We talked about the sub position at the hotel bar on Friday night. It was early in the conversation, only one drink in. Marisa had asked about Archer, and I had mentioned Betsy Bales and the long-term sub debacle. That was before we ordered more drinks and started flirting and wound up in bed together.
Coleman smiles. “I, for one, am glad you took that chance,” he says. His relief is clearly palpable.
We all stand there for a moment, smiling at each other, while I try to wrap my brain around the idea that Marisa might end up being Betsy’s sub. Might? Coleman looks like he would hire her on the spot. “So, where are you teaching now?” I ask.
The smile on her face falters a little. “I was teaching at the Hastings School up in Connecticut until last summer. I came back to Atlanta to help take care of my mother—she’s had some medical issues. But she’s better, and so I’m back out on the job market.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I say, and Marisa nods in appreciation.
“Ethan, I’ll let you get back to your class,” Coleman says, “but I’d like you and Betsy to talk with Marisa after lunch. Tell her about the position, get a sense of whether or not this would be a good fit.”
“Betsy’s got a doctor’s appointment at one,” I say.
Coleman looks at his watch. “I’m trying to get Marisa to meet with Teri and Byron and a few other folks this morning,” he says. “Guess it’ll just be the two of you, then.”
Marisa turns to me with a smile and a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Sure,” I say, trying to ignore the nervous flutters in my stomach. “You bet.”
AFTER TEACHING CLASSES all morning and grabbing a quick lunch in the dining hall—a cavernous room of long tables, wooden beams overhead, and high windows that the students have dubbed Hogwarts—I return to my empty classroom to find Marisa sitting in the front row, looking at her phone. She puts her phone down and stands, smiling. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “How was your morning? They run you through the gauntlet?”
She holds up her hand and ticks off her responses one by one. “Assistant head, principal, athletic director, dean of students, and lunch with a few student council kids. Pretty comprehensive.”
“That’s Archer.” I pull a chair around to face her, and we both sit down.
“How long have you taught here?” she asks.
“This is my fourth year,” I say.
“You like it?”
I nod. “It’s a good place. The coffee is terrible, but Coleman supplements that with his own supply. What do you think so far?”
She considers the question. “The adults seem to care a lot,” she says. “The students seem bright, mostly eager, polite. As for the coffee, Coleman’s is fine.”
We smile at each other. I realize I’m fidgeting with a pen and put it down on the desk. In college, whenever you hooked up with someone and had to sneak out the next morning, it could be awkward later running into him or her between classes or in the student center. Sometimes a relationship would form, either casual or serious. Other times you’d cut your eyes away and avoid future one-on-one encounters. That was the route I usually took. Except now I’m interviewing a woman I slept with four days ago, a woman I could very well end up co-teaching with.
“So,” I say, thinking I’ll ask her about the classes she’s taught.
“So I wanted to—” she says at the same time. We both stop.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“No, you—”
“Please,” I say, gesturing with an open hand.
She smiles, looking down at her desk, then looks back up at me. “I wanted to say I enjoyed seeing you teach this morning.”
“Oh,” I say, flattered and embarrassed. “Thanks. I found that lecture on Macbeth online somewhere. I didn’t come up with it.”
Marisa shakes her head. “Maybe not, but you’re good at this. You aren’t just reading some notes off a page to your students.” She grins. “Makes sense, I guess. I mean, Faulkner, English teacher … you aren’t actually related to William Faulkner, are you?”
I smile. “No, but students ask occasionally. My mom taught English.”
“She must be proud,” Marisa says. “Does she give you tips?”
“She died,” I say. “When I was a kid.” I’m shocked that I’m saying this, especially to a relative stranger—I’ve spoken to only two other people at school about my parents—but I feel the urge to share this, to unload a bit of this dark thing I carry around with me.
“Oh,” Marisa says, her eyes rounding. She reaches over and touches my forearm, and her touch stirs something in me. Not lust; it’s more like gratitude. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. She nods and removes her hand, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want her to put it back.
“Well,” she says, and she stands up. I get to my feet as well. “I’m sorry to run, but Coleman wanted me to check in with him before school ended.” She holds out her hand, and we shake. “I really hope this works out. I know you all are in a bind with your colleague going on maternity leave and the sub having quit on you. But I’d love the opportunity to work with you all.”
“Likewise,” I say. We stand there for a moment, looking at each other. “Marisa,” I say, and I feel like I’m stepping into a field with a deep hole hidden somewhere
