Page 14 of Between the Lines

I knew there was a shortage of substitutes, but I didn’t realize we were so desperate that our new standard iswarm body in a room.

seven

nathan

After yesterday’sissues in sixth grade, I decide to do a more thorough check-in onallof the long-term classrooms today. Surely, if half of our students are teaching themselves, I can step in and help out. Don may have dangledteach sixth gradein front of me as a threat to an alternative, but I was a classroom teacher for twelve years before using my administrator’s license became a monetary necessity, so I’d at least go in knowing a thing or two. Besides, I’m here for thekids. For theireducation. If I need to step in for a few class periods because the substitutes we hiredaretruly just “warm bodies in a classroom,” I’ll do it.

I’m both surprised and relieved to find that the majority of the classes are going decently. When a large chunk of the staff and students go to lunch, I decide to pop into the staff break room. I spent so much of my shadowing time last year trying to learn the ropes of the building, that I didn’t get to know too many staff members outside of administrators and our guidance counselor.

Stepping into the break room, I take a deep breath and brace myself.

I wouldn’t ever consider myself socially awkward, but I’m notthe most approachable person in the world. I don’t trust or open up easily. At least I’m self-aware. Riding on the coattails of my inhibiting personality is the fact that I am about as old, if not younger than, a majority of my subordinates. Being a thirty-five year old assistant principal nowadays isn’t uncommon at all. But after my interaction with Carol yesterday, I’m suddenly well aware that the people I’m technically in charge of have more years of experience than I do.

And then, there’s the whole “I’m the boss” perspective. I’ve seenThe Office. I know that the gossip stopped once Michael entered the break room.

With my lunch in hand, I step up to a table that’s about half-full. Luckily, I spot Lucy Greene, the guidance counselor that I was able to get to know a little last year.

“Hi everyone. Mind if I join you?”

A few sets of eyes seem tensely wary, like prey just noticing an invasive species entering its ecosystem, unsure of if it’s friendly or threatening.

“Sure!” Lucy says, gesturing at an empty seat on the corner of the table beside her. “How are things going, Mr. Harding?”

“Nathan, please.”

Though I do admire a level of decorum in my position, I’d like to relieve the tension line of admin to teacher during the lunch hour. Maybe letting the “Mr.” title go is the first step.

“Nate, my man! How’s it shaking?” Aaron asks with a huge grin.

“Things are going well. I thought I’d have lunch with you all today.”

I begin unpacking my lunch sack, laying my fruit and yogurt on the table.

“How are you liking the official role of AP?” Aaron asks. “You were a classroom teacher before you shadowed Don last year, right?”

I nod. “It’s a bit of a change. I’m enjoying it so far.”

“What did you teach?” Lucy asks.

“Eighth grade English. I had a few stints in history and math aswell. I actually triple minored in history, English, and psychology, along with getting my Master’s in administration leadership.”

“Oof! How long were you in college for?” Aaron asks.

Not long enough. But it was a nice distraction while it lasted.

“Six years. I took a few winter courses.”

“What made you want to move out of the classroom into administration?” Lucy asks.

I swallow a huge lump that appears in the shape of the secret I’ve kept all to myself—the mountain of bills buried in my desk drawer. It is quickly replaced by the canned answer I’ve formulated for situations just like these. It is the same one I used in my interview.

“I wanted to make a larger impact on all students—not just the ones in my classroom.”

They seem satisfied with that answer, which helps me breathe easier. We’re in the middle of trading standard undergrad information when suddenly, a hurricane blows through.

Claire Benson all but flies into her seat, her curtain of blonde hair following behind like she just got caught in a storm. An oversized Stanley cup clangs against the table, her iPhone following.

“Whew! Damn, some of these kids think they’re hotshit, don’t they? Thenerveon some of them! What kind of balls do they think they?—”

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