No Teacher Left Standing

By Jeffrey Penn May

St. Louis County, 2003-2004 school year, a time of flip phones, mid-east war, and leaving no child behind.

The most authentic novel about first-grade teachers you’ll ever read. The characters are fictional, but the events are based on true stories. Written at a frenetic pace that matches the school year.

Sarah Morgan hates conflict. She never understood her parents sniping at each other and she felt protective of her little sister. Keeping the peace served her well as a teacher. However, now she must fight to defend herself against a duplicitous principal, a Machiavellian superintendent, and an unstable mother’s hurtful attack. After two miscarriages, Sarah is pregnant and alone.

Sarah represents the best in all of us. She is a strong woman who shows grace, courage, humor, and understanding under duress. Confronted with policy dictated by ivy-tower administrators and clueless politicians, Sarah never gives up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Penn May
• Release date: Mar 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465703897

Jeffrey Penn May

Jeffrey Penn May has won several short fiction awards. His story “The Wells Creek Route” received a Pushcart Prize nomination, and his novel Where the River Splits, an excellent review in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Merging his outdoor interests with his writing, Jeff has published mountain climbing articles, short stories and poems. He has also written education articles and technical writing guides. His work has appeared in the US, UK, and Canada. He wrote and performed a short story for Washington University Radio and was a consultant to a St. Louis theatre company.After earning his a B.A. in English and Psychology, a Masters in Secondary Education, and a Writer’s Certificate from the University of Missouri, Jeff worked as a waiter, hotel security officer, credit manager, deck hand, technical data engineer, creative writing instructor, and English teacher. He was the principal of a small alternative school where he organized a fund-raising, climbing expedition and appeared in television and radio spotlights.Born at Fort Ord near Monterey, California, and raised in St. Louis, Jeff comes from a family of all boys and has always been compelled to explore the outdoors, leading to many questionable “vacations.” His adventures include, but are not limited to the following: floated a home-built wood and barrel raft from St. Louis to Memphis, navigated a John boat to New Orleans, drove an old Volkswagen alone 8000 miles around the west, spent a month in a dirt floor shack in west-central Mexico digging for Pre-Colombian artifacts, climbed mountains from Alaska to South America, and spent several days in the Amazon jungle. Jeff teaches writing near St. Louis. Please visit www.askwritefish.com.

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No Teacher Left Standing

by

Jeffrey Penn May

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Smashwords Edition Published By:

Jeffrey Penn May

No Teacher Left Standing

Copyright 2011 by Jeffrey Penn May

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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No Teacher Left Standing

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

For my school teacher wife, and our more than six million other education professionals.

No Teacher Left Standing: St. Louis County, 2003-2004 school year, a time of flip phones, mid-east war, and leaving no child behind.

Prologue

She lost what her doctor called nothing more than a fertilized egg, as if she forgot to water it, and the emptiness ached until the moment she felt another baby growing inside her, and again she believed in her husband when he said, Everything will be okay.

And with this second fertilized egg, her waistline bulged. She bought maternity clothes; she listened to her schoolteacher colleagues congratulate her and ask the inevitable boy-girl questions. She watched the new young teachers drift away while the moms grilled her about diet, bloating, nausea. She painted the baby room neutral, picked out borders, one pink with bears and one with smiling, blue-eyed goldfish. And her antiseptic doctor agreed that yes, this one was a fully developing baby, fifth month, with a precociously strong heartbeat. And yes, she could still teach her little first-graders. Just make sure to wash hands. And get plenty of rest.

She tried hard to relax, and one warm Saturday in late November, her husband roamed the hardware store for bookcase brackets and outlet protectors while she lounged back in a plastic blue Adirondack chair. Sunlight warmed the cedar deck and glistened on bare branches. Through the woods, in the distance, ridges spotted with spruce glimmered gray and green. She looked up and saw a deer meander into the yard. A mother and fawn. She smiled and thought, of course, and shut her eyes, feeling the red-yellow warmth of her world aglow.

But her stomach fluttered. And dull pain expanded in her side, increasing in waves, pressure on nerves, throbbing down her leg. She shifted in her chair, pushed on the plastic armrest and tried to stand. Her leg deadened beneath her, and she fell to her knees, a splinter stabbing her just above the kneecap and sticking out like a hypodermic needle.

