The Trouble With Quarterbacks

There are no limits to what these loving (read: crazy) parents will do for their children. They assume this school is the best of the best, and well…they aren’t wrong. Tuition is upwards of $40,000 a year (!), and every teacher here, including myself, has at least a master’s degree in some fancy subject related to rearing today’s youth: child development, adolescent psychology, astrophysics. The music teacher had a twenty-year run on Broadway! The chef in the cafeteria has won a James Beard award!

I don’t quite belong here. I’m not all that fancy or brilliant, just a transplant from England with a Mary Poppins accent and a mound of grad school loans (thank you, Columbia) who happened to be in the right place at the right time. A few months back, I was working as an assistant to the assistant in the 4s classroom, and then the teacher in charge of the 3s room got fired for having a scandalous affair with one of the student’s parents, which left me in a unique position.

Candace, we need you! Are you prepared to mold young minds into the leaders of tomorrow?

You mean pass out juice boxes and deal with incessant whinging? Er…I mean, sure thing!

At twenty-four, I’m the youngest teacher here. As if that’s not bad enough, my short stature and general wide-eyed fairylike demeanor don’t necessarily help my case. I look more like one of the students than one of the staff members. I’ve thought of ways to help this unfortunate circumstance: potentially dying my pale blonde hair a dark brown, wearing false glasses, trading in my Keds for no-nonsense Mary Janes. Last month, on a whim, I tried on a polyester pantsuit at Macy’s and had to hold back a scream when I saw my reflection. I thought for a moment my gran had come back from the grave to haunt me.

Lack of respect and crazed parents aside, the arrangement I’ve got going here is quite nice. The toddlers are cute and too young to realize they’ll grow up to become entitled buggers. Their parents have really set them up for it: Yates and Niles and Bronwyn and Margaux and Briggs. Their names might as well scream, We’re going to own all of New York one day! They’re signed up for ballet lessons and Mandarin lessons and piano lessons. Their eating habits are more cultured and refined than mine. They have drivers and nannies and masseuses. I’m slightly intimated by the lot of them—until one of them lets loose a fart or a burp and reminds me that they are, in fact, only three years old.

It’d be a nice life, really, working here on the weekdays, exploring the city with free time on the weekends, if I were able to swing it. Even though the school itself takes in more money than an illegal drug operation, somehow it doesn’t quite get funneled down properly to us teachers. The pay here is absolute crap, so to afford my life in New York City, I’ve had to get creative. I split a flat with two other girls I met through a Brits abroad social club. The club itself was incredibly lame—full of old geezers moaning about World War II—so the three of us bailed after the first meeting (taking some stale biscuits with us).

To make ends meet, I also work a few other odd jobs. Two nights a week, I waitress at a trendy bar called District that draws in Wall Street types—guys with big egos and big wallets. I have to wear a sort of skimpy outfit, but I usually get loads of tips, and it’s fun to take on a persona so different than the one I affect at The Day School.

I’ve also done maid jobs from time to time. My roommate, Kat, is an aspiring actress and needs money as badly as I do, so she has a nice gig with a luxury cleaning company. If one of her coworkers calls in sick, I usually volunteer to fill in if I can swing it with my schedule.

All in all, I’m a busy gal. I like it that way. I feel like I belong in this fast-paced city, hustling alongside everyone else.

I’m happy.

I think.

Oh hell, my love life. Right…

I haven’t been on a date in quite a while. So long, in fact, that I can’t remember if it’s because I’m busy or because there’s something wrong with me. Just in case, I give my armpits a quick once-over and am relieved to find a pleasant floral scent instead of cloying B.O.

My other roommate, Yasmine, goes on a date nearly every weekend. She has the time for it. She’s loaded thanks to a trust fund and only crams into the small flat with me and Kat because she thinks it’s fun to bunk together.