| |
It was all wrong. Middle school language arts? And in Hickory Grove? The only reason Greta agreed to apply for the position and accept an interview was to keep Maggie and Rhett happily out of her business.
What it came to feel like was that they were squarely inside of her business. Directing it, even. With Maggie, she didn’t mind so much. But with Rhett, Greta had the compulsion to turn back into her pre-teen self and tell him to bug out! or get lost!
Still, to see the hope in Ky, Dakota, and Briar’s little faces that Miss Greta might one day be their teacher... it was too much to ignore. However, there was Gretchen to think of. Gretchen hadn’t yet heard the news that Greta was thinking of staying in Hickory Grove. Would it upset her further? Would she assume that Greta would stay in the barn for the long haul?
She wouldn’t, of course. Because, for goodness’ sake, Greta was not taking a middle school language arts job in a town that barely had a stoplight, much less a dating scene.
She would do it to keep them quiet and placid as she rooted around harder for something else. Anyway, it didn’t hurt to start practicing her interview skills. But that night, Greta swore to herself she’d stop being so lackadaisical and really get down to business, scouring the internet for school districts and opening her mind to different cities. Different districts. She’d even follow up with Chicago Public Schools by personally reaching out to principals. That way she wasn’t lost in a backlog of online interest forms.
In the meantime, Greta would go into her old middle school, pray she didn’t know anyone on the hiring committee, make a half-hearted attempt to answer their questions, then get out of there. After all, she was still within the window for Chicago Public to get back to her without her reaching out to the principals. The online confirmation message promised a turn-around time of responding to her inquiry within one week. It was about to be one week.
Also, summer was nearly over. But that was a thought Greta simply pushed aside. Worst case scenario, she’d find a normal district. One where you started school in September, not August, for goodness’ sake!
Still, despite all of the reasons she should not teach in Hickory Grove, and despite her very vocal insistence that she was doing it just because I love you guys and it’ll be good interview practice anyway, a quieter, smaller voice from deep inside of her pushed on her heart, reminding her of the truth that she learned long, long before. When God closes a door, he opens a window. It was up to Greta to listen to that quiet, small voice. After all, even if she had better opportunities elsewhere, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.
Right?
It was the quiet, small voice that guided her through getting ready and putting together an outfit: a summery-but-serious pink chiffon dress with cap sleeves and a hemline that hit in the dead center of her knees and sensible-if-stylish espadrille wedges. She applied light makeup and drew wisps of her chunky blonde waves back from their typical position along her temples, pinning them in place with a pale pink barrette.
Greta wouldn’t normally select pink for an interview. Green or red, or even black, sure. But she couldn’t find her dressy blouses, and it was too hot for slacks. Anyway, she was often told that pink was her color, and her mother had always said that if you’re lucky enough to have a color, you simply must own it. So, with little to lose anyway, Greta did just that.
Maggie let her get ready in her bathroom rather than in front of the small mirror in the barn, but both locales were stuffy. The farmhouse was cooled by one, lone window AC unit, and so Greta had to get ready quickly enough that she could slip into her car where she’d blast the air and pray that she could stave off any anxiety sweat for the duration of the drive and her interview.
***
Once she had parked in the front lot at Hickory Grove M.S., Greta tucked her leather attaché neatly beneath her arm. Inside of it was a tube of lipstick, her wallet, keys, and extra copies of her résumé, printed weeks earlier at Indy Print and Paper. Though she’d already emailed the same document with her application, and though, again, this whole thing was really just a practice run, it wouldn’t hurt to show up prepared and snazzy. You never knew who was connected in the world of education, and she sure didn’t want H.G.M.S. to spread the word that a sloppy applicant was making the rounds. Greta insisted to herself that she maintain the high level of professionalism she’d developed over the years. She might be from Hickory Grove, but even if she knew anyone on the interview team, she hoped to impress them with her worldliness.
“Hi!” Greta beamed at the secretary, who sat in front of an oscillating fan at a dated computer.
The woman tore her attention from the screen and looked up, smiling broadly. “Well, now!” she gushed as she rose and crossed to the counter behind which Greta stood. “You must be Miss Greta Houston!” Her bubbly demeanor was disarming and welcome.
