Behind me, Coleman steps into the office, closing the door behind him with a quiet snik.
I sink into the remaining chair Teri indicates, next to Mark. “Mr. Mitchell,” I say. “How’s it going?” Mark smiles and murmurs something.
“Thanks for coming,” Teri says.
“Sure,” I say. “No problem. Sorry I didn’t read my email earlier.”
Coleman settles himself into a wingback chair off to the side, an audience of one waiting for the curtain to rise. I begin to feel uneasy.
“Mr. Faulkner, you’ve taught here for almost four years now,” Teri begins.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, keeping my face neutral. What is going on?
“I have to say,” Teri continues, glancing at Mark, then Coleman, “that it is unusual for us to hire teachers fresh out of college. Let alone have them teach an AP course.”
Technically, they hired me to teach freshman English my first year. Then the newly hired AP English teacher, Cindy Stone, announced to her class that her job was to see that everyone got an A in AP English. Her students took that as a promise that whatever they did, Mrs. Stone would give them an A, and so she spent the rest of the year trying to get her students to finish their homework and take the class seriously. Her contract wasn’t renewed for the following year, and after sending me to an AP workshop over the summer, they gave me the class starting my second year.
Beyond that, Teri Merchant and I had a shared history—she had known and worked with my mother. I’d never had her as a teacher, and when I applied for the job at Archer, I did not realize that Principal Teri Merchant was the same Ms. Merchant who had taught seventh-grade English at Dunwoody Middle.
“We took a chance on you,” she says, as if reading my mind. “We could have easily said no and encouraged you to reapply after a few years of experience. But we did not.”
For a few seconds I have a horrible thought: someone saw me and Marisa in flagrante delicto at school. While dating a coworker isn’t against the rules, I’m pretty sure having sex with a coworker in your closet, or on the school counselor’s couch, would be frowned upon, at the very least. My face warms at the thought, and my heartbeat starts to thud loudly in my ears.
Then Teri is looking expectantly at me, a quizzical smile on her face, and I realize she has spoken but I didn’t hear her. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry?” I say.
Teri looks at Coleman, who sits up in his chair, about to take on his own role in this production.
“The student council, of which I am the faculty sponsor,” Coleman says, “selects one faculty member a year for the Archer Faculty Award, given to the best faculty member as voted on by the student body.” He is grinning now and nods at Mark. Mark turns to me, his eyes wide, his face trying to look solemn even though a smile is clearly breaking through, like sunshine through clouds.
In a quiet, almost hushed voice, Mark says, “We voted for you, Mr. Faulkner,” and then suddenly we are all standing, and Teri is congratulating me, and Coleman too, and Mark shakes my hand with a crushing grip and his usual half smile, and I’m blushing for real now, overcome with a swelling happiness as if my heart has filled with helium and is carrying me up into the air, away from any earthbound concerns.
I HAVE NO idea how I manage to teach my class of freshmen after lunch. I’m giddy and distracted, and when my freshmen ask once again if we can have class outside—it’s a beautiful blue-sky day, the few puffy white clouds for contrast only—I almost say yes. They want to see if I will ever relent, and they also want to hear my usual response: “I don’t wear sandals, I don’t eat granola, and I don’t have class outside.” It’s stupid, but it usually makes them laugh. Today I just tell them no and have them turn to act 4 of Romeo and Juliet, where they act out the scene in which Paris tries ineffectually to woo Juliet and the Friar hovers in the background like the worst matchmaker in history. Before I know it, class is over and my students thank me as they leave the classroom. It’s something I really enjoy, this spontaneous chorus of thank-yous at the end of each class. It’s straight out of a sitcom fantasy of high school, and it always reminds me of how lucky I am to teach here. Today each thank-you feels like a personal tribute. These kids, I think, high-fiving one of them, are the greatest. When the last student leaves and the door swings shut behind him, I sit at my classroom desk, staring into space with a goofy grin.
I’m not sure how long it is after class is over that the door opens. I’m still sitting at my desk, and at the sound of the door I snap to attention and sit up. Marisa is standing there. “Hi,” she says, the door swinging shut behind her. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll never believe what just happened,” I say.
She cocks her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Something about … a teaching award?”
I look at her in surprise. “How did you—wait, did Mark say something? Because he’s not supposed to say anything until they announce it.”
Her smile widens. “I might have had a little something to do with it.”
I stare at her. “What?”
She laughs softly. “It wasn’t just me,” she says. “The Faculty Award. All the students voted. Although I did mention your name to a few people. Primed the pump, so to speak.” Now a full, wicked smile from her. “Mark was a sweetheart.”
Mark Mitchell, the influential student council president who, despite his semi-slacker pose in class, is smart and dedicated. The same Mark who I’ve seen
