Page 3 of A Royal Menace

I may have to rethink my stance on Monday mornings.

“Good morning, Miss Barnes,” I say as I approach, injecting some charm into my voice while hoping she’ll at least be cordial.

She turns toward me, lifts her mug toward her chin, and blows across the surface to cool it before replying, “Mr. Manning.”

Not cordial. Quite frosty, actually.

I don’t know why I expected anything different.

There are two fourth grade classes at Grenville Elementary. I teach one, and Calliope Barnes teaches the other. We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to work together to ensure our students are developed and prepared to move on to fifth grade, and eventually, middle school.

But, God, does the womanhateme.

It’s quite the singular experience, actually. Most people find me affable. Likable. Some might even say charming. But not Callie. At least, notnow.

When she was hired two years after I started at GES, we actually hit it off. As we worked together in the week leading up to the start of the school year, we found we had a lot in common. We laughed a lot that week, and I had high hopes that our working relationship would remain easy and fun for many years to come.

But by the end of the first week of class, any comradery we’d shared had evaporated. Because while our personalities seemed to click, our teaching styles definitely didnot. While I like to maintain an exuberant, high-energy classroom that keeps the kids engaged and excited to learn, Callie prefers a more serene setting, complete with soothing scents and soft music.

And our classrooms share a wall.

Needless to say, the shouts and laughter from my class tend to disrupt the peaceful ambience she strives to create. But I shouldn’t have to change my entire teaching style just because it clashes with hers, should I? I mean, I might’vetriedto tone it down if she’d approached me in a rational, professional manner about the issue. But no, she let her annoyance build all week until she exploded, and some of her digs felt distinctly personal. Hell, they wereallpersonal.

So, the next week, I turned it up a notch. Petty? Sure. Well-deserved? Definitely.

“Listen,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts, “my class has a math test today after lunch, so if you could keep the noise level down, I’m suremy studentswould appreciate it.”

One corner of my mouth turns up at the emphasis she placed on “my students.” She’s trying to guilt me into submission. Of course, I don’t want to distract her students while they’re testing, so I will make sure my room stays quiet, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly, squinting one eye and twisting my lips like I’m feigning regret. “I promised my kids we’d have a dance battle after lunch today, and you know how they get. If I try to cancel, they’ll stage a coup.”

“And what, exactly, does a dance battle teach them about any subject they’re supposed to be studying right now?” she asks in a stiff voice, taking the bait just like I knew she would.

“Don’t you know?” I ask in a goading tone. “Music reinforces the part of the brain used when doing math. It’s a proven fact. Look it up.”

Her lips pinch as her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink––not from a blush, but from pure, unadulterated annoyance. My blood warms, anticipation sizzling through me as I wait for the inevitable explosion.

“Thatfact,” she says from between clenched teeth, “refers to students who read music or play an instrument.Notto those who jump around and gyrate to––“

Her words cut off abruptly, and disappointment washes over me as she steels her spine, huffs out a breath, and spins around before walking away without another word. I watch her go, my disappointment fading as a wry smile curves my lips.

It’s so easy to rile her up. It’s ridiculous, really. We’ve known each other for a few years, now, and she should be able to read me better than she does. She should know when I’m serious and when I’m just trying to get under her skin. But she only sees methrough a haze of anger and dislike, so no matter what I do or say, her first instinct is to prepare for battle.

Shaking my head, I follow Callie out and head for my classroom. Setting my coffee on my desk, I place my bag beside it and dig out the papers I took home to grade last night. I smile as I flip through them, seeing the large red A’s and B’s scrawled across them. Callie can say what she wants about my teaching style, but it’seffective.

My students aren’t only learning, they’re retaining. And that’s what really matters.

Sitting and waking up my computer, I take a quick peek at my lesson plan for today. While I don’t actually have a dance battle planned for after lunch, Iwasplanning on breaking the kids into groups to play “Don’t Say It,” a game where they take turns describing vocabulary words without actuallysayingthe word while the others try to guess. Needless to say, that particular game can get a bit rowdy, so I quickly rearrange the schedule, moving the game to the end of the day while having the kids read right after lunch.

See? I can be reasonable.

I look up with a grin as the rumble of voices and squeaking of shoes echoes through the room from the hallway. Standing quickly, I move to the door, ready to greet my students. They form a line quickly, each of them waiting patiently as the kids in front of them perform a special, individual handshake with me before gaining entrance to the room.

It wasn’t easy, learning twenty-seven different hand patterns and remembering which one belonged to which student, but it was worth it. The kids love it, and it always starts the day off on the right foot.

Once they’re all inside and seated, I move to the front of the room and clap my hands together once before saying, “Okay, time for weekend updates.”

Several hands fly into the air, and I tap my chin dramatically while pretending to seriously ponder who should go first. I always pick the students who don’t share as much first, because if they raise their hands it means they really have something to say.

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