DR. MIGUEL BARRIOS, EdD, often joked that he wasn’t fat: he was Texas-sized, and everything was bigger in Texas. Except, apparently, the press-conference area in the lobby of district headquarters.

There, behind a lectern, facing a congregation of his supporters, stood Nick Wallabee: The man with the answers. The man who needed no introduction.

“I want to start by thanking our teachers for all they do. Please, everyone, give our teachers a hand.” It was a strange choice for an opening line, given Wallabee’s reputation, but maybe thanking teachers for all they did was so mandatory even someone like Nick Wallabee had to do it.

Dr. Barrios joined in the polite applause as he wedged his bulk farther into the group. He’d expected a bigger crowd, one in which he could have concealed himself while he waited for the right moment, but this would have to do. He inched toward a spot where he hoped the superintendent could see him and the cameras couldn’t. For a principal, unexpected media attention never brought anything good.

Wallabee pounded the lectern. “We are lucky to have some outstanding teachers in this city who believe that all of our children can learn!”

The cameras panned the area to capture the growing applause. Dr. Barrios turned away from them, examining the faces behind him. There were no actual teachers at the event. They were at work today, setting up for the year ahead. He, too, would have liked to be at work. He’d missed his own back-to-school meeting for this, leaving a district presenter in charge. This might have seemed negligent to some, but Dr. Barrios knew that repairs, supplies, and other favors came more easily when a principal could get the right person on the phone. Beginning today, that person was Nick Wallabee.

And so Dr. Barrios was here, wearing one of his newer shirts, crammed in among the cluster of admirers who’d come to see the new superintendent announce the Believers Make Achievers Zone. This was to be a group of schools with poor students and poor test scores that the superintendent would handpick for special attention. It was unclear, at this point, what believing meant, but Wallabee had famously promised to assign a numeric value to it and show its link to achieving, which meant test scores. Mr. Weber and the union contingent had grumbled mightily about this. Apparently Global Schoolhouse Press, which had published Nick Wallabee’s book, also produced Texas’s standardized tests.

But Dr. Barrios was not here to dig up snakes. He was here to make sure his new boss understood what his previous bosses had understood: the principal of Brae Hill Valley High School was the kind of likeable guy whose school didn’t need special attention. All he needed were some basics, like flexibility in the budget to renew the copy-machine warrantee and hire a couple of extra security guards, plus some breathing room so he and his teachers could work in peace. In return, he was happy to make his boss look good. He hoped his smile from the middle of the throng conveyed all of this to Nick Wallabee.

It was unclear what Wallabee noticed, however. The superintendent’s voice was building to a righteous rumble as he courted the cameras and crowd. “I’ve always said we should pay our top educators the way we pay our top professional athletes!”

The crowd bubbled with approval. Dr. Barrios nodded along, though he sensed Wallabee was pulling back the slingshot.

“We should hold parades for our best teachers! We should fill stadiums with fans of our best teachers!”

Dr. Barrios had to admit it: the guy was a master of the applause line.

“Unfortunately”—Wallabee’s voice dropped, his face suddenly serious—“we also have schools in which teachers do not believe in children the way they should, and the test scores at these schools reflect that.”

Dr. Barrios rearranged his face to express the appropriate level of concern. Part of him hated this willingness he’d developed to express outrage on demand, to shake hands and smile and laugh at unfunny jokes. Yet a larger part was proud. Miguel Barrios, son of a father who’d worked too hard for too little and a mother who’d spent most of his teenage years dying, hadn’t just gotten his degrees, though he’d done that, too. He’d decoded the unwritten instructions not covered in any doctor-of-education courses and—mostly—used this knowledge to benefit his school.

Certainly, no one would call him a visionary or publish a book with his face on the cover. But he took pride in being a principal who remembered the view from the front of the classroom. He’d worked hard to make Brae Hill Valley a place where teachers could focus on their jobs and block out the clanking machinery that kept the whole system chugging forward.

The occasional photo op was a small sacrifice toward this end.