She sucked air, heaved, and she screamed, Jon! Spasms climbed her thighs, wrapped her gut, and squeezed. She crawled to their solid wrought-iron table, tried pulling herself up, and lurched for her cell phone. The table tipped, wobbled beneath her weight, then overturned, crashing, umbrella snapping. She rolled onto her back, knees up, breathing, holding her cell and pressing speed dial, listening to her husband’s voicemail, and trying to hold back her baby. Wait! God-damn-it. Not now, baby. Not… Now!

Chapter One

Her husband knew numbers – the second miscarriage occurred in the fifth month. He said they would try again, that their odds were improving. But he hadn’t been the one sharing precocious heartbeats with their child. He hadn’t felt the first movement inside and woke in a hospital bed with white coats swirling around her, cleaning her. Even so, Jon remained optimistic, and Sarah Morgan recovered.

Then her husband experienced his own sort of miscarriage, losing his airlines job – phased out, downsized, streamlined, and relocated. He was, of course, welcome to stay on but would need to take a thirty-percent pay cut without benefits and move to an affiliate office in India.

What’d you tell them? she asked.

What do you think? He stared at their laminate kitchen floor curling up at the seams.

Hey, she said, like you always say, we’ll be okay.

But… you won’t get your new floor.

Sarah slipped into his arms and murmured, screw the floor. They kissed, the sunset streaming into the bay window, and she coaxed him onto their old couch where they had made love plenty of times before.

Through the sweltering summer, Jon dressed for nonexistent jobs, rare interviews, and support group meetings. As each week passed into the next, his morale sank along with their savings. And he wanted protected sex. Frequently.

Maybe, Sarah said, you could get a job as a male escort.

He rolled over and fell asleep as he often did.

An afternoon thunderstorm pounded rain across their bedroom window. She pulled the beige sheet over her husband, dressed, and drove her rattling silver-gray Corolla to Red Maple Elementary School, five minutes away, surrounded by suburban lawns, big shade trees, and a small swath of woods. Sarah loved the setting, the kids, and the activity. She had tried office work, but hated it, and went back to school to become a first-grade teacher. After she earned her Masters, her salary inched up. But nobody becomes a teacher to make lots of money.

Black, green-hued clouds roiled as she pulled into the parking lot, and hail pounded the tinny roof, white ice balls bouncing across the asphalt and the shimmering yellow-stripes. Leaves ripped from branches and swirled.

Like each of the previous twelve years, Sarah started working before her contract required. And now she sat, two weeks before the first day, waiting for the weather to pass so she could plan lessons, create new hands-on activities, and familiarize herself with central office curriculum changes. But as the storm churned, her mind wound tight around the miscarriages, and questions led to more questions, all leading to why? The hail stopped abruptly, the rain subsiding and the gray clouds drifting. Her husband had no job, and they avoided planning another try. Condoms, he said, are more affordable than a baby right now.

So she was a little surprised when she climbed from her car, stood on the shimmering wet asphalt, drizzle dampening her hair, and suddenly felt an inexplicable yet familiar contentment.

After a quick trip to the drug store, she sneaked into their downstairs bathroom and confirmed it. She heard Jon stirring upstairs. She hesitated. How would he react?

Honey, Sarah called, can you come down here a minute?

It took several yells before he responded, and an eternity until he arrived in the kitchen and asked what was up, then opened the refrigerator door.

I need your full attention, she said.

They stood with the kitchen table between them.

He raised his eyebrows. You have that look, he said.

Yes, I do… and I am.

Jon rubbed his neck. No laugh. No hug. No rolling around on the floor and tender touches to her stomach. None of that this time. Damn, he said, I need a job!

We’ll be fine, she said.

He stared out the sliding glass door, muttered about wanting his money back for the obviously defective condoms. The clouds lingered. His voice was vacant. We’ve had lots of storms lately, he said. You notice that?

Yes…

He looked at her. I’m sorry, hon, come here. Arms outstretched, he moved into her embrace and he repeated the requisite words, that’s great, you’re beautiful, it’ll be okay.

