Nightwork, page 22
“I’d like to take a look, but I don’t want to waste your time. I’m here for a job interview, and if I don’t get it—”
“Well, welcome to Westbend.” She rose, swung on a jacket. “Tracey Newman.” She stuck out a hand.
“Sebastian Booth.”
“Welcome, Sebastian, and good luck with the job. Showing a house is never a waste of my time. My car’s right out back.” She gestured, started to lead the way. “What kind of job?”
“Teaching. The high school.”
“The new English teacher?”
“And theater.” Maybe, he thought, the town was too small after all.
“Right. My uncle’s assistant principal, so I heard they were looking for someone.” She led him out the back to a four-car lot and her compact SUV. “There’s some wiggle room on the list price—there always is—but it’s fairly steep on a teacher’s salary.”
“I have other sources of income. Family money,” he added after what he deemed came off, as intended, as a slightly embarrassed hesitation.
“Good for you, because it’s a sweet property. Coincidentally, Ms. Hubbard—the house belongs to Gayle and Robert Hubbard—is who you’ll be replacing when—not if—you get the job. I believe in positive thinking.”
She pulled out of the lot, took a side street. “She decided to retire and they’re moving to Kentucky to be closer to their daughter and grandkids. Her daughter married a horse trainer down there. Anyway, they’ve had subs in her classes since after winter break.”
She shot him a glance. “I’m going to give you an edge. If you can start pretty much now, they’d lean in your direction.”
“I thought it was August.”
“I’m giving you an edge. I take it you don’t mind being a little out of town.”
“Not at all. It’s on the water.”
“Great views of the river, the hills, the woods. There’s a small dock out back—the house faces the road, the river runs behind it. Mr. Hubbard’s a keen gardener, so it’s got nice curb appeal. Are you in the market for a boat?”
“Maybe a kayak. I like to kayak.”
“Rick’s Water Sports, the north end of Main. We believe in shopping local.”
“Okay.”
“So where are you from, Sebastian?”
“From Chicago originally, but I’ve been teaching at a private school in New York. I wanted a change.”
“A private school in New York to Westbend High?” She laughed. “I’d call that a change.”
She turned down a gravel road that cut through the woods and opened up to the house.
Two stories, a stone base topped by silvered cedar, it wasn’t a box, not with the jut to the south—probably an addition. A covered front porch and, he knew from the photo, a deck on the second floor in the back. A lot of windows, he noted, so a lot of light.
It looked sturdy and simple, warm and cared for, with a lawn he could mow and shrubs and ornamental trees he’d have to figure out.
He thought: Shit. Shit. It’s perfect.
Maybe Tracey caught his vibe, because she beamed at him again. “Let me be the first to welcome you home, Sebastian.”
She got out, gestured toward the house. “You can see, the property’s been well maintained. The interior—you’ll soon see Mrs. Hubbard liked strong colors—could use a little buffing up here and there. And you may want to tone down some of those strong colors.”
They walked up the three steps to the porch. “The roof’s only got five years on it. This porch needs a swing. They took theirs with them. Mr. Hubbard and their oldest son built it, so sentimental.”
She punched a code into the lockbox—which he noted and filed away out of habit—to retrieve the keys.
“No alarm system?”
“No, and they lived here thirty-six years without incident. But if you’re in the market, I can make some recommendations.”
She turned the key—standard lockset, Mission style in matte black, no dead bolt. The door opened into a living room/great room area—with fireplace and a sight line back to the kitchen, which told him they’d likely taken down some walls in the last decade.
He’d been right about the light—it just streamed in—and she hadn’t lied about the strong colors.
Mrs. Hubbard had gone with what he decided was something like terra-cotta, and it had impact with the turquoise of the built-ins that flanked the fireplace.
“A bold choice,” Tracey commented.
“Brave. Reminds me of my aunt.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“There is no bad way with my aunt.”
“That’s so sweet. So. You can see the floors are in great shape, and they run throughout. Mr. Hubbard’s a contractor, and they remodeled over the years. It’s good work.”
“I can see that.”
He let her ramble—half bath, main floor bedroom or home office, fully modernized kitchen, where the bold and brave Mrs. Hubbard had gone with a softer blue on the cabinetry and lots of glass fronts, a white granite island, a farm sink, and a backsplash that married the blues and terra-cottas in a pattern that reminded him of Italy.
But what he saw, really saw, was the view through the double glass doors to a slate patio and beyond. He saw the river and its lazy run.
“Laundry-slash-mudroom here, and dining area there. I tried to talk them into letting me stage it, but they waved that one off.”
She opened those glass doors, walked him out and around, talking about the grounds, the gardens, the little dock. He heard her data on the furnace, the water heater, and so on. But he knew he’d been sold the minute he’d seen the photo in the window.
The job remained the sticking point.
He asked the right questions, the questions a man who didn’t already imagine himself looking at those views for the next year or two of his life would ask, and toured the second floor.
