New Lessons

1 - The Assistant Principal

Miranda Daniels was never what one would call a strong woman. She had one particular kind of strength, if one can call it that: perseverance. She kept her head down, did the work, expected no praise or big recognition. As a student, she was what teachers considered a steady, dependable, responsible girl– but by no means a brilliant student, not one for lively intellectual debate or sudden outbursts of creativity; however, she always did her homework on time, had a perfect attendance record, took in advice and correction well. Those traits extended to her college years, where she passed through like an ethereal ghost, leaving no mark behind, making no notable memories for herself or anyone else. She was always That Girl, the one that if ever came up in conversation prompted around a minute of effort to place, until finally the person remembered her like one remembers a distant dream and went “oh, that girl”, before moving on to more interesting topics.

If some people found her beautiful, it was in the way one might find a meek breeze pleasant, or a particular leaf a bit pretty: a brief, purely aesthetic experience. She wasn’t bad to look at, but nobody felt that primal desire, that absolute need to be with her, to feel her skin, to escape with her to some faraway land and shout love from the mountaintops. Sure, she had her sexual experiences, but they were less torrid affairs and more friends with benefits that reached for her because, well, she was there and there was nothing and no one better to do in that moment of their lives.

It might seem strange, therefore, that of all careers she chose to take up teaching. Most teachers either have a performer’s soul or took up the job after washing up in other fields. Miranda never considered other professions and the mere idea of a spotlight made her stomach turn. It mystified those who knew her, but to Miranda teaching was a sort of cosmic correction for her own experiences. Too often the flashy students, good or bad, got all the attention. She wanted to reward consistency, hard work, orderly organization of tasks and ideas. In short, she wanted to teach herself, the girl she had been. Those kinds of kids liked her quite a bit, because she was predictable: if you did things on time and presented them in a neat fashion, your grades would be good. No fuzz, no stress. The problem was the other kids. Miranda didn’t know how to handle them. The brilliant students despised her as she refused to move a single inch away from her planned lessons to engage with more advanced or intriguing topics. The troublemakers saw her as an endless source of entertainment: she simply couldn’t handle them. She got flustered, stuttered, squirmed before kicking them out of the classroom. She couldn’t command fear nor inspire respect. She tried her best, though. It just so happened that her best wasn’t good enough sometimes. And these were seniors! Supposed adults!

She tried not to think about it too much. When she got home to her small apartment, she focused on grading, preparing lessons, feeding her cat and herself, making sure her clothes for the next day were ready, clean and pressed. It wasn’t that she was unintelligent, far from it: she was smart enough to know that stopping to think would only give her acute misery, unlike the low, constant, ambient sadness she felt.

So her life went, and so she imagined it would go indefinitely. She would retire, take up a hobby and pass from the world unremarkable and unremarked upon.

Fate, if there’s such a thing, had other ideas and it chose, with a touch of sadistic mischief, to manifest in the form of Brandon Christman, brand new Assistant Principal.

Of all the background characters in a school, none are as pivotal as an Assistant Principal. They can be as invisible as they wish, and many indeed do choose this path; but when they decide to matter, they truly matter. They know the kids and teachers closely, unburdened by the distance in authority that a Principal has and cherishes; they can talk to teachers as equals, somewhat, and they often handle the trouble kids when the boss is too lazy to be bothered by brats, which is almost always. A school can thrive or rot because of a single Assistant Principal.

All these truths Miranda knew, and so when the new member of the staff was introduced at the start of the school year, she watched him closely.

Something didn’t sit right with her, and it took her a while to figure out what it was, but when she did she decided she absolutely hated him. He was young, like her– both in their mid twenties; but unlike her, his eyes spoke of a wealth of experiences, of varied adventures and a library of colorful anecdotes, as if he had not lived longer than her, but lived more, faster, better.

He was handsome and knew it, exuding that calm confidence of those that had nothing to prove, since their attractiveness was, to them, a given. He had an easy smile and a hearty laughter, a spellbinding rhetorical style typical of master storytellers, a presence that somehow filled every room he walked into. Little wonder that half the female teachers and a portion of the older student body crushed on him. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that he was good at his job. Great, even. The kids loved him and he always took time to check on them. He offered advice, comfort, a friendly ear; and even the toughest of cases saw him not as an enemy but a big brother who didn’t judge them for their deeds but understood the deep motivations behind them, addressed them, showed them a better way to manage their feelings.