“That’s right,” Greta replied. “I’m here for an interview with Mrs. Cook.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress along her torso, feeling surprisingly at ease. It helped that the secretary was a new face. No one to embarrass herself in front of. No one to shrink in front of when they droned on about how they hadn’t seen little Greta Houston since she was knee-high to a grasshopper! She let out a breath and glanced beyond the kindly woman.
“They are just finishing up with the first one. Miss Danielle—I mean, Mrs. Cook—will be out shortly, dear. Take a seat if you’d like.” She gestured to a chair across from the counter, wooden and rigid, as old as the school building itself, no doubt. It was a wonder to Greta that the whole place didn’t feel more familiar. The shape was. And if she was pressed to, she could find just about any place or anything there, from muscle memory, but the bulletin boards and the general feel were somehow more comfortable and welcoming now than when she was in seventh or eighth grade. Perhaps, that made perfect sense.
Greta sat and regretted it. As soon as her weight hit the seat, nerves set in. Was it the reality of an interview? Or the fact that she wasn’t the lone candidate for the job? Who’d have thought Hickory Grove Middle School would have a long line of applicants? Was this Danielle Cook turning around the rural school system and drawing in fresh-faced, capable teachers from the four corners of Indiana? From across the river?
Greta closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, the secretary was bidding farewell to a perm-headed, slacks-wearing middle-aged woman. With a handbag slung over the shoulder of her blouse, she oozed confidence and a blasé attitude. She waved boldly at Greta. “May the odds be ever in your favor.” And then, with a wink and a chuckle, she left the building.
The woman’s parting line was from a YA dystopian novel that Greta had never read. Nor had she seen the movie based on said novel. She couldn’t even think of the title, blanking entirely. The woman who left was clearly in the loop on all things middle school language arts. Then there was Greta, certain she was too good for the job. Too academic and competent to be reduced to simple grammar and weekly spelling tests. And yet, she couldn’t even draw to her memory a blockbuster film that probably every single child in that school building was familiar with.
Did she learn nothing from her elementary subbing gig? Every grade level had its own demands, and there she was, pretending that her secondary English credentials would over-qualify her. She didn’t stop to consider whether she might actually be underqualified. She swallowed past the lump in her throat just as a curvy blonde woman strode out from the hall beyond the secretary’s front desk.
“You must be Greta?” The woman was classically beautiful and dressed to the nines in a pantsuit and hoop earrings. Her voice twangy but her face unfamiliar, she was southern, not local. At least, not that Greta could pin down. The entire prediction of Greta’s experience so far did not ring true. What happened to the lazy rural junior high from her youth? What happened to her idea that this place would be begging for her, not her for it?
“Yes.” Greta rose and stretched out her hand too early, walking like a goofy zombie to meet up with the woman in the passageway to the left of the reception counter. “Mrs. Cook?” Greta managed to squeak out as they finally connected for a firm shake.
The woman nodded and folded her hands in front of herself. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I saw in your C.V. that you’re from Hickory Grove?”
Greta followed her down a stuffy hallway back to the area where Greta, as a child, had always suspected the principal’s office sat. Her previous moment of familiarity and comfort washed away immediately on the short walk to the back offices. Greta felt more out of place than she ever had as an embarrassed pre-teen with a full mouth of braces and pimple-speckled forehead.
“That’s right. Born and raised. I’m...” as she began to comb her brain for an explanation of why she was suddenly back and looking for a job, a white lie formed on her tongue. She hated to fib, but there was no way the interview would go well if Greta confessed that this was all a well-intentioned ruse. “I’m moving back home. To be near family.” She swallowed then added for the sake of her own conscience, “Depending on... some things.” Shaking her head, Greta wanted to crawl inside her little brown satchel and disappear amongst the stubs of Ticonderoga pencils that had surely wedged their way into the bottom folds.
“Well,” Mrs. Cook turned to face Greta, her hand on a doorknob. “We are so excited to learn more about you today. Please,” she opened the door and gestured inside, “come in.”
Her eyes adjusted to the small room. Sunlight spilled in from a long window beyond four other faces, each partially reclined in broad-backed rolling desk chairs. Greta’s eyes passed from three women to one, lone man.
