes past time for the bus to leave, and there is no sign of Mrs. Gregg’s group yet. Note to self: Get cell phone numbers for all the chaperones next year. A couple of minutes later, the children come screaming up to me, with Mrs. Gregg panting behind them. “Sorry, we lost track of time.”