“I mean, I’ve taught two of the tenth-grade classes, and they seem lovely. The girls were engaged in the lesson…” she trailed off, and in a burst of inspiration: “The classrooms are excellent, nice-sized, and the wall displays looked so — carefully done.”

Actually, the wall displays looked computer-generated and frankly, boring, because who would spend recess reading complex timelines of Jewish History? But Mrs. Pearl looked pleased at the compliment, and the frown softened. It didn’t disappear completely, though; perhaps it never did.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re settling in so well.”

Esther Leah wondered, bemused, what exactly she had said that had given that impression.

“Our school has high standards, and we strive to maintain them in all areas. I’m glad you’re picking up on that.”

Esther Leah nodded, her face suitably impressed.

“That’s all I wanted to ask you, for the time being,” the principal continued, eyeing her up and down. “At least, I thought there was something else, but it seems irrelevant now. You see, I noticed you before first period, and it looked like you were wearing some — interesting — jewelry but it seems that’s all sorted now.”

“Oh!” Esther Leah was surprised. “Right! The jewelry.” She suppressed a smile; back at her old school, the principal wouldn’t have thought twice about seeing her in some weird getup. In fact, she would probably have popped into Esther Leah’s lesson sometime later, just to eavesdrop and enjoy the action. “That was — a lesson starter, you could call it.”

She was suddenly eager to explain, even though recess was trickling away. She could tell Mrs Pearl about the appreciation for Torah that she’d wanted to give over, the stories and questions and back-and-forth, and how the classroom had become alive with interest.

But the principal was frowning again, a slight confusion crossing her face, and she brushed off the explanation with a short, “Well, I was surprised at the jewelry, like I said, and I’m glad it’s taken care of.”

Esther Leah closed her mouth again.

It was time for her latte, finally, but she’d lost her appetite.

***

Something was bothering her, something to do with her day at school, and nothing to do with her classes or lessons. Which left only her daily dose of Mrs. Pearl. Three weeks in, and she couldn’t remember a single work day without an encounter. None particularly positive.

Esther Leah speared a piece of lettuce and swirled it in the drizzle of salad dressing at the side of her plate.

“So yeah, b’kitzur, that was the only chiddush today. And I think they’ve sorted it out already, so that’s good.”

“Ah — right,” she said, guiltily re-joining the conversation. Something about the electricity going in the middle of seder. She should’ve been listening. “Good that they’ve managed to sort it out so fast.”

“Yes.” Her husband considered the salad a bit uncertainly, and opted for a second serving of schnitzel.

“Mmm.” She thought about bringing up work. Just thought about it. But what kind of supper conversation would that be? She’d always promised that she wouldn’t be one of those wives who bombarded their husbands with complaints.

Besides, he looked like he was almost done, and any moment would be running out to Maariv. Menashe half-stood, remembered something, and sat back down to carefully stack his soup bowl over the plate and place the cutlery on top.

“Good supper. Thanks. Uh, you want me to wash these up or something?”

She rescued the precarious pile and deposited them beside her own, on the countertop. “No, it’s absolutely one-hundred percent fine in my hands.”

“You sure? Everything else okay? I dunno, with your lessons and stuff?”

His chassan teacher must have really drilled that in. He was always so hesitant to leave in the evenings. But really, night seder wasn’t that long and she had more than enough grading to do.

“Sure, sure. I’m good.”

“Oh, okay. See you later.”

When the front door closed, she whirled around.

“Take two.”

She plopped down into Menashe’s empty seat. “You sure? Everything okay?”

It was funny, for all her drama and mimicry talents, she couldn’t seem to quite get the cadence of her new husband’s voice.

Esther Leah bounded back over to the sink. She let the words flow, natural and spontaneous and free. “I wish. I’m so confused. School is… harder here.”

She sat back down and put on what she hoped was a concerned-husband expression. “Oh no. What’s happening? Is someone bothering you at work?” She almost balled up her fists before she remembered who she was role-playing. Fierce protector wasn’t Menashe’s tune.