They resurrected plans, discussed possibilities, and new challenges. It was August 2009; he was thirty-six, she thirty-four and now only Sarah provided income, and their health insurance. Which, she said, went up again, along with co-pay, and the coverage wasn’t as good. If nothing catastrophic happened before healthcare reform passed hopefully they’d be okay. They loved their St. Louis suburban home, backyard soaking up the western sun, on a ridge overlooking the Meramec River, and forested Ozark hills. And with tight budgeting, he said, they could cover house payments.

It’s not that bad, she said. Is it?

No, but it’s not good either.

She winced. We have equity, don’t we?

We’ve only been here two years. In this market, what do you think? Jon frowned, his jaw tight. Who knows when things will get better?

I wish, she said, you’d calm down a little.

Wow, that’s a switch. He turned away grumbling and stared outside. The sun blazed orange-red between the dark clouds and horizon.

She waited. He would apologize, something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately. She would remain confident. Jon would get a job. But she wasn’t ready for what came next.

*****

Chicago?

It’s just an interview.

But–

Don’t worry, he said, I probably won’t get it anyway. Even if I do, it’s temporary, and it has potential.

For what, she wanted to know. But he said he needed to go. She took a deep breath, stood, and started loading the dishwasher. Better to clean the kitchen than get into an argument, better to allow things to play out. No use getting angry and risking a demoralizing confrontation.

But what was he thinking? He’d be 350 miles away, gone most of the time, and basically she’d be a single mom. She’d already followed him and his job years ago back to Missouri where she had gone to college, and she reacquainted herself to the suffocating summer humidity. However, they were lucky enough to find such a beautiful home on the edge of the Ozarks. No way she’d move again, especially to a crowded, flat, and loud city like Chicago.

Sarah felt his arms wrap around her. I don’t expect you to move again, he said. Clearly, her husband knew her well – her patience and his understanding, one reason they seldom if ever fought.

But the day before the first day of school, Jon was in Chicago for a third interview, and she was sitting alone at the kitchen table writing welcome notes to her first graders. A deer, muscular haunches, emerging rack, came crashing into the backyard, stopped, stared at her, then bounded away, disappearing back into the woods. She told no one about this new pregnancy, not even her family in Denver, her parents and her younger sister Carly. Sarah didn’t want to mess anything up, and she especially didn’t want to endure the condolences again. If she approached it differently, learned from her mistakes, maybe the reality would match her dreams.

With her thick canvas school bag slung over her shoulder, she arrived at Red Maple before sun up, the sky dawning gray. She clanked and bumped her way through the front glass doors, and entered the brightly lit foyer opening up to an expansive assembly area with a small atrium near the gymnasium doors, dead yellow plants and bright green plastic leaves covering an empty fountain basin. The off-white walls were painted with yellow-spotted frogs on blazing red lilies. Sarah skirted past the main office with its glass partition – attendance counter, secretaries desk, and administrative offices at the school core – and through a short tunnel-like hall that always seemed dark. She pushed a green-painted metal double-door and entered the cavernous, first grade open-space with its high vaulted ceiling and massive ductwork hanging from metal bars. The space was divided into three classes by bookshelves and storage cabinets. The remaining odd space was cluttered with excess furniture, old computers, and worn out textbooks.

Sarah shifted her heavy bag to her other shoulder, and maneuvered between two rows of shelves forming a passage to the center, the axis of the open space where the big overhead ducts converged blue, green, and yellow. She turned into her class area, and stopped, staring at a disarrayed pile of her books, like a mountain on the stained carpet, and a shelf pushed out of position. She shook her head. Yesterday, she had everything ready, and now someone, probably maintenance, had already made a mess. She shrugged. She’d just roll with it, no use complaining or confronting anyone about it. That invariably made things worse.

In the otherwise windowless space, Sarah had set up her area so that her back was against one of two small regular walls, irregularly shaped and curved, but her desk was near the only natural light, one double glass door with panic bars. A makeshift cabinet-bookshelf wall left little room for easy exit, but it separated her class from her colleague Margo Smith. Margo was in her second year at Red Maple, a woman who apparently liked to move from school to school. Last year, she was far down the hall in fourth grade space, and this year, she was teaching first grade for the first time. If her pattern held, however, Margo would be somewhere else after this school year.

