Mystic Summer by Hannah McKinnon Page B

the school year, I decide it’s time to share the news of my possibly imminent unemployment.
    â€œThey haven’t decided anything yet,” Evan says sympathetically, when I tell him the next morning on the phone. “The dean likes you. I’m sure he’ll find a way to keep your job.”
    Erika’s take is empowerment. “Think of this as an opportunity. You love to teach, but that private school has never paid you what you’re worth. This is your chance to aim for the job you deserve.”
    Peyton is quick to tie it all up with a corporate bow. “Absolutely. Narrow your target region, garner multiple offers, and you’ll be the one in control.” She points a manicured finger at me. “Don’t be afraid to negotiate.”
    Clearly, Peyton has never worked in the public sector, and I resist the urge to correct her about the nonnegotiable reality of district salary scales and state policy.
    My mother flies the flag of maternal despair. “Oh, honey. This is terrible. How could the dean do this to you? Just think—allthose lovely poems you had the children write for Mother’s Day? And those adorable skits they created for the class play? All for nothing! They’re throwing their best teacher overboard!” Perfect. Perhaps I should take matters into my own hands and jump before they do. But, just in case I am considering that possibility, she adds a final directive. “I’m sure everything will be just fine! Come home as soon as you can. I’ll bake scones.”
    Jane goes political. “If the board needs to clean house, they should dump the baggage who just show up for a paycheck. Forget seniority. You should start a petition. Or consult the union. Or something. Jesus—I’ve got to go—Randall just peed on the rug again.”
    After the onslaught of input, it takes some effort to sort through the pileup of everyone’s feelings to find my own. But when I eventually do, I realize that as much as I love Darby, there is a small flutter inside my chest when I think of starting over fresh. Erika nailed it. Darby was a wonderful place to get my feet wet. But I’ve always meant to teach in the public school system. The pay would be better and the benefits, too. Sure, the class sizes would be larger. And there would likely be more underprivileged or special needs children to accommodate, beyond Darby’s sole “Scholarship Butterfly” that the board of directors loves to boast about each fall. But that is exactly what appeals to me. There would be some diversity. And that is something I suddenly feel hungry for.
    With the last days of school upon us, I try to keep these thoughts at the forefront as I navigate the halls of Darby, only to be stopped by both parents and teachers offering me pitying looks and, often, unsolicited job tips. Gossip has spread. The art teacher’sCatholic church runs a lovely school in Wellesley. (I’m not Catholic.) Andy Goldman, a third-grade teacher, sends his kids to a progressive Jewish day school. (Nor am I Jewish.) One of my classroom parents has a sister who also teaches fourth grade and is going on maternity leave. (In Chicago!) By the week’s end, I am full up on advice and mostly just impatient for some kind of decision from the board. Not knowing has suddenly become the hardest part.
    Aside from Sharon, the kids are the ones I will miss most. When I get teary-eyed at each final task: the final spelling test, the final read-aloud book, and ultimately, the final day, I try to remind myself that I still don’t know for sure that I’ll be saying goodbye. And our year together would be over with the arrival of summer anyway.
    But on that last day, when the last bell rings, I can’t help it: the tears are threatening. The class rises in one amoebous mob and heads for the door. There are hugs and handshakes and high fives. There are promises to send postcards over the