The Better Half(23)
Unable to set his phone aside, Jared pushes off with the toes of his boots and leans his chair back on the two hind legs. “Yeah, all parents have a thing for me. Particularly mothers of sons.” I reach my hand over and forcefully push the arm of the chair, full of two hundred pounds of solid muscle and ego, sending it back down onto all fours. Jared looks at me, finally lowering his phone. “What can I say, every mama I know wants their son to turn out like me, a baller and a scholar.” Bam, there it is. The winning smile and attitude that ensure Jared gets what he wants, including this job.
I press my hands together hard. I read in some management journal that at the moment you want to reach out and strangle an employee for lack of professional judgment, you should press your palms together, hard. Apparently, it lowers your blood pressure, cools your nerves, and keeps your employee alive. Jared’s overconfidence with parents and too-casual comfort with me are fueling my residual aggravation over his personal request for three days off for a basketball camp.
“Why is it you wanted to meet with me so urgently?” I ask, deciding it’s best to limit further banter and get right to the point.
“So, here’s the ish. I know I was hired to teach middle school social studies and coach sixth grade basketball, but yesterday I met up with the varsity coach to shoot some hoops in the gym and get to know him.” Okay, I decide, Jared’s making up a little ground by being first to reach out to a fellow colleague. I’m impressed, very mature for a man in his early twenties.
“He’s a nice guy, but a busted ball player. Feel me?” Jared holds his hand up waiting for a fist bump as if we know each other like that. Maturity misdiagnosed.
“And you needed to meet with me because?” I want to keep this conversation on course and continue to believe Jared’s the promising hire I hope he will be.
“I can run circles around that guy, on and off the court. When he jumps you, can barely slip a credit card under his feet. Trust me, I love middle schoolers, my kids are hilarious, but I think I can serve Royal-Hawkins much better as the varsity coach rather than hanging with the younger team.” Jared’s on a roll, getting all worked up, believing his own hype.
“Here’s the ish.” I intentionally pause after throwing Jared’s slang back at him, and then I give a smile that’s meant to strike fear more than warmth. “At Royal-Hawkins we don’t do God, we don’t really do sports, but on March 14 every year we do a blowout Pi Day. It’s our Super Bowl.” I suspect my new humanities teacher is not following my scholastic declaration.
“Jared, Royal-Hawkins is first and foremost an institution that serves kids for whom academics are their ultimate competition. Shakespeare is sport here. This is your first year teaching in a classroom and coaching, do I have that right?”
Jared nods, and I can tell he’s searching that limber brain of his for a witty retort, so I jump right back in to wind this request down quickly. “I suggest you focus on dazzling me with your teaching skills when I come in for your first official evaluation, Jared. I would think doing me and Harvard proud in the classroom would be your first and foremost priority.” I hope to pacify and encourage him to do well by mentioning that I remember he’s an Ivy League product. Stroking the male ego always helps. “In a couple of years, once you’ve nailed teaching and demonstrated some coaching chops, then we may have something further to talk about.” I stand to signal his time’s up. I need to take advantage of this moment to cement roles here, so I pause on my way to the door to tower over this young king.
“I got you, Nina,” Jared says, nodding while heaving himself out of the cushioned comfort of my wingback chair.
“I look forward to seeing great things from you, Jared. I know I will,” I say with finality, holding my doorknob. Start on a compliment, end on one too.
“I know you will too.” Jared gives me a quick salute and strides off my court. I have a feeling this is not the last time we’ll be facing off.
Xandra 12:24 PM
I have a study group but need to talk to you tonight, my drama teacher’s a real dick.
Xandra knows she’s not allowed to throw around curse words with me. In our family I’m the one with the filthy mouth that Xandra’s always quick to edit. I’m going to need to open a bag of corn chips to decode this text.
Nina 12:25 PM
K. I’ll call then. I’m worried. Or call me earlier if you can. Whenever. I’m available. And I LOVE YOU. Really, really love you.
I reread my text and delete up to worried. I can’t come across too overbearing and desperate to solve my teenage daughter’s life from across the country. Marisol would be proud of me for checking myself.
Xandra 12:27 PM
Hand out of the chip bag Mom, I’m OK.
I pop a handful in my mouth and chomp down in defiance of my fifteen-year-old know-it-all. I kick open my lower cabinet door. Turns out this is my only bag, so I need to make it last through the day. A bag used to last me a week, but I’m currently excelling at eating my job performance insecurities. Plus, I think Mimi forgot to stock my fall collection.
“Mimi,” I singsong out my office door. “Do you mind hopping over to Trader Joe’s when you can and picking up some more of my corn chip dippers? My summer stash is almost gone.” I truly don’t think I can head of school without them.