Sarah swung her bag onto the desk chair and shoved her lunch into a drawer, then sat on the stained carpet, put her feet against the dislodged shelf, and scooted it wobbling back into place. She sat next to the pile, shoving books back, settling into a rhythm, startled by warm metallic breath near her shoulder. You ready! Margo Smith said, staring, narrow brown eyes, black eyeliner, and her black hair bleached auburn, curling around her ears, shorn short to the collar of a bright red knit shirt – Red Maple Elementary School embroidered in black cursive inside a maple leaf. Sarah’s husband invariably told her that the maple leaf emblem reminded him of the Montreal Canadians hockey team. And he always wanted to know if there were any fights.

Sarah grabbed the shelf and struggled to her feet, woozy. Did Margo arrange for them to do something that morning? Ready? Sarah asked. For what?

The school year…What else? Lots of changes. Margo raised one eyebrow, newly narrowed and streamlined, and painted in a severe arc. And she was standing feet apart, hands on hips, and thick thighs and ankles descending to the well-worn carpet.

Sarah responded with a non-committal, as ready as I’ll ever be.

Then Margo complained about maintenance having to haul in a big ladder just to reach the ductwork, check on a vent that had been welded shut for who knew what reason. As if Sarah knew the reason; it had been like that since she started teaching at Red Maple. Margo stared, waiting for more explanation, and then abruptly turned away, returning to her space behind the bookcase.

A little boy wandered into Sarah’s area and stood, blue eyes wide, miniature green backpack, running shoes too big for his small body.

Hi, buddy, Sarah said, are you here for first grade?

The little guy nodded, brown bed hair sticking up, then he blurted, Are you Miss Morgan?

Yes, I am. And you?

Josh!

Well, pleased to meet you Josh. You’re going to love Red Maple. She held out her hand to shake and felt his small hand trying to be strong. Let’s find your desk.

My mom said to give you this. He pushed a note into her hand.

Dear Ms. Morgan,

I’m so sorry I couldn’t come in to meet you. My husband is shipping out today. I have to be with him. I hope I’m not being a bad mom.

Thanks,

Beth Tucker (Josh’s mom)

Sarah made a mental note – reassure Josh about his dad. No time now, as others streamed in.

So it started, and she realized, as she did each year, that all her preparation would never fully match the needs of twenty-five, stumbling, loud, anxious first-graders and their equally anxious parents. She could only brace for the onslaught. The daily presentations, nightly preparation, long hours, staff meetings and conferences, a long slog to winter break and the craziness of the holidays, but all worth it for her little ones.

Jessica Sweet arrived with her mom who smiled and sighed. Thank God the summer is over! She loved kindergarten. She is so ready for school.

Jessica looked down. "I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to be my teacher."

Wow, thanks, that makes me feel good. You’re going to have a great time in first grade.

The Chins hovered, smiling and nodding, while their petite daughter Connie with her long, shimmering black hair rubbed her fingers and thumbs together and stared at computers lined up on a table near Sarah’s desk.

Tall, lanky Joy burst in, her mother waving okay across the open space. Joy wore thick glasses proudly, and tripped on the carpet.

Mrs. Fallon arrived with her daughter Carrie Fallon, rail-thin and blonde with big eyes, and their neighbor Mrs. Decker with her son Georgie, a stocky, athletic kid who hummed while he walked. We want, Mrs. Fallon said, to make sure they sit together.

And Mrs. Decker explained, So they get a good start and aren’t too nervous.

Fakir Jussawalla marched in with his serious parents who fired off questions about curriculum while Sarah tried to greet the other little ones and their parents. Shaqita Jones gripped her grandma’s hand, and Charlie Sothby hid behind his camouflaged Army dad who smiled and addressed Sarah as ma’am, Sarah reassuring them, thinking, sit Charlie next to the new kid Josh. Heather Baker, a little girl who struggled in kindergarten, Makita Moore, and Brian Jackson, and Mary Olgameyer, a bright young girl who already read well but didn’t have any friends because she was rude to those who weren’t as smart as she, and Jasmine with an impossibly unpronounceable last name. Maybe, Sarah thought, Jasmine would be friends with Joy. Drake Patton ran in, flinging his backpack across the room, and Camden Carlson slouched and dragged his feet.