And that’s when the sweat started in. Greta’s throat tightened. Her chest tightened. Her grip on her satchel tightened to the point she thought the skin of her knuckles would crack and burst. At least it would distract from her flushed face.
It was him. The man from the diner. The impossible, dashing man who had locked eyes with her.
Though the other women stayed seated, he stood up, initially shoving his hands into khaki pockets then passing one hand over the lower half of his face.
The others didn’t seem to take notice of the quiet undercurrent throbbing between Greta and their colleague.
“Greta,” Mrs. Cook began, gesturing to the still-seated women. “That’s Mrs. Crabapple, our music teacher; Ms. Randall, our exiting English teacher; Ms. O'Neal, one of our math teachers; and” — Greta could have sworn Mrs. Cook paused for effect — “This is Coach Hart, our P.E. teacher.”
“Hart,” Greta murmured. Her face flushed even deeper, to the point where Greta wanted to sink into the hardwood floors, seep between the cracks like dust. Her mortification caused her to nearly miss the chance to take his hand in a warm, heartachingly warm, shake. “I mean Hart,” she tried to recover. “Hart, like...” her brain floundered around until she thought of someone—anyone she knew named Hart. There were dozens of them in town. It was more prominent a family than any, probably. “Like, um. You’re a Hart?” Greta’s eyes fluttered closed and her fingers drifted to her forehead, covering half her face as it melted into humiliation.
Fortunately, he was able to fill in the gaps. “That’s right. I didn’t grow up here, though. My dad was Kurt Hart. My mom’s name is May. She’s out in Louisville, though.”
The way he said it, that one word that only Kentuckianan’s could say just right, with the syllables flopping from three to two and sliding off his tongue, co-mingling into a soft landing in the air between them... it turned her knees weak, and she plopped into the chair Mrs. Cook had gestured to.
Turning her focus to the other women and then Mrs. Cook, Greta tried her best to shake it off. Heat slid down her neck and settled on her collar bones, turning from a sheet of red into splotches. Thank goodness her neckline rose high above her chest. She could at least pretend, now, to be the professional she felt like just ten minutes before. Nodding to Coach Hart now, she replied that she went to school with some Harts.
He didn’t take his eyes off of Greta, and she could feel it, but she refused to meet his gaze as he answered, “My cousins, probably.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Cook cut in. “It’s so great to have a real local. Several have retired recently, and we hope to bring a little of that flavor back to H.G.M.S. Isn’t that right?” She smiled warmly around the table. If the words came out of the mouth of any other principal, they’d fall flat, like insincere schmoozing. But Mrs. Cook was as genuine as they came. Dedicated, to be sure. Happy, too. Greta saw little bits of herself in the woman. Someone who felt passionately about education.
“Let’s begin with more about you, Greta,” Mrs. Cook continued, settling into her own seat between Coach Hart and the math teacher.
Taking a deep breath, Greta forced her attention on the principal and answered, surprising even herself with candid descriptions of her journey back to Hickory Grove.
After Greta finished her personal overview and fielded ten generic questions, she found she was back in place. More at ease. Comfortable.
Mrs. Cook smiled again at the group then at Greta, lacing her fingers on top of the white pages in front of her. “All right, Greta, one more question from us.” Greta swallowed, finally flicking a quick glance to Coach Hart. His eyes were on her, still. Had they ever left? She thought not.
She braced herself, and just as could be expected, Mrs. Cook asked the question Greta had danced around earlier. “So why Hickory Grove? Why your old stomping grounds?” The woman made a fist and swung it across her chest in an old-fashioned gesture of solidarity.
Greta took a deep breath. She had to be honest, above all else. No more half-truths or white lies. No, it wouldn’t do to admit that her top choices weren’t hiring (or, at least, they weren’t hiring her).
Swallowing and glancing around the table, Greta raised her palms. “You know? H.G.M.S. was not initially on my radar. I would love to teach high school English, and the allure of the bigger cities is hard to resist for someone my age. Someone—” she threw a quick look to Coach Hart (what was his first name! She was desperate to know!) “Someone who hasn’t settled down yet,” she went on, blinking past him and finding the right words. She had their attention. You could probably hear a straw of hay land; the round oak table was so quiet. “But my brother lives here, and so do some close friends. Some, er, some people I’ve grown close to. Maggie Devereux and her family.” She looked up, catching flickers of recognition among their faces, but still they kept quiet and waited.
