The first thing you notice when you walk in the door is the fern. It's you, fifteen years ago. It's you, 10th grade. That poor plant is you, seventh period math. You can tell from its tortured posture that it once tried its best to get at that tiny window, but it's given up now, and it hangs limply defeated from its inadequate plastic housing. You want to take it home, put it on your window sill, water it, and let it explore space, tickling the back of your iced tea stained couch with its spidery tendrils. Stop looking at the plant and shake hands. Firmly. You're at a job interview.
The second thing you notice is him. Mr. Manley. You hesitate at the introductions, think of saying something, but drop it, grasping his hand with all the professionalism you can muster. Smart move. You sit.
The questions begin, and you do your best to answer, sneaking peeks at him between dropping terms like "Gardiner's theory of multiple intelligences" and "authentic assessment." You're buckling, keep control. Focus on anybody but him.
You can't tell if he remembers you, the glint from his glasses makes it impossible to read his eyes. Assume he doesn't, you're in the driver's seat here. Remember, it's fifteen years later and you're different. You're three kids-three last names-ten-lovers-two degrees including your GED different.
He's exactly the same. Your armpits are sweating. Try not to raise your arms too high, those stains will stand right out from your dry clean only yellow silk shirt. No, he's not the same, you tell yourself, he's old. You thought he was old then, but at fifteen anybody over twenty was old. Now he's really old. You notice the hair growing out of his ears and think maybe its his brain exploding.
Don't lose it now, stay your course. They're asking content area questions. You know this stuff. You've been reading forever, you know every book they can throw at you. You've read stories about teenagers, stories about old ladies, stories about princes and presidents. You've read stories about the past, the future and the present. You used to read with a flashlight under your covers. You cried yourself to sleep fifteen years ago after you finished a book because you were lonely, you thought everybody had deserted you, even the main character. You read to your swollen belly while your friends ate pizza and listened to new wave on boom boxes and called you later to tell you the gossip. Then you cried and read some more. You wanted to give your son dreams, big dreams, the dreams you never had. You can handle this. You're on safe ground here, just answer the questions.
You freeze for a moment because you think you see recognition in his face when you talk about how distant Steinbeck is from today's youth, and list alternatives. He knew you hated Steinbeck then, but he didn't know you'd read his complete works to arrive at that conclusion. You've got the upper hand. You don't think so, though, and watch the lines around his mouth twitch as he takes notes on your answers.
You stumble over the word "period." You always have. This is nothing new. In 10th grade you cried when somebody asked you what class you have next period, because you knew you wouldn't have a class when you finally got your next period. Relax. You're thirty years old now, you've seen plenty of periods come and go.
He's staring at you now, and your hand flies involuntarily to your belly. You remember the fluttery kicks you tried to ignore in science class, holding your hands over your stomach because you were sure Allison Denton next to you would see your shirt move and write it on the wall in the girls' room with her flowery poison script. Don't worry, you won't get a kick in the ribs when he asks you a question today, your oldest is fifteen, your youngest is six, and your tubes are tied.
You're doing all right, the others are responding to you, they like your answers. They're interested in your work for Child Protective Services. You're glad your cousin knew somebody at CPS to get your foot in the door at that thankless, low paying, 60 hour a week pull out your hair job. You thought you could make a difference there but it didn't work out that way. Too much bureaucratic red tape bullshit.
He's still staring, you're sure now, and the safety pin holding your waistband together has popped, jabbing you in the side. Shift, and deal with it, you're almost done. You try to avoid his eyes like you did fifteen years ago in this very same office with the very same stale coffee and yesterday's lunch smell.
You remember somehow to ask perfunctory questions about the job when they're done with their interrogation, but you don't listen to the answers because it's fifteen years ago now in this room and it's just you and Mr. Manley. He's leaning over at you saying your name, your old name three names ago, he knows who you are, and you can't cry now like you did then. Besides, he won't remember the words he said to you all those years ago, the words that have played over and over in your head like a bad record, like the week your son was in love with some Chipmunks song and played it over and over and over on his little record player. No, you can be sure he won't remember that he called you a loser, leaned over this very table and said "you're a loser, you'll never make anything of yourself." You imagine there's blood dripping down your leg from your busted safety pin. There isn't.
You stand to leave, the room is spinning, you need to thank them for the interview and tell them you want the job. You need the job. Your lover's out of work, your son's buying groceries with his restaurant tips, and you've been living off student loans. You can't play the game anymore. You realize that it's because of Manley, the callous insensitive fuck, that you did it, that you're here today, and you stand up a little straighter when you thank them politely for their time.
As you're walking out the door, you look back over your shoulder and say, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Manley, all that poor fern needs is a little love and care to make it grow." Keep walking and don't look back again.
