Fuck It (Yama Yama)

Getting up, she places her wine glass in the sink and opens the fridge, frowning at the contents. “Not your chosen profession?”

“No, I have a degree in kinesiology and physical conditioning. But I have to take something until I can find a job with a fitness center or sports team.”

Sicily shakes her head. “We need pizza. I’m ordering in. Then I have to head back to the office.”

I send an email accepting the position at Hawthorne Elementary before heading off to shower. Between the long drive and unpacking, I feel all scuzzy. I’m stepping out of the shower when my phone pings with a response from the school. They want me to start tomorrow. Wow. How desperate are they for a gym teacher?

The pay isn’t great—obviously, teachers are grossly underpaid—but it’s better than nothing. I agree to be there at nine a.m. New life, here I come.

Hawthorne Elementary is a small school nestled between the Jr. High and High School. The halls are full of tiny humans being led around by teachers as I make my way to the office. It seems strange to be starting a new job without ever really interviewing for the position.

The receptionist in the office glances up when I enter and shoves a clipboard at me. “Name of child, teacher, and reason for the tardy.”

What the hell? Heck. What the heck? If I can’t stop cursing in my head, I’ll never control my mouth. “I’m not a parent. My name is Lydia Childers. I have an appointment with Principal Franklin.”

“Have a seat,” she replies, barely looking at me.

Okay, then.

A harried looking man rushes out of his office, his tie askew and a spot of something on his shirt. Someone is not having a good day. “Lydia, come in, come in,” he says, waving his hand.

I take a seat, and he sits at the desk across from me. “Here is your W-4. Please fill it out and have it back to me this afternoon.” A large packet of papers thumps onto the desk. “These are your health insurance sign up forms, 401k information, school handbook, calendar, et cetera. You can start today, right? We’ve had the Jr. High football coach filling in since our last teacher quit.”

“Erm…yes. I have to confess, I’ve never taught children before. I usually work with athletes.”

Swiping sweat from his brow, he grins. “It’s gym for six-to-twelve-year-olds. Throw them some balls and let them go to it.”

Wow, there’s some quality education taking place here. I suddenly feel bad for the teachers working under this guy, not to mention the attending students.

He hands me a sheet of paper. “Here’s your class schedule. You have three classes here in the morning and two conditioning classes after lunch at the high school.”

“I’m teaching at the high school as well?” Great, I don’t know anything about teenagers except that they’re a pain in the ass. At least the ones I knew when I was a teen. Of course, I was a model of grace and civility at that age. Assuming said model says fuck a lot and sneaks off to make out with their older boyfriends.

“You’ll be fine. I’ve got Coach Johnson to assist you today just until you get settled in. He’s waiting in the gym. If you take a right, it’s at the end of the hall. Your office is attached. Good luck.”

Okay, I guess that’s all the orientation I get. Grabbing my bag, I make my way out of his office and down the hall. I can hear a man yelling before I ever pull open the heavy door.

The voice belongs to a guy barely a head taller than me, and I can see short man syndrome written all over him as he struts around, puffing up his chest when he sees me enter. A group of kids are spread out on each side of the gym, and dodgeballs fly through the air.

“Bro! What are you doing? You totally could’ve caught that!” he yells at a boy who can’t be more than eight. “Let’s get it together!”

His gaze falls on me, and his forehead wrinkles. “You lost?”

“Actually, no. I’m looking for Coach Johnson.”

A smile stretches across his face, and he leers at me. “You found him, babe. What can I do for you?”

I can feel his slimy gaze crawling over me. “I’m Lydia Childers. I’m the new gym teacher.”

I’m rewarded with a blank look. “But you’re a chick.”

“Actually, I’m a woman, not a chick.” I let the babe comment slide, but he’s pushing his luck.

“Right…woman gym teacher.” He shrugs and blows the whistle hanging around his neck. “All right! You all listen up. This is your new gym teacher, Ms…”

“Childers,” I sigh.

“Ms. Childers. She’s going to take over.” With those words, he struts off, leaving me on my own.

Twenty pairs of eyes gaze up at me. When did eight-year-olds become so intimidating? “Okay, kids. Have a seat on the floor. We only have a few minutes left, and I want to get to know your names.”