Page 10 of My Solemn Vow (The Mafia Arrangement #1)
ANTONELLA
THE TROUBLE
The way I was called ‘new teacher’ in the school’s canned emails has created a conflict that is now grating my nerves. The first day was filled with parents, bodyguards, mannies, and guardians questioning my ability and credentials to teach.
But as I’ve done my job over the past couple months, the questions about me being a fit for Rothschild-McClintock Magnet School have almost completely died down. I plan to put the rest to bed today at the mid-semester parent-teacher conferences.
If I’m lucky, I’ll even get some insight into why one of my students isn’t demonstrating the same readiness for the accelerated materials as his peers.
I have a high tolerance for kids behaving like kids — you don’t grow up in a large Italian Catholic family without it. So I didn’t take it personally last month when he shouted out into the hallway, ‘Mom said you’re not even a real teacher’ every day for a week.
Today he crossed a line. I will not tolerate violent behavior in my classroom.
Throwing a basket of markers across the room and narrowly missing two students in the process was the catalyst for escalating parental involvement. And on conference day, of all days.
During lunch, I sent an email reminder to his parent about tonight’s conference being mandatory and urgent. Truthfully, I expected a curt email requesting I move the meeting forward or to be blown off completely. But surprisingly... she waited her turn.
“Ms. Mancini.” Peyton Hopkins, mother of my student, David, butchers my relatively easy pseudonym as she rounds the corner of my door.
Peyton Hopkins is as fake looking in real life as she is on her billboards, which are plastered all around the Chicago area.
Her brassy-blonde hair is so stiff with product that it sits on her head like a helmet as she wobbles into my classroom in her six-inch platform wedges, and her navy blue ‘power suit’ is so starched that it barely moves.
“Yes, I’m so glad you came in so we can discuss David’s behavior. Please, have a seat.” I offer her a chair at the worktable, which has adult-sized chairs for this purpose.
“I’d rather stand.” She glares at me.
“Very well.” I take a seat at the table.
She can’t rattle me by attempting to come off ‘imposing’ while I sit as she stands.
“I’m concerned about David and his developmental differences compared to the other students in the accelerated class.
We’re three and a half months into the school year, and I’m not noticing an improvement from when we talked during the first couple of weeks.
I’ve noticed his homework is coming back only partially completed. Now his behavior —”
“His behavior is fine,” she snaps.
I blink dumbly at her, waiting for her to change her mind about the words she’s chosen. She amps up the entitled bullshit instead.
“Do you know who I am?” She scoffs .
“Yes, Mrs. Hopkins.” I can’t help it. Really, I don’t want to, but I couldn’t even if I did.
“You’re the self-proclaimed realtor tycoon who, by my calculation, spends far too much money on billboard advertising.
You’re the donor who plastered her name all over the field house and athletic compound for the entire academy.
And last but not least, the mother delusional enough to think that her son will be some great American all-star sports player but is doing nothing to further his education to ensure he can compete academically. ”
Her face turns fifteen shades of red.
“Well, I never.” She shakes her head. Her hair still doesn’t move. “Just you wait until the principal hears about this.”
“Yes, well, tell Doctor Thatcher I say hello,” I barely get out before Peyton Hopkins storms out of my classroom. I mutter under my breath, “And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”