“You’ll get that crash course tomorrow.” She waved her hand, walking past me into the room and looking around. “Don’t worry, though. The first year’s the easiest.”

I pinched my eyebrows together, not believing that for a second. “I’ve heard the exact opposite, actually.”

She twirled around, looking completely at ease with herself. “Oh, that’s what they tell you to give you something to look forward to,” she joked. “Your first year you’re just trying to keep your head above water, you know? Learn the ropes, get paperwork done on time, spend countless hours preparing one thing only to find out the lesson bombed…” She laughed.

“What they don’t tell you,” she continued, leaning against a student desk, “is that college prepared you for nothing. Your first year, you’re learning to teach. Every year after that you’re trying to be successful at it. That’s the hard part.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically, laughing and putting my hands on my hips. “I thought I learned to teach in college.”

“You didn’t,” she deadpanned. “Tomorrow is baptism by fire. Get ready.”

I looked away, straightening my back. It was my brain cracking the whip, so I wouldn’t scowl.

Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.

I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own – which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.

My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.

What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?

“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”

And then she patted me on the back, like I’d needed comforting, and walked out.

They can get invasive?

I cocked an eyebrow and stepped up to the large side-by-side windows lining the wall to rearrange the plants on the sill. Peering out the windows, I noticed that the sun had set and parents and students were stepping out of expensive cars, making their way into the school.

The manicured ladies meddled with their children’s hair, while the fathers conducted business on their phones.

I spun around, heading for my classroom door to prop it open.

I knew how to handle invasive.

Over the next couple of hours, parents and students filtered in and out of the room, following their class schedule to meet every teacher and learn their class route. Since my students would be mostly freshmen, I had a great turnout. Most parents wanted their sons and daughters to have the lay of the land before their first day of high school, and judging by the sign-in sheet I’d asked parents to fill out, I’d met almost two-thirds of my kids and their families. The ones I hadn’t met, I would try to call or e-mail this week to introduce myself and “open the lines of communication.”

I moved around the room, introducing myself and chatting with families here and there but mostly just watching. I’d adorned the walls with some maps and posters, while a few artifacts and tools used by historians and archeologists sat on tables and shelves. They moved from one area to another, taking in the clues I’d left as to what we’d study this year.

Even though I had about a hundred eighty days with the students, this was the night that was the most important. Seeing how your future student interacted with their parents offered a good indication of what to expect during the school year.

Which parent did they seem to fear more? (That’s the one you would call when there was trouble.) How did they speak to their parents? (Then you’d know how they’d speak to you.)

A couple parents and kids still flitted around the room, but as it was almost end time, everyone was starting to leave.

“Hi.” I walked up to a young man who’d been slouched in one of the desks for a while, sitting alone. “What’s your name?”

The kid wore earbuds and played on his phone, but he shot his eyes up at me, looking annoyed.

I wanted to sit down and spark up a conversation, but I could already feel the apprehension. This one was defiant.

Catching sight of the name tag the PTA had stuck to the left of his chest when he’d showed up tonight, I held out my hand.

“Christian?” I smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m E—” But I stopped and corrected myself. “Ms. Bradbury,” I amended. “Which class will you be joining us for?”

But then his phone beeped, and he sighed, pulling out his earbuds. “Do you have a charger?” he asked, looking impatient.

I dropped my hand and tilted my chin down, eyeing him. Thank goodness I didn’t believe in first impressions; otherwise I might have been irritated at his lack of manners.

He waited for me to answer, staring at me with blue-gray eyes beneath black hair, stylishly mussed, and I waited as well, crossing my arms over my chest.