All this he did effortlessly, going from person to person with the natural grace of a butterfly fluttering between flowers. Every now and then at meetings he would offer a piece of cryptic knowledge that revealed the depth of his empathy and relationship with the students. “Look, he’s having a bad time– we might want to praise his efforts, even if he fails a course”, or “Don’t remark on her new clothes”, or even “Don’t put them in a group project together, they have a… history”. It was as if he knew the internal life of everyone in the school, their dreams, their needs. They opened up to him and he never betrayed their confidence, never explaining the reasons behind his little tidbits of advice to the staff; he simply stated what would be best for each kid, and quickly was proven correct over and over again.

In short, he was everything she wasn’t. He got results without effort, he almost casually surpassed her in the esteem of everyone, including herself. She had worked diligently to be as good as she could; he was better just naturally. Whatever it was, he had it and she didn’t. He was a star, and she was a workhorse.

One can imagine, therefore, Miranda’s feelings when he asked to see her in his office. If students feared the principal’s office, teachers were downright terrified of it. Nothing good ever came from a summons by the administration. At best, the paperpusher du jour had gotten an idea which inevitably resulted in an increased workload for the teacher; at worst, it meant getting chewed out by someone who wouldn’t last a week managing a real classroom.

That Miranda hated Brandon only deepened the dreadfulness of the situation, and what she saw as soon as she walked in was enough to cement her instinct that the meeting would be awful in some anxiety-inducing, impossible to predict way.

Papers littered the desk, with no discernable order or organization. Some of them were letters from students and parents. Miranda felt her rage flare up. Her only interactions with parents were the unpleasant meetings in which they complained to her about the disciplinary actions taken against their little brats. Well, if you did your job, Miranda always thought, I wouldn’t have to kick your spawn out of my classroom. She knew, of course, that she was deflecting, trying to focus away from the man behind the desk.

He looked so kind. So effortlessly self-assured. So caring. It made her want to vomit. He hadn’t fought like she had– for men like him, things came naturally as rain. Even his voice commanded attention without the need to raise it a single decibel.

“Miranda, thank you so much for joining me. Please, take a seat! Want a mint?”

She sat down. Let’s get this over with, she figured.

“No, thank you”

“Oh. I’ll have one. I swear, these things are addictive!”

Small talk. Fucking small talk. Great.

“I’m not big on sweets”, she replied while trying her best not to let her contempt show. If Brandon noticed it, it rolled off him like so much water.

“I have such a sweet tooth… and don’t get me started on ice cream! I could eat only ice cream for every meal”

“Yes, ice cream is good”

“Anyway, first of all, I know how this feels. It sucks. Talking to the administration sucks, it has always sucked. But let me assure you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I’m not here to deliver a lecture or anything like that. You’re the pro here, and you’re good at what you do. Very good”

Miranda shifted in her seat.

“I’m not sure everyone would agree”

“Well, obviously. No one can be all things to all people. Kids are so varied, no teacher will ever reach them all in the same way. But let me tell you, there’s a whole contingent of students that love you! Sure, they’re not the loudest, but the kids that grind, that keep their nose down and do the work? They respect you, they really do. You give them stability, something they can count on. You are clear about what you require, give the right guidance and grade accordingly. And yes, some might want a different style, but to me variety is crucial. They need to learn to do the work, rather than rely on smarts or natural charisma”

It was maddening. Nothing he said could be taken as anything but praise, and yet there was an undercurrent of scorn– one, Miranda knew, she might well be imagining; but to her, the hidden insult was something like “you’re good for the boring ones, and the bright ones see right through you.” Of course, she couldn’t respond to that, so, after quickly racking her brain she came back with a limp, lame “thank you.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I have your back. And just in case you want to add another tool to your kit, I’ll send you some audio files designed to boost confidence. I know, I know. It sounds like new age mumbo jumbo. And it might be, I don’t know. I do know my sister in law used them to give herself a little jumpstart when she started a sales job and she swears by them. She talks my brother’s ear off about how amazing they are, the poor man. But apparently they did wonders for her, so hey, if it works, it works. But please let me be clear: you don’t have to listen to them. This is not one of those “suggestions” from higher ups that are actually orders. Who am I to give you orders? I’m just an administrator, you do the real job around here. So, listen to them if you want, or delete them if you want. I just wanted to let you know you are valued here, and maybe give you something to make you even better. And if I can ever be of help, my door is always open”

And so it ended. Miranda was mystified. Was that it?

Her phone blipped with a notification. The files had arrived at her work email. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d ever listen to the damn things.