Page 11 of The Write Place

“It’s about a group of teachers struggling with the modern landscape of education.”

I narrow my eyes at him skeptically. “And people believe that when you tell them?” He frowns, so I continue. “Oh, come on. Even my students didn’t buy that. What is your book about?”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times and eventually looks so helpless I almost feel bad for asking. When he finally speaks, he sounds more unsure than I’ve ever heard him. “It’s… it isn’t fully formed in my mind yet. Which is why I’m here, to help firm things up.”

It’s still not an answer, but I decide to let it drop for now. My eyes slip to his notebook, still open on his desk. “Are you writing about me?” It comes out more timid than I would like. I mentally kick myself for sounding so small, but his smile is soft and understanding.

“No, not about you, specifically. Though I wouldn’t be surprised to see a hardworking, dedicated teacher character in here somewhere for whom you’ll definitely be the inspiration. But I would never include anything specific or personal without your permission.”

I am surprised at how relieved I am, and it must show in my body language because Daniel’s smile deepens. It’s warm and comforting, and our eyes lock for a second. At that moment, I feel more relaxed than I have felt all day. I must be smiling, too, because his eyes drop to my lips before eventually meeting mine again. I look quickly away and stand, pushing in the chair and grabbing my stack of papers from the desk. I make my way toward my desk, my back to him as he asks tentatively, “So maybe this won’t be so bad after all?”

I don’t face him as I say, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Evans,” emphasizing the S again, but I’m still smiling, and he quietly laughs behind me as if I’ve just thrown down a challenge, and he’s just accepted.

Chapter 5

Daniel and I quickly fall into a bit of a rhythm during the rest of the first week. He gets to school before me and I come in to find him sitting at his desk, wearing one of his seemingly endless supply of well-tailored suits and brightly colored ties. He is always buried in a notebook or his laptop by the time I walk in, and there is always a cup of black coffee on my desk waiting for me. The students mostly ignore him, and even my curious seniors become used to his presence after a few days.

On Thursday, I’ve settled in on my lunch break to grade with my favorite pen when Daniel asks me for a tour. I try not to seem put-out, reminding myself that I’m doing this for the English department and stand, motioning for him to walk with me.

“I’m not familiar with the suburbs of Chicago. This feels like a huge school,” he says softly as we make our way through the quiet hallway. Classes are in session, so the hallway is deserted. We pass a classroom with a door propped open, and we hear a teacher introducing today’s lesson.

“Leade Park is actually a smaller suburb when compared to the surrounding towns. The population is around 50,000, so the school is large, but there’s only one. Most districts in the area have two. We have about 3,000 students, which is also pretty typical of the area. It also means there are a lot of teachers, especially in the English department where students are required to take four years of English classes to graduate.” The bathroom door to my right swings open suddenly, and I step quickly away, bumping into Daniel’s arm. He brings a hand up to steady me, and our eyes meet as the emerging student shuffles past us.

He clears his throat, dropping his hand quickly. “Sounds huge to me.”

“Right,” I smirk. “But it’s also a relatively tight-knit community in a lot of ways. There are families who have lived in this town for generations. Everyone knows them. Others own local businesses that are very popular and have become staples in town. I didn’t go to school here, but I did grow up nearby, and it was the same where I went to high school. Even though you could get lost in the crowd if you wanted to, it still felt like home.”

“And now you feel that way about this school?” he asks pensively.

“I do. The teachers here are their own little family, so to speak. That doesn’t mean we always like each other,” I laugh lightly, remembering some of the epic department meetings I’ve been a part of in the past, “but for the most part, we have each other’s backs. And Ken is a really good boss. I got lucky when they hired him. I know not everyone has a similar situation in other departments and other schools.” I stop myself before I get too personal. Ken has supported me in a lot of ways, including when Ellie died, and I owe him a lot, but Daniel doesn’t need or want to know any of that right now.

I have intentionally steered him toward our newly renovated auditorium. I’m particularly proud of this space. When I started teaching here, the drama director was out on maternity leave. She had ended up giving birth earlier than expected, so I took over for a season. I didn’t know anything about drama or putting on a production, but if I hadn’t stepped in, the students wouldn’t have been able to do their show. It was a steep learning curve, but it was fun. I still help out with presentations in the auditorium as needed. Daniel stands on the stage, his hands in his pockets as he surveys the space, nodding and looking impressed as I point out the new stage floor and lights.

We continue on, and I point out a few things, like the gym and other athletic facilities, the library, and various offices. We walk by the counselor’s office, and he pauses to study the brightly colored bulletin boards with student pictures.

“What are these for?” he asks.

“The guidance office celebrates students who do cool things. This wall here is for students with high SAT scores, and this wall is for students who have been accepted to college or trade school. The wall over there is for students who have won district scholarships,” I explain. He studies the pictures, hands still in his pockets, and walks slowly toward the scholarship wall.

“Your district offers scholarships?”

“The district and the community, yes. There are a lot of different ones offered. Some are for test scores or various department awards. The community members offer scholarships for a bunch of different things, too. Some organizations give them based on students going to certain schools or for various demographics.”

“And memorial scholarships?” he asks, studying a few of the plaques. I pause in front of one, seeing my sister’s face smiling out at me, and I hope he doesn’t see the resemblance or the name on it.

“Yes, some,” is all I offer. I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything as he continues his walk down the hall. There are loud noises coming from the cafeteria, and the smell of school lunch wafts toward us. Daniel wrinkles his nose.

“I’d maybe rather avoid the cafeteria,” he offers, and I laugh.

“I think everyone would maybe rather avoid the cafeteria.” I turn back toward my classroom.

“I imagine public and private schools have that in common.” His stride matches mine. “I vividly remember wanting to be anywhere but the cafeteria. The food was probably also the worst food on the planet.” He shivers dramatically at the memory.

“Then you haven’t had the food at Tony’s, I take it?” I joke, opening my door to let him in.

“I’m sure my high school cafeteria food is unparalleled,” he asserts.

“You should really try Tony’s sliders, then. They are truly an experience, and I say that with all the authority of a Midwesterner who takes her sliders very seriously.”