He liked the master, with its atrium doors leading onto the deck, and its more-than-generous walk-in closet offered potential for a private work space. He’d have to live with the choice of lavender walls awhile, but holy shit, he had a bedroom fireplace. Small, gas burning, with a chunky wood shelf over it as mantel.
If and when he deemed it safe for Mags to visit, he had a guest room for her and Sebastien. And yet another bedroom with a walk-in closet. Not as generous as the master, but enough to alter his vague plans. The whole space could work for him.
No basement, and a carport rather than a garage, but an attic space. Another possibility.
“Want to toss out an offer?” Tracey asked him.
“I have to get one first. If I do, yeah, it’s what I’m looking for.”
“You ready for the interview?”
“I’m ready enough. It’s the day after tomorrow.”
“How about now?”
“Sorry?”
“Uncle Joe—assistant principal. And I’m in a book club with Lorna—Principal Lorna Downey. Why don’t I make a call, then drive you over there?”
“I’m … I’m not really dressed for a job interview.”
“Around here you are. Just give me a second.”
She took out her phone and wandered outside. He heard her say, “Hi, Lorna, it’s Tracey. Guess who’s taking a look at the Hubbard place?”
He’d planned to get a burger, drive around the area. He tried to avoid impulse because it often led to mistakes, and mistakes often led to five to ten in a state-run facility.
But …
Tracey strolled back in, closing and locking the doors behind her. “Principal Downey would be delighted to meet with you now.”
“Well, wow. Thanks. I think.”
“Tell you what. If you get the job, you buy me dinner. If you get the job and buy the house, I buy you dinner.”
He looked back at her, the pretty face, the take-charge attitude. “Sounds like a win for me.”
He felt the town suited his needs for a temporary respite. He felt the house more than suited his needs for privacy and ambiance.
The school, when he walked in, checked off the last box.
The kids looked like kids. Ripped jeans, slouchy hoodies, jerseys, the occasional short skirt.
Plenty of hair with colors not found in nature.
As he walked in during the change of classes, the hallways filled with noise. Voices, slamming lockers, pinging phones.
He noted a trophy case and the awards in it. Football, soccer, softball, track, lacrosse, cross-country, basketball.
Sports, sports, and more sports. He spotted one for chorus—all-county—and another for the debate team—regional champs. But sports dominated, and football dominated sports.
He followed the directions Tracey had given him and turned right, then left into the administration office.
The harried-looking woman at the counter gave Booth the eyeball, then flicked a glance back at the boy sulking on the other side of the barrier. “You get on back to class now, Kevin.”
He sulked his way out, and Booth caught the faintest whiff of pot clinging to his hoodie.
“Good afternoon.” Booth stepped up. “I have an appointment with Principal Downey. Sebastian Booth.”
“I know. She’s squeezing you in, throwing the rest of the day off schedule.” She pushed a button. “Principal Downey, your unscheduled appointment’s here.”
“Okay, Marva. Send him right in.”
Marva pointed to a door with the word PRINCIPAL etched on the frosted glass. “I reckon you can read if you’re after a teaching position.”
“Yes, ma’am, thanks. Sorry about the schedule,” he added as he crossed to the door.
Marva said, “Humph.”
Before he could knock, the door opened.
He’d researched Lorna Downey and knew she’d graduated from the school she now ran before pursuing her degrees at the University of Maryland. He knew she was a mother of three, grandmother of two. He knew she’d been married to Jacob Po for twenty-nine years.
He knew she was the same age—fifty-two—as the headmistress in Georgia. But that, as far as he could see, was where the similarity ended.
She was short and wiry with her highlighted brown hair whacked into a short cap. Brown eyes studied him as she reached out a hand to shake.
She wore a basketball jersey in the school colors of red and white. She had a tattoo on her ropey left biceps, in Mandarin.
“Mr. Booth, thanks for coming right in! Please excuse the wardrobe and the disarray. We’re having a rally for the basketball team.”
“I appreciate you fitting me in.”
“No problem, no problem.” She gestured to a chair before she crossed to her desk—and its current disarray. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He always felt obligated to explain. “I don’t really drink it.”
She nodded as she hit the pot on a hot plate for a mug. “And what planet are you from again?”
“The Planet Coke.”
She held up a finger, opened the door of a little cold box. She had a bright red tracker watch on her wrist.
“Only got Pepsi.” She offered him a bottle.
“I’ll suffer through it without judgment.”
She sat, leaned back, studied him over the rim of the mug as she drank her coffee black. “You have an impressive application. Résumé’s a little thin with all the traveling you’ve done.”
“Seeing the world, visiting countries where English isn’t the first language is another form of education.” He gave a slight nod to her tattoo. “‘Teachers open the door but you must walk through yourself.’ I wanted to try a lot of doors.”
“You read Mandarin?”
“A little.”
“I didn’t notice that on your list.”
“Only a little, so I can’t claim to be fluent.”
“But you are in several other languages. Still, you’ve opted to focus on English and theater as an educator.”
