“This is more than I can handle on a day where I have to rule out liquids. Listen, Roan, please, please, please can we rain check on the florist? If you reschedule for a Saturday, I promise mani-pedis after, on me.”
“Fine. But only if it’s a paraffin job and you throw in the ten-minute extra shoulder massage. Then I’ll reschedule.”
“You got it, Princess Di.” I extend my hand to shake and seal our new floral arrangement.
“I suppose if you’re channeling Cleopatra, you’ve got to OWN being Cleopatra. Go ahead and take care of royal business, your highness.” Roan bows and walks out of my office.
I’m at my standing desk like a good modern-day manager, but my feet are killing me in these gladiator sandals. A flat footbed with no arch is brutal on a woman over forty pushing a little pregnancy weight. I pore over Google, assessing the militant mom opinions versus medical research on drinking caffeine while pregnant. Truthfully, the coffee stance is the least of my worries when contemplating if I want to bring a baby into this world as a single parent who is now older, wiser, and tired as hell just thinking about chasing after a toddler. I am certain, however, that I cannot go another day without murky hot java coursing through my veins. I’ll give up something else to balance out the need for coffee. Maybe sushi? Yikes! That one’s tough to give up too. I pause. My spinning wheels over minor pregnancy concerns feels like a woman leaning toward having a baby. Damn if that mighty lion from this morning didn’t do a number on me.
The meeting with Winn was a good distractor from the around-the-clock ticker tape running through my brain reminding me I’m unexpectedly expecting another child. We touched on a topic I have not given a great deal of thought to when it comes to the past, present, or future of the RoyalHawkins School: the athletic program. Parents rarely seem to inquire about the sports programs or how many of our students are awarded athletic scholarships to college each year, let alone if there has ever been a RoyalHawkins graduate who has gone on to become a professional athlete.
During the Admissions Open House Q and A, most parents play a game of academic hot potato seeing who can ask the most affected, wannabe-intellectual questions. The rule of the game is to show off how closely they follow trending child development advice. My favorite from this year was the father who quoted an article about the merits of having a cadre of on-site therapists and affinity groups for children when they feel troubled or when someone looks at them sideways. Instead of answering the parent, I looked right to Roan. He gave me a barely perceptible nod and put a check mark on his clipboard. That hand-wringing, worrywart of a dad is now red-flagged for eternity.
Frankly, I was unaware Winn had such an interest in the athletic history of RoyalHawkins until today’s meeting when he showed up in my office with a spreadsheet and a lecture. He detailed every female and male basketball season record dating back to 1984, the year he became a RoyalHawkins alum. I gave it a cursory glance, not noticing anything obvious, but feigned interest in his concerns nonetheless. Winn specifically pointed out to me that we have only had two seasons in thirty or so years when a RoyalHawkins basketball team has made it to any finals in the school’s athletic division. I would have guessed Winn’s birdie would be in a bundle for not having a golf team before he would be sweating it out over basketball stats. Shame on me for assuming.
Without being clear on his desired outcome for our meeting, Winn asked me to take some time to review the numbers and consider what kind of legacy I want to leave as RoyalHawkins’s first female head of school. I told him I was unaware I would be exiting the school anytime soon and needed to be pondering my legacy five hot minutes after I got into the head’s seat. Winn chuckled but assured me I needed to seriously consider addressing RoyalHawkins’s athletics. It’s just like a man to tell a woman what she needs to consider even while she’s dressed as Cleopatra, one of the most intelligent and powerful female rulers.
Slightly intrigued by where Winn’s going with all this talk, I decide to take a walk around campus to consider sports at RoyalHawkins. I know for sure we can improve on the basketball uniforms, those things are fugly. Why somebody would take gangly, pimply, awkward teens and wrap them in a polyester mystery blend is lost on me.
Walking the halls of the middle school, I see an unfamiliar, towering man from the back with scuffed shoes, torn jeans, and a dirty oversize blazer with something that looks like garbage peeking out of the pocket flaps. On his head is a backward baseball cap that looks ratty and sweat-stained. I hold tight to the walkie-talkie that goes everywhere on campus with me and get ready to call for backup to escort this unfamiliar gentleman out of the school. This is my first brush with a stranger on campus, and in today’s climate, school safety is every parent’s, teacher’s, and staff member’s primary concern.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say once, using my inside voice, then quickly following up, “EXCUSE ME, SIR,” in my outside voice when the man doesn’t immediately turn around. My feet are firmly planted on the ground, but my heart is flying fast. My index finger hovers over the red emergency button on the walkie-talkie that goes directly to the police station. The fist of my other hand is clenched and ready to throw a punch if the man attacks. Marisol took our self-defense class years ago seriously, never allowing us a single absence, and right now I’m more relieved than ever she enforced perfect attendance.
The man slowly turns around. “Oh hey, Nina. Sorry. I was engrossed reading one of my student’s essays. For a thirteen-year-old, Bojing is crushing it making connections between the rise of the Weimar Republic in Germany and his thoughts on modern-day US politics. Sharp kid for sure.” Jared’s rubbing his lips together, bopping his head to a tune that apparently only he can hear. I blow out an audible breath. Lord have mercy, it’s only Jared. Though I’ve barely had a sip of water all day, I think I peed my panties a little.
I can’t get past the black smudges Jared has artfully placed on his cheeks. “Um, Jared, who are you supposed to be for Halloween?” I ask hesitantly, hoping this young man has a reflective side that will offer an astute explanation, but I brace myself for the musings I fear are coming my way.
“I’m a hobo,” he declares, spreading his arms wide to give me the full view of his costume. “I left my bandana-stick bag in my classroom. I’ve got my basketball in it for after school.”
Hope crushed.
“You mean a homeless person? You came to celebrate Halloween at school . . . dressed . . . as . . . a homeless person?” My emotions have swung from disbelief back to panic. Sweat’s trickling down my back as I imagine the number of emails that will be coming my way from parents after Jared’s students share at the family dinner table that their history teacher dressed up for Halloween as one of Los Angeles’s most devastating social ills.
“Nah, not a homeless person, a hobo. Like from the Dust Bowl era a la John Steinbeck and The Grapes of Wrath, my favorite book. That’s how my people made their way to California. My great-grandfather and his brother jumped trains all over the United States trying to get a little work here or there, sleeping under bridges, running from authorities, until they made it to the Golden State.” Jared’s pumped up with pride sharing the backstory of his family. It’s pure sweetness wrapped neatly in a PR nightmare.