I walked through the double glass doors and rang the doorbell of the little red brick schoolhouse, so charming, so filled with horrible memories from the time my daughter was a preschooler here at Pemberton. That was one reason I applied for the kindergarten position. I knew I couldn’t do a worse job, and I’d probably last longer than the teachers my daughter had had for preschool the short time she had been a student here.
Nothing had changed…from the dark green short pile carpeting on the floor to the wallpaper with green vines in a lattice pattern on a white background. Even that preschool smell of crayons and finger paint was still indelibly hanging in the air. Everything was crisp and clean; everything made just a little too perfect in order to impress prospective parents.
A young woman greeted me, handed me a clipboard, and instructed me to complete the (ridiculously lengthy) forms on it. I sat on the benches just inside the glass doors and obediently copied the information from the résumé in my hand to the form on the clipboard. I was not alone. A couple of other women were with me, neither looking as though they had dressed for an interview. I wondered what position they were seeking. I remembered the meticulously groomed owner of the school and knew their appearance would not please her.
I handed in my clipboard and was told to wait. The other two ladies were ushered into the tiny school office around the corner, one at a time, and ushered out almost as quickly. Then it was my turn.
As I rounded the corner and was able to see through the glass doors to the office, I recognized a face other than the owner’s standing there. Oh, yes, I remember now. I think she was the school director’s boss. A very round woman with a very round face smiling ever so welcomingly, standing at attention like a footman behind the chair, or should I say “throne?” Seated at the desk was the owner of Pemberton, Beverly Martin, reigning as regally as always. She was an odd mixture of the dramatic and the conservative. Her olive skin was accentuated by heavy-handed but skillful makeup and heavily-arched eyebrows that always appeared disapproving. After all these years, she still wore the same page-boy hairdo, though, swept back by an Alice-in-Wonderland headband, and her suit was conservatively styled and of the highest quality.
They greeted me warmly, didn’t remember me (I didn’t expect them to), and ushered me to the chair across the desk from the owner. Beverly went over my application and then sat back from the desk and stared at me.
“I don’t see you as a teacher,” she announced.
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t….What would you think about directing a school?”
I was taken aback. I didn’t expect that.
“You have the educational background, certainly, but you also have a master’s degree in business administration. I think you’d be perfect as a director. I can’t promise any openings right now, but would you think about it?”
Of course I’d think about it! I need a job, and the public schools aren’t exactly banging down my door to give me an interview, and the substitute teaching, although it has been pretty steady lately, can’t be relied upon and doesn’t pay much. Maybe an administrative job would pay even more than the pathetic salary of a private preschool teacher. They shook my hand and told me they wanted me to come to a second interview with the director at another one of their schools in Netherville. Netherville! That’s quite a drive. I thought the kindergarten opening was here at the St. Peters school. Hmmm.