They entered with their customs, neurology, religion, resiliency, sensitivities, allergies, Individual Education Plans, skinned knees, and bruised psyches. Some unsure who their parents were, some from multi-divorced families. Some battered into apathy. They were impossibly complex organisms that needed to be measured – for intelligence, talent, deficiencies, reasoning abilities, special abilities, mathematics, and reading – measured and nurtured for the future. Sarah Morgan began by remembering their names.

Sarah directed the Jussawallas out, promising to answer all their questions through email, phone calls, and conferences, while giving commands to the children. Hang your packs back there, right through that door, find your name on a desk, sit down and color the picture there, if you don’t have any crayons, get some over here on the table.

Within minutes, Sarah had her twenty-five little girls and guys settled and coloring, except for Drake who was peeling the paper from the crayons, and Camden who was still looking for his seat.

Ryan arrived late, escorted by his mother, a stern-faced, dark-eyed woman with stringy coal-black hair.

Hello Ryan, Sarah said. Great to see you today.

The little boy squeaked, Hi.

His mother, Bonnie Babbin, her long black hair rising suddenly frizzy toward the ductwork, glared, huffed, and stomped away. Sarah thought, good morning to you as well. Maybe mom was having a bad day. Maybe Ryan had given her a hard time. Sarah Morgan made another mental note – send home a reassuring email to Bonnie, tell her not to worry, that they were going to have a great school year.

*****

Sarah had just escorted the little ones to lunch and recess and had about twenty minutes for checking email, eating, maybe go to the bathroom. She slumped at her desk, exhausted, unusual for the first-day when the air was electric.

Friday, Jon would return from the remote, alien city of Chicago. Maybe they would go out. Or maybe not, maybe both would be too tired and they would cuddle on the couch, watch a movie.

Sarah stared at her computer. In movies about teaching, classrooms rarely had more than a handful of students, and scenes lasted only three to five minutes, always ending with the bell. Secondary characters always sat quietly while the filmmaker rushed to the point. Even when the point was chaos, it ended quickly with the clanging of the bell. Understandable of course. Movies trying to be realistic were doomed to fall short; who would want to suffer watching an entire school day?

She skimmed and deleted irrelevant email from central office, sent the note to Bonnie, and ate her yogurt. Five minutes until the kids returned. She stood and stretched; did she have time for the bathroom? She’d have to hike up past the office to the far side of the assembly area for the faculty bathrooms, or maneuver quickly through the open space axis to the first-grade toilets.

Margo bumped around the bookcase near the glass door. We need to meet, she said, then hollered through the open space to their other first grade teacher.

Sarah felt her shoulders relax when she saw Jamie Jenkins appear. Jamie was a thin, blonde, young third-year teacher with long fingernails often painted to match her mood, cute like a Barbie doll, single, and optimistic; she came from a small town in southwest Missouri, liked to hunt and, if cornered, could stare down a wild boar. But she avoided conflict as much as Sarah did, especially with adults. Margo waved her over.

What’s up with you guys, Jamie said, I have some kids who can’t even read their name.

I’m not too concerned about the kids, Margo said, but… She glanced over her shoulder. What about our new principal?

What about her? Sarah asked.

Yeah, Jamie said, she seems nice enough.

You think she can handle the pressure? Look what happened to the last guy.

Jamie blinked, long eyelashes. He got a better job, didn’t he?

Margo scoffed. "You really think he wanted to quit? Come on."

Whatever, Sarah said, Why are we—

And, Margo said, "Now we’ll be getting a new assistant principal."

Sarah stared. Apparently, this was one of the changes Margo had been talking about.

Jamie turned to Sarah. Did you know about that?

No.

Margo furrowed her thin eyebrows, forming an odd line like a ski jump. Yes, you did. You told me Ben was being forced to retire?

No, Sarah said. "I said he seemed ready to retire, not—"

Oh, my mistake.

Suddenly, the double glass door swung open and banged with the breeze. The teacher assistant, Yvonne, yanked her keys out of the door while all three first-grade classes filed in from the playground and the wooded area, rumbling and talking and crashing between Margo and Sarah’s space. They streamed in, bumping into the bookshelves and separating into their classes.

Sarah thought, need to work on entering quietly, especially if her class was the only one entering, and the others were working. She diverted her little ones to their seats, their big eyes absorbing everything around them, little ears sensitive to the slightest misstep, mouths ready to blurt out whatever popped into their minds. She loved teaching them how to read, and loved how they always thought she was beautiful, especially when they sometimes accidentally called her mom, then back-tracking and saying, I mean, uh, Mrs. Morgan. It’s okay if you call me mom, she replied. I take it as a compliment.