“I know there are some adults”—Wallabee’s tone had changed so completely that he nearly spat the word adults—“who take issue with being held accountable for our kids. But my priority here is children! I remember something my mama used to tell me. She would say, ‘Son, sometimes you got to break a few eggs to make an omelet.’ And you know I didn’t argue with my mama.” He paused for a few audience laughs before continuing. “And when that omelet is our children, and when those eggs are cheating our children of the education they deserve, then I declare those eggs public enemy number one!” With that, the superintendent abruptly stepped from behind the lectern, exchanging handshakes and shoulder clasps with supporters as he glided toward the exit.

The moment had come. Positioning himself near the door, Dr. Barrios reached out for a camera-friendly handshake. “Great speech. I’m Dr. Miguel Barrios, principal over at—”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Barrios.” Wallabee did not extend his hand.

Someone pushed open the door, and Wallabee stepped into the sunlight. The camera crews followed, brushing past Dr. Barrios as if to underscore how quickly his chance had come and gone.

Except it couldn’t end like this. Whatever his ambitions for the future, Wallabee was new in town. He’d soon learn it helped to have a friendly principal around. When he figured it out, the first name that sprung to mind had to be Miguel Barrios, EdD.

Dr. Barrios pushed through the doors, scrambling through Texas’s late-summer humidity to catch up with the superintendent. “I just want to be one of the first folks to welcome you to our district and say we’d love to have you visit Brae Hill Valley High School.” This was a lie. Principals didn’t want a visit from the superintendent any more than teachers wanted a visit from the principal. But it was a friendly lie.

Wallabee edged toward the nearest camera before answering. He wore a layer of chalky makeup that was disconcerting up close. “I’ll be paying close attention to your school, Dr. Barrios. I assure you of that.”

“That’s great to hear.” This was an even bigger lie. “And don’t forget to come on down and watch the Killer Armadillos play some football.” Dr. Barrios followed this with the type of smile that football-lovin’ Texan men gave one another when talking about football-lovin’ Texan subjects.

“Well, I do love a good football game as much as the next person, Dr. Barrios.” Then, having reassured Texas of his love for football, Wallabee turned fully toward the cameras. “But I’m expecting school leaders to stand up for student achievement, not just sit in the stands defending the status quo.”

Defending the status quo. The line dropped onto Dr. Barrios with an almost physical force. Accusing someone of defending the status quo in education was like accusing them of defending Goliath in the story of David and Goliath. It was a charge that had to be answered. But this was the new boss, and Dr. Barrios had come here for a reason… The fishbowl of heat closed in on him, beading sweat along his hairline.

Wallabee, with his thick coating of makeup, should have been sweating, too. Yet the superintendent seemed impervious to the weather. His skin was unreflective, his hair unmoving. “We’ve got too many students who can win on the football field but not in college and the workforce.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I just thought you’d enjoy our tradition of…” Dr. Barrios’s voice trailed off as a microphone nudged closer. Buzzwords failed him.

Nick Wallabee gazed deep into the lens of a camera. “Our children deserve teachers and school leaders who will make sure they win in life.” Then he turned and pointed a forefinger at Dr. Barrios’s chest. “So I ask you, Dr. Barrios: Are you a leader who will do whatever it takes to win for children?”

The correct answer was clearly an enthusiastic yes, but Wallabee did not wait for an answer. A woman with a headset whisked him away to pose for another picture.

Another picture. A damp realization settled upon Dr. Barrios: Nick Wallabee’s speech hadn’t ended at the lectern inside the building. And he didn’t need a picture of himself shaking hands with a principal. He needed a picture of himself putting a principal on notice. He needed someone to represent the status quo. He needed a Goliath.

Suddenly, Dr. Barrios felt very much like Goliath—heavy, out of breath, and dizzy from an unexpected impact. He imagined the teachers at his school, putting the finishing touches on their classrooms and first-day lesson plans. Tomorrow, they’d see his picture in the paper and learn he’d cemented their spot in the Believers Make Achievers Zone, with all that this designation entailed.

How he longed to be in his truck, with its air-conditioning and privacy and large, soft seats. But the parking lot in front of him seemed endless. It radiated heat, blurring the air, sticking him to the ground where he stood. He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, feeling wet spots under his arms where sweat had soaked through the fabric.

It wasn’t until he dropped his arm that he saw it: one lingering camera, still pointed in his direction, filming his response.