Sample Chapter One

The job I never ever want to have is being a teacher. I don’t want to be a teacher because you have to go to school and it’s like going to school all over again. Also because you don’t get a lot of money. This is why I don’t want to be a teacher.
-Angelo

Bright yellow police tape surrounds the entrance of the school. I stop for a moment as I wait for security to buzz me in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.

My own seventh grade experience consisted of almost being expelled for accidentally setting the hallway on fire, failing shop class for building a rocking duck that wouldn’t rock, and skipping so many classes that several teachers assumed that I had moved away. I’m hardly the ideal candidate for this job. But, part of me wonders if I would have done better if I’d had a teacher like myself, one who didn’t believe that these were the best years of our lives; one of the cruelest lies we tell kids.
I never planned to become a teacher. But, after spending almost a decade working in the insurance industry, I found myself fantasizing about jobs that didn’t involve policy renewals and endorsements. One day on a walk I strolled by the local Charter School, and, on a whim, I decided to see if they needed a volunteer to teach a writing program. Instead, they offered me a position as an assistant in the sixth grade. I took the job on the spot, and I cut my regular work hours back to accommodate my new schedule.
That first day I was wooed by the smell of radiator heat and wet mittens. I found that I loved being around kids, but working in an affluent suburb I grew tired of students telling me that their gardeners made more money than I did, even though it was true. The kids I really connected to were the ones who were accepted into the school as part of a lottery system that attracted students from lower income towns nearby. By the end of the year I knew two things, that I wanted to teach, and that I wanted to work in an urban school system.
But now, as I wait to be let in for my interview, I wonder if I really know what I’m doing.

The building is enormous, taking up close to a city block, and it looks more like a prison than a school. It’s one of the least inviting buildings I’ve ever seen, dark cement with only a few windows that are covered with a deep, red film that doesn’t let in the light. I can’t imagine the rationale behind the colored windows; maybe they think kids will be distracted if they can see outside.
After several minutes a short, balding man opens the door. He shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself as Mr. Fitzpatrick, one of the vice-principals. He leads me down the corridor toward the main office. He doesn’t mention the police tape, and I don’t ask as we walk down dark corridors, dodging puddles of water on the floor.
“Excuse our appearance,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says. “We’re still getting things cleaned up for the start of school.”
I follow him into a cluttered office and he offers me a seat. As he flips through my thin file, I try to think of questions that will make me sound more competent than I feel. I know a bit about the school from my friend’s husband who used to work here. I remember Sean talking about the incongruity of baby-faced Cambodian gang kids, seventh graders who look so young, machetes cloaked under baggy jeans. Those were stories told over a glass of wine; a chorus of, “that’s so sad” leading into political discussions about the Khmer Rouge and refugees. But now, sitting here, I wonder why I never asked him how he handled those kids. Was he afraid to give them detentions for fear of retaliation? Did he tell them to leave their knives in their lockers?
Mr. Fitzpatrick closes my file. “Everything here looks good,” he says. “I know Sean told you about the school, so I won’t really get into that except to say that most of our kids are very needy. They need teachers who really care about them, and they can tell the dedicated teachers from the hacks. This isn’t the place to be if you can’t handle taking the job home with you at night.”
“I have no problem with long hours,” I say.
He looks at me evenly. “I’m not talking about your workload.”
He gets up and shakes my hand. “I think you’ll do well here.”
I can’t believe the interview is over so quickly. I’d rehearsed answers to all of the tricky questions I figured he’d ask, but he’s already leading me back into the corridor.
“What grade will I be teaching can I see my classroom is there a copy of the textbook?” I ask in one breath as he walks me toward the door.
“We’ll let you know what grade you’ll be teaching before school starts, and you’ll get your room assignment then.”
“But school starts in less than a week,” I remind him.
“Don’t worry; we usually have everything set by the time school starts.”
Usually?
“What about a textbook?” I ask.
“Oh, I suppose we can give you one, I think there are some seventh grade books in the closet. You could be teaching sixth or eighth, but at least you’ll have an idea of what to expect.”
At least I’ll have some reading material stave off the panic.
He leads me to a broom closet with dog-eared books piled floor-to-ceiling next to paint thinner and mops. He digs out a copy of the seventh grade literature text and hands it to me. It’s large and purple and it looks like a lot more reading than I can handle in just a few days, but somehow it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
As he walks me to the door he asks, “So, are you getting nervous?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Good. The ones who aren’t scared scare me.”