Sarah taught smoothly through the day, met the usual first day goal – get them in and get them out. Now she sat at her desk reading a note from Drake. She smiled while she translated the first grade spelling, advanced really for his age. Ms Moregun is ok And, she thought, you’ll be okay too, Drake.

Her cell vibrated like a bug scooting across her desk, and she grabbed it.

Her husband blurted, I got it!

Got what? she asked.

What else?

Oh, that’s great honey….

They want me to start right away.

You’re not coming home?

Yes, I’ll be there tonight… but…

But what?

I told them I’d be ready in a day or so, you know, to go back.

Sarah heard a desk tip over, banging, and reverberating, loud in the quiet after the constant din throughout the day. It reminded her again of the dismal open space acoustics, antithetical to effective teaching, an educational fad created in an era of unbridled optimism and long since faded.

Jon, she said, What are you saying exactly?

It’s a temp job, but… its going to be at least six months, maybe more, and this has a good chance to develop into something, maybe a job back home with full benefits.

Great.

My boss agreed to let me take time off… you know, for baby stuff.

So… where will you be staying?

Well, I thought I’d stay with you tonight. He forced a chuckle. After that, they’re putting me up in a condo.

Long after Jon had hung up, Sarah held her phone open, near her cheek.

Margo suddenly hovered. Who was that?

What?

The phone?

Nobody. Sarah bit her lip.

Margo stared. Could you do me a huge favor?

Sure… if I can.

I have to go somewhere after the faculty meeting tomorrow. If I’m not back in time, can you make sure the kids get started okay?

Chapter Two

Sarah fell asleep at seven PM fully clothed, woke at nine, got ready for bed, and fell asleep again. Jon arrived around midnight turning on lights and cheerfully announcing he was home. They lay in bed and talked while staring at the ceiling, Jon urging her to give the situation a chance, but their discussion devolved into silence. He then promptly fell asleep while she laid awake and listened to him breath and occasionally snore.

Late morning, he served scrambled eggs and toast on the deck, and they avoided the impasse of last night, Sarah still grappling with the inevitability of him being gone. By afternoon, she decided to enjoy their time together. She put off her schoolwork, making the most of every second with her husband, driving downtown, standing on the riverfront, sunlight glistening on the Arch, a cool breeze from the Mississippi, easing the humidity. St. Louis could be like that, she thought, one day sweltering, the next relatively cool and western like Colorado.

Sunday raced into sunset and darkness with Jon impulsively deciding he wouldn’t go back to Chicago until noon Monday. Then he kept her up most of the night, urging her to skip school. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t miss the first faculty meeting with the new principal.

When the six-thirty alarm blared unintelligible lyrics, she pivoted from the bed, planted her feet, and staggered to the shower. And with Jon still selfishly fondling her, she pushed his arms away while pulling on a wrinkled beige blouse and slacks too tight, cutting into her midsection.

Late, Sarah sped through a yellow light and, nearing the school, braked hard. As she turned into the parking lot, a pre-school tot with a blue plastic backpack darted from behind a car. Sarah waited while the mother knelt beside him, holding his arms and staring into his eyes while scolding him, then taking his hand and marching him into the school.

While climbing out of her car, Sarah caught her big school bag on the door lock, jerking it from her shoulder, papers fluttering onto the asphalt.

As she entered the assembly area, she looked for Jamie who had saved her a seat. Thanks, she thought, you’re great. But as she was excusing herself, moving past the reading specialist, Sue Black, she heard their new principal, Tiffany Strap – voice blaring from a microphone. Glad you could join us!

Sarah waved and smiled, mumbling sorry while fifty-three faculty and staff stared at her. She settled into her seat, mouth shut tight, thinking, what was that, the embarrassment exacerbated by the microphone, never used by the previous principal. Sarah’s thoughts caught up to the presentation.

As I was saying… Tiffany stroked her neck-length brown hair with blonde streaks. I have administrative experience in California, but before my husband made us move out there, I was a Wood Park teacher for what? She tilted her head back, her black jacket unbuttoned, white blouse forming a V, then she held her hand to her