She dropped the voice and the act and her head, let it fall onto her arms. “Oh, Esther Leah.” It was her own voice, or maybe her mother’s. “This is ridiculous. Maybe you should talk to your dishes instead. At least they’re here to listen.”

***

“Lesson observations next week.” Deena-the-Secretary dumped a thick manila envelope unceremoniously on top of the hundred-plus quiz papers in Esther Leah’s arms. Two or three floated off the pile to the floor. Esther Leah winced.

“Sure, Deena. Do you mind to just pick up those quizzes that dropped? I’m a little overloaded here…” She giggled — ‘a little’ was an understatement.

Deena raised quizzical, perfect eyebrows. “Those are quizzes?” She bent down, swiping the papers from the floor. “Sorry. I thought they were cartoons or something.” She gave a quick, hard-to-read smile.

“Ahh,” said Esther Leah, not sure what else to say, but Deena had already disappeared into her own territory, and she never liked following the secretary into her office. It just didn’t feel right here, though she would have loved to explain that the quizzes were for her ninth-grade hashkafah class: the girls had to match short comic strips to ideas they had learned over the year. She’d drawn them herself, of course.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that, so she headed for the staff room instead.

Lesson observations. She’d always looked forward to them, back at her old school. Rebbetzin Blau would knock and slip inside, eyes twinkling as she nodded along. Feedback had been verbal, warm, and enlightening, just the right balance of generous compliments and a few details picked out to note for the future.

She pictured Mrs. Pearl, frown between her eyes, as she took in Esther Leah’s every move. This would be a whole different story.

***

Esther Leah perched on top of a desk by the wall and flung her bag down beside her.

“Is it normal,” she asked the staff room at large, “to be called in for a meeting to get your lesson observation feedback?”

One or two of the other teachers shrugged, and middle-aged Mrs. Brender gave a disapproving eyebrow-waggle, maybe at her position. Only Miss Singer deigned to reply, with a toss of her fairy-gold, curly head.

“Uh, no, not really,” she said, a giggle escaping. “But neither is bringing in a pirate hat to dramatize a Historiah lesson, so I guess you two are a match!”

Esther Leah smiled, unsure if she should be insulted, but she’d long pegged Ariella Singer as “noisy but harmless.” Cute, vivacious, and perfect as gym teacher and dance coordinator, she would never understand just how the pirate hat had added to the story of the Four Captives. She didn’t mention the model shipwreck or the life-size plastic musket she’d brought in, as well.

Mrs. Pearl had actually looked a tiny bit interested in the story — one of Esther Leah’s greatest gifts was her storyteller voice, and she knew it — but the frown had plastered itself firmly in place at what she’d termed “the theatrics.” And then, of course, she’d scheduled that meeting.

***

That Meeting, when it actually happened, was every bit as bad as she’d dreaded.

“It’s not so much the content,” Mrs Pearl had stressed, pushing her glasses on very firmly and staring at Esther Leah, hard. “But the presentation is bothering me.”

“Isn’t that just a matter of — style?” Esther Leah asked, biting back personal preference at the last minute. “I mean, every teacher has their own methods. This works well for me.”

Frown lines nearly cut the principal’s forehead into pieces. Mrs Pearl, evidently, did not like her argument.

“Sometimes, it can be a matter of style. Sometimes,” the emphasis again, accompanied by a gimlet glare, “it’s an entire mehalech, and one that doesn’t necessarily jive with that of the school at large.”

Esther Leah opened her mouth to disagree, to pull out the school’s credo from the pamphlet in her schoolbag, to read out the words she’d highlighted and memorized: We aim to inspire. We look to reach the spark in each girl, to raise her higher. In her time here, each student should become a more thoughtful, more developed girl than she was before.

And her lessons, modesty aside, couldn’t be called uninspiring.

