The administrative offices have been updated since I walked the halls of Blue Belle. A soft beige color is on the walls, along with photos of Principal Lancaster with various townsfolk. Lois is in two—one of her cutting a yellow ribbon for the new football stadium a few years back and another of her with the team last year at the state finals. Ronan is front and center, his arms around players, a happy grin on his face. A sigh leaves me. I remember that grin. It reminds me of the one he wore when he accepted the Heisman. The world will be mine.
“You taught at a preschool?” he asks, glancing up and breaking me out of my reverie.
My hands twist in my lap. Being an art teacher was an unexpected career choice. I wanted to work at a gallery or in graphic design, but those jobs were competitive and hard to come by after graduation. I did odd jobs—radio work, office clerking, bartending—until I scored a small gallery job that I adored. It lasted for two years; then the store unexpectedly closed. My roommate worked at the preschool and got me a position there.
I clear my throat. “Yes, the Blair Preschool in Manhattan. I was in charge of the art department for five years.” I taught three-and four-year-old toddlers how to finger paint—with a little Van Gogh thrown in. Parents paid fifty grand a year to send their kids there, and I enjoyed it, but the salary was barely enough to pay my bills.
“You have some experience in education. Nice.”
“Yes.”
He steeples his hands together and gives me a friendly look. “Well, Ms. Morgan, we’d like to offer you a position here at Blue Belle High.”
Surprise ripples over me.
No questions about my strengths and weaknesses? No calling my references?
I scoot a little closer to the edge of the seat. “I don’t have a teaching degree.”
He nods. “Our enrollment exceeded our expectations this year. Basically, we’re overcrowded and scrambling to get our class size down and hire new teachers. This position has been open for two weeks, and no one with a teaching degree has applied. Thankfully, the state allows special accommodations for this, and, well, Mrs. Meadows vouched for you. She’s one of our board members.” He smiles. “She came to my barbecue this weekend and told me this story about you climbing her apple tree.”
I let out an unsure chuckle.
“Anyway . . . we’d love to have you on board as a Bobcat. And . . . if you find that you want to continue here as a teacher next school year, we’d ask that you find classes to get teacher accreditation. Many places are online these days. You can even count your teaching experience this year as your practicum credit. I feel confident our enrollment is going to soar, especially with our football program. Everyone wants to be at a winning school, right?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, we’d have you back next year if things work out.” Then he tells me the salary, one that’s considerably more than I made in New York.
“What would I be teaching? Art?” I ask hopefully. Whatever it is, bring it, but please don’t let it be algebra . . . or English . . . or history . . . or, Jesus, any kind of science.
He removes his glasses and sets them on the desk. “You’ll have a part-time English position. Juniors. How do you feel about Julius Caesar? I do believe that’s on the curriculum.”
I know nothing about Julius except that he got stabbed in the back by his best friend. I can relate.
He must see the disappointment on my face.
“Miss Burns has taught art for years,” he says, studying me. “Perhaps one day that position will be open, Ms. Morgan, but not today.”
“I see.”
“We already filled the algebra job, and the English one is the only—”
“I love English,” I gush. “Adore it. My favorite subject. You said part time?”
He nods. “Officially, you’d be a Blue Belle teacher, and you’d report to me for those duties, but we also need a personal assistant for Coach Smith, which makes it a full-time job. The booster club is covering that portion of your salary. Does that sound doable?” He smiles. “Lois mentioned you’re quite the football fan.”
A sharp breath comes from me. This feels a little like a bait and switch. Get the girl excited about teaching America’s youth, then throw in the wrench. “Right . . .”
He pulls a sheet of paper from his desk and slides it over for me to take. “Here’s the syllabus for the classes if you want to be sure you’re up for this.”
I glance over it, the words running together. Yep, there’s Julius Caesar, poetry, a term paper—oh my God. I may have to study for this.