It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

Hard Work For Nothing

Matthew, grimacing against the tightly buttoned shirt and tie wrapped around his neck, thought flat-out rejection, or even death, would probably be the better option compared to this.

The principal considered his resume for the tenth time, at least. His brass nameplate, reading "Mr. Timothy Hanford," glared in the afternoon sunlight.

Rubbing his thumbs together, his hands clasped in his lap, Matthew watched, his eyes following the older man's every movement. The silence was agonizing. He swallowed, teeth clenched. 'This is ridiculous,' he mused, tugging at his unbuttoned blazer which wouldn't close, stained from his 12th-grade graduation no matter how many times it was washed.

The principal glanced at him through his thin-rimmed glasses.

He met the older man's eyes for a moment. Matthew shifted in the seat, the leather of the chair squeaking, and, swallowing back his agitated nerves, turned his eyes away.

"Your...resume is...quite interesting," he noted for the third time.

"Thank you, sir," Matthew replied for the third time. He swallowed again and straightened up a little, which did little to quell the uneasy stirring in his stomach. Matthew clenched his teeth again and took a slow inhale through his nose.

It hadn't been the first time he had attempted to sit in this principal's office. The first position he applied for – a language arts teacher – had gotten him one interview, but no farther than the front office receptionist. They spluttered thoughtless answers and promised too quickly they'd get back to him, which they never did.

Several months and job applications later, by some luck, they had forgotten who Matthew was entirely. He got as far as the receptionist again, who insisted the position was filled despite other applicants coming in; he demanded an interview. Ten minutes later, Matthew departed the small, windowless room dripping in awkward tension, "escorted" off the premises by a security guard.

The third time had been some kind of miracle, though was probably more oversight on the Academy's part. Promptly called in for a support teacher position, Matthew proceeded into the building, checked in with the receptionist, and was swiftly called into the principal's office before someone had the chance to say anything.

Mr. Hanford placed Matthew's resume gingerly on the table. His round fingers scraped against the desk's edge before he asked, "Tell me, is Mr. Lewis still teaching?"

Matthew took in another steady breath, his lips curling into a hesitant smile. "Y-yes, sir. He – actually, he was my advisor."

"He taught here for several years. Did you know that?"

He nodded. "He actually recommended I look into applying here," Matthew replied, sitting forward. "I have his letter of recommendation if you'd like to see it." He turned, withdrawing the cheap plastic folder from his side.

Mr. Hanford interlaced his fingers. "Mr. Robinson, may I be frank with you?"

Matthew placed the folder in his lap; the smile wavered for a moment. "Of, of course." On cue, his mind listed off the easy targets of scrutiny; his appearance, resume, education. Grunting, he stopped the train of thought in its tracks. 'He could jump onto the desk and belt Taylor Swift while stripping if it meant I could get the job,' he mused.

The older man retrieved his resume and looked it over again, held gingerly between his fingertips. "I, have to admit, your resume is...astounding. Graduated with several awards, summa cum laude, from a prestigious teaching program. A Masters in Psychology and a Bachelor's in art history, on top of that. Your professors must think highly of you."