Misconduct

Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.

I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own – which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.

My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.

What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?

“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”

And then she patted me on the back, like I’d needed comforting, and walked out.

They can get invasive?

I cocked an eyebrow and stepped up to the large side-by-side windows lining the wall to rearrange the plants on the sill. Peering out the windows, I noticed that the sun had set and parents and students were stepping out of expensive cars, making their way into the school.

The manicured ladies meddled with their children’s hair, while the fathers conducted business on their phones.

I spun around, heading for my classroom door to prop it open.

I knew how to handle invasive.

Over the next couple of hours, parents and students filtered in and out of the room, following their class schedule to meet every teacher and learn their class route. Since my students would be mostly freshmen, I had a great turnout. Most parents wanted their sons and daughters to have the lay of the land before their first day of high school, and judging by the sign-in sheet I’d asked parents to fill out, I’d met almost two-thirds of my kids and their families. The ones I hadn’t met, I would try to call or e-mail this week to introduce myself and “open the lines of communication.”

I moved around the room, introducing myself and chatting with families here and there but mostly just watching. I’d adorned the walls with some maps and posters, while a few artifacts and tools used by historians and archeologists sat on tables and shelves. They moved from one area to another, taking in the clues I’d left as to what we’d study this year.

Even though I had about a hundred eighty days with the students, this was the night that was the most important. Seeing how your future student interacted with their parents offered a good indication of what to expect during the school year.

Which parent did they seem to fear more? (That’s the one you would call when there was trouble.) How did they speak to their parents? (Then you’d know how they’d speak to you.)

A couple parents and kids still flitted around the room, but as it was almost end time, everyone was starting to leave.

“Hi.” I walked up to a young man who’d been slouched in one of the desks for a while, sitting alone. “What’s your name?”

The kid wore earbuds and played on his phone, but he shot his eyes up at me, looking annoyed.

I wanted to sit down and spark up a conversation, but I could already feel the apprehension. This one was defiant.

Catching sight of the name tag the PTA had stuck to the left of his chest when he’d showed up tonight, I held out my hand.

“Christian?” I smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m E—” But I stopped and corrected myself. “Ms. Bradbury,” I amended. “Which class will you be joining us for?”

But then his phone beeped, and he sighed, pulling out his earbuds. “Do you have a charger?” he asked, looking impatient.

I dropped my hand and tilted my chin down, eyeing him. Thank goodness I didn’t believe in first impressions; otherwise I might have been irritated at his lack of manners.

He waited for me to answer, staring at me with blue-gray eyes beneath black hair, stylishly mussed, and I waited as well, crossing my arms over my chest.

He rolled his eyes and gave in, finally looking at the piece of paper lying on the desk. “I’ll be joining you for US History,” he answered, his flippant tone putting me on edge.

I nodded and took the paper, creased with half a dozen folds. “And where are your parents?” I inquired.

“My mother’s in Egypt.”

I noticed that he was in my first-period class and handed the paper back to him. “And your father?” I prodded.

He sat up, stuffing the paper into the back pocket of his khakis. “At a city planner’s meeting. He’s meeting me here.”

I watched him stand up and smooth a hand down his black shirt and khaki and black necktie. He was nearly as tall as me.

I straightened and cleared my throat. “A city planner’s meeting?” I questioned. “On a Sunday night?”

His white teeth shone in a condescending smile. “Good catch,” he commended. “I asked him the same question. He ignored me.”

I arched an eyebrow, immediately discerning that he and his father didn’t get along. What were they going to be like in the same room together?

He affixed the earbuds back into his ears, getting ready to tune me out. “If I give you any grief, it’s best just to call my mother in Africa rather than deal with my father,” he told me. “Just a tip.”