Page 94 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Are we ready for next week?” I ask.
“The go-live?”
I nod. “The switchover. The staff. The systems. All of it.”
“The test data worked like a charm,” Vincent says, wiping his plump lips. “The staff is prepared. I’ll have the online documentation ready to supplement the binders we gave them.”
“Teachers love binders,” I say. “So many binders.”
“Geoff assured me the tech side is set. Your servers have been upgraded. Shreya helped with all of that. Really, all we need is the new extract file for the entire school and to flip the switch. Once all the school’s old data populates Hopscotch, we’re done.”
“It’s that simple?” I ask. “And before you answer, remember, checking email on my phone confuses me.”
“It should be. I mapped the data. We’ll bring GradePlus down on Friday after you do the final export, prepare the data, and start the transfer. Then we wait.”
“Wait for what?” I ask. Sweetums, momentarily giving up on Vincent, jumps to the bench in the front window to sunbathe.
“For the transfer. It should finish by Sunday morning.”
“And we just sit at school waiting?”
“Gosh, no. We monitor from home. The system will send an alert if there’s an error or any issues.”
“Errors? Issues?” My stomach does a quick flip. “We don’t have room for errors or issues.”
“That’s why we get alerts. Geoff monitors for tech issues. Servers crashing. Timeouts. Bugs. And I’ll get any messages about the data transfer.”
“Bugs? Like ants?”
“Oh, you handsome man,” Vincent says, gently tugging at my beard. “No, technical bugs. Flaws. Imperfections. Mistakes.”
“So, all weekend, you just sit at home?”
“Yeah, I’ll probably work on Paris. Why don’t you come over?”
“Can I help?”
“With what?”
“Paris.”
“No, mon ami,” Vincent says in a horrible French accent. “I prefer to work alone.”
My teeth nibble at my bottom lip as thoughts of this major process and the associated steps swirl in my head. Vincent seems confident everything will go smoothly, and I’m choosing to trust him. He knows what he’s doing. He’s done it before. My role is minimal. The data extract is a few clicks. It’s out of my hands after that. I slather blueberry jam on my toast and take a bite. Jelly oozes onto my beard, and Vincent hands me two napkins.
“Mr. Lester,” Ruth says as I join her out front to wait for the drop-offs. The loop in front of the school allows car drop-offs to unload and depart quickly. That’s the idea, anyway. Often, backpacks are open, lunches are on the car floor, children are stuck in car seats, and dogs need goodbye kisses. Ruth and I do our best to move the process along to prevent a backup.
“Ms. Parrish, how are you?”
The line of cars reaches the street, but we don’t start the process until exactly seven-thirty. This way, teachers are in their rooms, awaiting students. Ruth and I stand at the ready. We don’t walk on Thursdays because she plays volleyball on Wednesday nights, so this is our time to chat.
“Tired.”
“Late game?”
“Nah. The game ended around eight. It was the after-game festivities that kept me up.”
I glance at my watch and nod.