“And to be honest,” Mrs Pearl continued, relentless. “It needs to be something that our parent body can respect and appreciate as well.”

Esther Leah had the sudden sense that all the comments, hints, subtle signs of disapproval, had hinged on this all along. Oh.

“The parent body?”

“Yes. Some of our girls’ parents have been finding aspects of your teaching style — different. A bit too different.”

Her face was hot, and her heart started thumping, an angry rhythm. “Too different.” There it was again, the closed-ness, the endless catering to the students who need it least, and the fear of change that kept pushing the same girls through those cracks everyone always talked about, and no one ever acted on.

She was willing to bet anything that Etty Einhorn’s mother wasn’t one of the complainers. Or Ruti or Tova or Leah’le. Those girls were just thirsting for learning that they could access. So the brains of the class turned their noses up? Didn’t like anything they couldn’t star in at first attempt? So what?

She didn’t say anything, though. It didn’t seem worth it.

“So we’d be very grateful if you could bear that in mind,” said Mrs Pearl smoothly, and suddenly the “I” had become “we”; a nameless, faceless crowd of antagonists.

“I’ll — do my best,” Esther Leah managed, although she nearly choked on the words and her anger.

Maybe, she thought as she left the office, it was time for a letter of resignation.

***

“I’m not sure I get it,” her husband said. “They want you to change the lesson style? Is that so difficult? I mean, it sounds like you have all the material…”

It was annoying that he didn’t understand, but men are from Mars and all that. She could explain. And anyway, wasn’t that just what this Shabbos afternoon walk was about? Talking, communication.

Esther Leah put on her most patient voice. “It’s not just taking the material and changing the tone a little bit. It’s… taking art and ripping it apart to make some modern-art collage from the torn pieces, you know? My lessons are perfect, Menashe, they’re not just monologues of information. They have stories, messages, parts I act and sing, I spent hours putting them together. And I don’t want to change them now.”

The sun threw shadows down between them, black outlines of branches and leaves stenciled on the ground between fallen leaves.

“But maybe — I mean, it sounds like you’ve spent a long time on them, and all that — but maybe this school needs you to do something different?”

“The school?” Esther Leah repeated, aghast. “But I don’t work for the school, I’m working for the girls! The talmidos! It’s the biggest mistake I could make if I just tried playing to the school and the parent body and ignored the needs of the girls themselves.” She paused for breath, flushed and passionate, and even Menashe knew not to interrupt her here.

“I’m dealing in…” her voice dropped, as she tried for a suitable metaphor. Her get-up of the first lesson came to mind in a flash, and she nearly giggled. “In diamonds! In the diamond industry, do you just throw out a diamond because it’s not like the rest of them?”

“Low grade, maybe,” mused Menashe. Esther Leah almost glared, but then she remembered her kallah teacher, and changed it to a slightly impatient shake of the head.

“No, no, I don’t mean lower quality — I mean, how can we say a Yiddishe neshamah is lesser quality than the others? Maybe that’s a bad mashal.”

Unexpectedly, he came to the rescue then. “I think I know what you mean, you’re talking about the girls who need something a bit different, more, how do they say it… special attention, something suitable for them — what’s the word for that?” He trailed off, standard yeshivish, leaving the word elusive.

“Individual. Unique. That’s what I mean,” she supplemented. “Yes, exactly. And that’s why I don’t think it’s fair, what she wants of me. Only to cater to the high achievers? The typical girls? The ones who always shine and are naturally academic? Don’t we need to reach all of them?”

She knew she sounded passionate; this was her soapbox.

Menashe nodded slowly. “Sounds good.” He smiled. “You could speak on those chinuch panels, you know? Like Torah U’Mesorah. They’d love the message.”

***

She hadn’t meant to overhear. But such was life. When you talked about people in public places, you are likely to be overheard.

It was a group conversation. The elite of the tenth grade, it seemed, Tehilla and Chana Perel and Mira. Their lockers were just around the corner from the supplies room, and Esther Leah, knee-deep in rainbow-colored poster board and paint bottles, could hear them clearly.