“Well...” Greta paused to let out a long breath. “Well, the other night over supper, Maggie’s son, Ky, told us about Ms. Randall, and they asked if I might apply. Well, you see, I wasn’t too certain at first, since I really love teaching novels and poetry. I wasn’t sure if middle school would be the right fit, you know?”
Doubt swelled in her chest. Was she wrong to be so forthcoming? Was she going to shoot herself in the foot? Oh, what did it matter? She was not sure it was a good fit. The only reason she was feeling nervous now was because of the dashing stranger. He wasn’t so much a stranger. He was a quiet middle school P.E. teacher. Her eyes flashed to his hands, which, like Mrs. Cook, laid patiently on the pages in front of him. Big tanned hands folded on each other. His left was resting on top of the right. On his fingers, Greta detected no rings. No ring.
“Anyway,” she went on, clearing her throat, “The kids were so excited about it. It was feverish, their excitement. I realized maybe there was more to the age group than I had considered. Coming from subbing with elementary, I thought I might be scarred a little. You know, young boys and their talk of bodily functions.” The table roared to life with laughter, and Greta snapped out of her winding, poorly thought out explanation. She should feel embarrassed at her admission about the boogers and bathroom jokes, but some energy inside had taken over. A deep-seated truth that forced its way out. Smiling back at them, she regained her footing. “But my passions are two-fold. I love English, yes, and I love the teaching of it as much or more than I believe in teaching. So, really, as long as I have students and books, well... I’m a happy camper.”
Mrs. Cook glanced at the others, and it occurred to Greta she did not quite answer the question.
“Oh,” Greta interjected, holding a finger up. “May I add one more thing?”
“Please do,” Mrs. Cook replied, waving her hand generously.
“I think I answered a question that you didn’t ask. If it’s not obvious, I’m sort of grappling with my future a little.”
The others kept mum.
“I grew up in this town with my brother. Our parents raised us here. They loved it here. We weren’t a big family, but we were a happy one. Rhett—my brother that is—and I both moved away. I think we believed that happiness existed elsewhere. We wanted to see the world, I suppose. Neither of us got very far, but there you have it. Well, Rhett moved back recently. He reconnected with his old friends, the ones still in town. You know how small-town folks just seem to float away on a hope and a dream. Well, Rhett floated back. And he’s just... he’s just so happy. I don’t know if I can find that here. But, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I know that while I might have more chances to fan out and experience the world in a big city, I know that my first goal is to be a teacher. Have a classroom. Settle in for once. If you’re willing to take a chance on me with all my hemming and hawing, well, I’d love to make a go of it here.”
A smile brightened Greta’s face as the words rang true. Throughout the course of the interview, it all just snapped into place for her. Like through the questions, she found a piece of herself. She couldn’t make any promises, but that was all she needed: promise. There it was, sitting before her. The kind, committed principal, the handsome guy who, even if he alone wasn’t available surely indicated that handsome guys did exist in Hickory Grove. And the promise of working with kids. Reading books like The Secret Garden and whatever that other end-of-the-world teen favorite was (she told herself to head directly to the library and get her hands on it).
By the time Greta wrapped up her answer, she was no longer embarrassed to look up at Coach Hart. She felt like, in some way, she knew him all along. More than that, she felt like she knew herself, after all.
A small sigh fell out of Mrs. Cook’s lips, and she looked to the others. “Are there any more questions for Ms. Houston?” she asked.
They shook their heads, smiling politely. In all likelihood, Greta bombed the whole thing. Maybe she’d be piecing together emails to the principals from various Chicago Public Schools high schools. But at least she’d take away one thing. She could handle middle school. Especially if it came with a cute phys. ed. teacher.
“Great. And how about you? Do you have any questions for us?” Mrs. Cook lifted her eyebrows to Greta.
“Actually, yes. Just one.” Bolder now, Greta met the gaze of each interviewer, landing finally on the window behind them and the neat row of little old farmhouses that sat across the street from the school. “If everything works out, I will need to find a permanent residence. I’m staying with Maggie right now, you see. So, my question is: where can I find teacher housing?”