“I did some tutoring in high school and in college, so I knew where I wanted to focus. I didn’t know I wanted to teach at all, really. I considered it a fallback sort of thing, until I didn’t.”
“A man in your position, financially, doesn’t need a fallback.”
“Travel’s educational. It’s exciting and it’s satisfying, but it’s not a purpose. It took me some time, but I figured out I wanted to open doors.”
“That’s a good answer.” She took another long sip of coffee. “I just got off the phone with the headmistress of your school in New York.”
“How is she?”
“She seems well, and very sorry to lose you. She had a great deal of complimentary things to say about your intellect, but I could glean that myself by the transcripts. She tells me you have a way of connecting with students, and a skill for reading the room. A true love for education and the arts.”
Nice job, Mags, he thought.
“I appreciate all of that. My mother and my aunt gave me the gift of books, the love of stories. Books and theater tell stories, and can draw students in, open those doors, encourage questions, participation, build confidence.”
“I agree. And still, Westbend is a long way from New York, in distance, in culture, in pace. And Westbend High’s a long way from a fancy private school.”
No pushover, this Principal Downey, he thought. And realized he wanted the damn job, this damn job, as much as he wanted that damn house.
He wouldn’t charm his way into it, not with this woman, and he figured her bullshit meter was fine-tuned.
So straight truth.
“Which is why I’m here. I had an interview with a private academy a few days ago, and I realized immediately, it wasn’t a good fit. If they offer me the position and you don’t, I’ll take it because I want to teach, but it wouldn’t be my first choice. I want to teach in a structure that isn’t so rigid and privileged, where the students come from the area. Where they live where they learn. I want that sense of community and connection.
“You don’t have a Shakespeare Club.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “No, we don’t.”
“You have the Drama Club, and that’s important for the students who have that passion. Down on the feeding chain, I expect, and understand, from the football team, basketball, and so on. I get that. But Shakespeare can speak to a lot of young minds if you open the door the right way. And once they walk through, worlds open. I’d like to start one, if I join the staff here.”
“I’ll warn you it would be on your own time, and a very small group.”
“I’ve got time, and starting small isn’t a problem.”
She sat back again, swiveled left and right in her chair. “Let’s talk a little about your teaching philosophies, and the rules of the road—such as they are at WHS.”
They talked another thirty minutes, during which he realized he liked her on a personal level, and he wanted to work with her nearly as much as he wanted the job and the house.
“You’re young,” she added, “and damn good-looking. Please don’t sue me for that observation. They’ll think they can eat you alive.”
He smiled. “They’ll find out I’m hard to chew and tougher to swallow.”
She swiveled again. “How soon can you start?”
“Really?”
“They’re making mincemeat out of the subs in Hubbard’s classes, because they can. And because they can, they’re not learning on the level they should be. The spring musical is both important and popular, and they haven’t picked the play, held auditions.”
“Grease. It’s relatable because it’s about high school. The costumes and makeup aren’t complicated. You can tailor the choreography to the skill sets. I’d need to look at the space, see the tech, but that’s an easy pick, especially if you’re pressed.”
She set the mug aside, rubbed lightly at her eyes. “We did Grease … it has to be ten or twelve years back. I was still teaching, hadn’t moved into administration. Big hit. So I repeat, when can you start?”
He decided to echo Tracey. “How about now?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It wasn’t quite that simple, but it was close.
Within two weeks he bought the house, and moved right in by agreeing to rent it until closing.
He met his fellow teachers, attended his first basketball game, familiarized himself with those who’d be his students.
Instagram and TikTok were treasure troves there, and Facebook filled in from the parental and grandparents end of things.
He did the paperwork and paid the fees to authorize the school’s performance of Grease, and posted a notice for auditions. Posted another for a Shakespeare Club.
He had to furnish the house, outfit the kitchen, and he shopped local. Slowly, carefully, he began to knit himself into the fabric of the community. Being part of the whole meant you blended in.
Outsiders stuck out.
He felt confident at the head of a classroom, and mildly terrified of producing and directing a high school musical.
Some did try to chew and swallow, but he’d prepared for that.
It started on day one, class one.
The smirking kid in the back of his lit class had a smattering of teenage acne and a bad attitude.
Since the sub had assigned To Kill a Mockingbird the week before, he opened the class to discussion. And the smirking kid called out.
“What’s the point of reading stuff by dead white guys anyway? It’s got nothing to do with now.”
“Actually, Harper Lee’s a dead white woman, and I take it—it’s Kirby, right?”
He noted the boy’s surprised reaction to being addressed by name.
“Yeah, so?”
“I take it you haven’t cracked the book as yet or you’d know this particular story has a great deal to do with now. Since you haven’t, you can listen to the discussion, which today’s going to explore the narration of Scout, a young white girl, and the racial stereotypes, racism, and racial injustice—all of which still exist in the now—she relates throughout the story.”
Kirby shrugged, folded his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes as if taking a nap. Snickers ensued.
“And, Kirby, after reading the assigned book, you’ll write an essay—five hundred words—supporting your statement, or mine. Your choice.”