“I so can’t be bothered to go to class now.” The statement, uttered with just the right blend of eye-rolling attitude, had to be Tehilla. Besides, she always began the conversations in that circle.

“I thought you liked Navi.” Her sidekick, Chana Perel. A locker door slammed shut.

“Well, mostly. But I’m so not in the mood today.” A thoughtful pause. “Though I guess it’s better than playing games and stuff like in Chumash…”

“What, Mrs. Seligman?”

A snicker.

“I think they’re fun,” Mira said suddenly, and Esther Leah wanted to rush out and hug her. “I mean, it’s a change, you know?”

“A change, yeah, but it’s like, awkward. She randomly calls on you for the weirdest things. Last lesson she wanted me to do the taste test thing. I nearly died, okay?”

Chana Perel giggled. “I don’t think she’ll call on you again so fast, Tehilla, so you don’t really have to worry.”

“Not worried,” Tehilla responded, on casual autopilot, but then she spoke up again and her voice was thoughtful. Esther Leah had never heard her sound like that before. “I mean, it’s interesting. Some girls are obsessed. And her tests — they’re weird and stuff, all the creative mind and pictures and diagrams and things — but like Raizy in the other class was saying that she’s never gotten a 90 average in Kodesh before. I guess it’s nice for them.”

“But that’s because her tests are like, crazy,” Chana Perel gave a little snort. “I mean, I get good grades and all, but like, I don’t necessarily feel like I’m learning that much. Last year, we did a perek a week. Now half of every lesson is about games and stories and activities, and we hardly ever look inside. Isn’t that the point of Chumash lessons?”

“I know what you mean.” Tehilla said. “That’s probably why some girls like it so much, though. Not everyone is good at reading the Chumash inside.”

“I think Mrs Seligman’s lessons are good,” Mira said again, more confident this time. “She brings stuff to life.”

Chana Perel sighed. “It works for some, doesn’t it?” she said, sounding old and wise, and their voices died away together with their footsteps.

***

Esther Leah placed her hand on the doorframe and looked around. She couldn’t help but stare a little harder at Tehilla. Interesting — and a little disconcerting — to know what Miss Bright and Popular actually thought of her.

There she was, half-yawning behind her hand. And there was Etty, who bolted upright eagerly as she entered. Michal and Temmy, heads together, snatching a last opportunity to whisper their best-friend secrets before the lesson would begin in earnest.

So many pairs of eyes. Like dozens of multi-hued gems.

It works for some, doesn’t it?

But wasn’t that just her point all along? To cater to those who never succeeded before?

If it worked for some — and those were the girls she’d intended it for — then she’d succeeded. Hadn’t she?

Or was she just making the same mistake she always criticized in other people — only inverted?

There was a weight of responsibility she’d always been aware of, but now it felt stronger than ever. It wasn’t just the challenge of waking the perpetual sleepers or engaging the permanently disengaged. Every diamond needed care. Every student needed something.

And the realization tilted her teaching world right on its axis, because what used to seem so clear had suddenly zoomed out into a larger picture. A new equation.

She stepped inside, smoothing her lesson plan down on the table before her. All colored diagrams and arrows, set and structured and clear.

But for the very first time, she didn’t know how it would go. She was going to find out. And they were going to tell her.

Etty and others like her would enjoy her puppet show in the opening story. But after that, it might be time to give the academics a turn in the spotlight. A tough Rashi to look at inside. A challenge question.

Or maybe not. She could go on with the story. Someone could fill in the gaps. Perhaps a girl would continue the puppets while another read and translated?

There were endless options, and the lesson would be a complicated balance of engaging those who needed it most — minute by minute, day by day.

And changing as the wheel of interest turned and facets of different diamonds gained or lost sparkle.

Sunlight winked little gems into the room as Esther Leah began.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 590)