I slide my sunglasses on top of my hair, lean back, and squint up at what may be the biggest mistake of my life.
Bigger than wearing all-natural deodorant to my first real, post-college job interview.
Bigger than chasing Chris Pratt through the airport yelling, “But I love you!”
Bigger than discovering that the man I thought was Chris Pratt was actually a very fit and well-respected Baptist preacher on holiday with his wife and their four Virginia Tech football-playing sons.
Above my head, tall, royal blue letters in a neo-gothic font spell out “Rotheberg High School—Home of the Fighting Edelweiss.”
The Fighting Edelweiss?
I moved three thousand miles across the country to teach for a school whose mascot is a tiny, white flower with boxing gloves? I knew they were the Edelweiss—I looked at the website before I took the job, of course—but it never really sank in, until now. And now, it’s beginning to feel like a very big mistake.
Unlike the rest of the Charming Town of Rotheberg—that’s a phrase pulled directly from their shiny tri-fold brochure—the high school was not built in a Bavarian style. No half-timbered buildings with steep roofs and carved railings holding overloaded window boxes here.
Except for the backdrop of thick pine forests and soaring mountain peaks—covered this morning with a fluffy new layer of snow—and the huge red cinder cone the town was named for, RHS looks like every other high school built since the turn of the twenty-first century. A broad concrete plaza leads to a tall, modern glass entryway, with the name and mascot emblazoned above.
Home of the Fighting Edelweiss.
Shaking my head, I step through the big double doors and suck in a deep breath of that familiar high school smell—fast food, white board marker, and sweaty socks.
Then I stagger against the glass, choking, as the ammonia hits the back of my nose.
A woman’s laughter, low and inviting, catches me by surprise. “I should have warned you the janitors are working today.”
I turn toward the voice, my eyes taking in the miles-wide lobby, the massive hand-drawn pictures above the hallways, and the tall tables and stools pushed to one side of the vast room. A ride-on vacuum stands silent by an open door, the light inside the room revealing cleaning supplies. Wide steps lead to doors marked “auditorium,” and behind a metal security gate, I catch a glimpse of a lunch line complete with posters of anthropomorphic vegetables extolling the virtues of a balanced diet.
A tall, athletic-looking woman with short, sleek blond hair strides toward me from a hallway on my left. “I’m Rachel Foster. You must be Jamie O’Callaghan.” Her hand closes around mine in a firm shake. “I’m the head of the math department. Welcome to the first department meeting. Do you want to see your room?” She swings around, heading back down the hallway without waiting for an answer.
“Department meeting?” I hurry behind her, taking three steps for every two of hers. “I didn’t get the impression it was a large department.” I tuck a stray curl behind my ear—if I’d known I’d be meeting others, I would have dressed up a bit. Or at least combed my hair.
“Just you and me, kid.” Rachel stops by an open door and waves me through. “Here you are: B-8. Change whatever you want. Piper left some things here. And the subs have been, well, ‘sub’ is a good description this year.”
I stare at the disaster before me. Okay, “disaster” might be a bit harsh. The floor is clean, the trashcan has a new, white liner, and the windows sparkle in the Friday morning sun. The bobblehead collection on the windowsill is kind of cute. But the stacks of papers and books on the counters that line two walls are intimidating at best. And the K-Pop posters pinned above the upper cupboards leave me non-plussed.
“What happened to my predecessor? Principal Sartori said something about skiing? I gathered there might have been an accident?”
“Accident? Well, there was one, but Piper wasn’t the victim.” Rachel perches on the edge of one of the desk-and-chair combos lined up across the classroom. “Our own Piper Weston was first runner-up for the national ski team. When Marcy Randall tore her ACL last month, Piper got called up to the show.”
“She quit her job to go skiing?”
“Not just to go skiing—she’s on the Olympic team.”
“The Olympics? Wow.” I wave at the K-Pop posters. “I would have expected winter sports, not BTS.”
“Winter sports are big here, so they’re everywhere. Putting up skiing posters would be like papering your classroom in DC with pictures of local politicians.”
I shudder at the thought. “Believe me, no one wants that. And I wasn’t really in DC.”
“Arlington.” She’s obviously read my resume. “Spent some time there myself back in the day. It’s all DC to us. Three thousand miles away. Where it belongs. I don’t blame you for running away. Although October seems an odd time to make a change.” The statement comes out flat, the unstated question obvious.
“The opening here was serendipitous.” I turn and stroll along the counter, avoiding her gaze by poking through the piles. They look like daily assignments dating back four, no five, weeks. All of them ungraded. Ugh. “I’d been looking for a new placement—in fact, I interviewed in Portland.”
I don’t tell her that was five years ago, right after I finished grad school. And I’d only applied for the job because my mother thought I should see another part of the country before settling down so close to home. Luckily—or unluckily, it now appeared—they hadn’t offered me the job.
I also don’t tell her why I left Arlington only a few weeks into the school year. Maybe when we know each other better—and when the hurt has dulled—we’ll go there.
At my last teaching job, I met Will. He was older and the head of the human relations department at my huge Northern Virginia school district. He was also, I found out many months into our relationship, married. When I threatened to blow the whistle, he got me released from my contract, and I moved to Rotheberg.
For now, I flip through the second stack of papers. “When this one came open, it was less-than-perfect timing, but you needed someone, and I was ready to move.” I spin around and raise an eyebrow. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Not on your life!” Rachel slides off the table and opens the top drawer of the desk. “You can’t get away that easily. I’m just surprised you were able to get out of your contract in October.”
“There were… special circumstances.” Circumstances I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about anymore now that I was across the country.
She gives me a long, slow look, then holds out a piece of paper. “Here’s your schedule. Three math classes in the morning. Fourth period is your prep, but you’ll also monitor the freshman/sophomore study hall three days a week.” She holds up a hand to forestall my complaint. “I know, but we’re short-staffed. It does net you a little extra cash, and you'll need it around here. Fifth and sixth are trigonometry. Seventh is culinary.”
I take the page, staring down at the paper. “Seventh is what, now?”
“Baking class. Principal Sartori is trying to revitalize the culinary program. It used to be a big draw but kind of crumbled after Mrs. Fisher retired. She was amazing.” Rachel kisses her fingers, like a sitcom actor in an episode about France.
“No one said anything about cooking classes. I teach math. That’s what my credentials say. Math, physics, and basic comp sci. No cooking.” I read the paper again, as if the force of my glare will melt the ink and change it from “baking” to “programming.”
“You might want to check your contract.” She stands. “They all say ‘other duties as assigned’ or something like that. That’s the only way a small school like ours can offer so many electives. My undergrad transcript shows I took an improv class my freshman year, so I get to teach Acting One. Wanna trade?”
She hands me a royal blue lanyard with “Rotheberg High School” emblazoned in gold letters and little white flowers embroidered between the words. “Keys to the front door, the teacher’s lounge, this room, and culinary. Do what you need to do to get ready for Monday.” She points to the left. “My classroom is right here—pop in if you need any help—I’ll be here all day. Oh, and you have an appointment at the district office at three to sign papers and get your ID.” She waves and disappears.
“But I can’t teach baking!” I wail to the empty classroom.
