Just Sh*t: A New York City Story

Chapter 29: Welcome to the Roast

Jamie was doing his best to look comfortable, but the stiff chair and buzzing energy in the school made him feel out of place. He was keenly aware of how many eyes were on him as he sat at the desk in the office. Despite his inner nerves, the faculty seemed to be trying their best to make him feel welcome—though, in their own way, that effort only made things more awkward.

A woman in her mid-forties with flawless cornrows, dressed in a brightly patterned blouse, sidled up to him with a friendly smile. "Don't worry, honey. We don't bite," she said, her tone warm but playful. "Unless you're bringing some of that bland-ass food from downtown. You ain't bringing in any mayo sandwiches, are you?"

Jamie blinked, unsure of how to respond. "Uh, no. No sandwiches today."

The woman laughed, and a few other teachers at the desk chuckled too, picking up on the teasing. Another teacher, a man with a shaved head and a goatee, chimed in from behind the copier. "Good, man! We don't need no kale smoothies or whatever y'all eat down there."

Jamie forced a smile. "Yeah, I left my kale at home today."

The room erupted in laughter, but Jamie could feel the heat creeping up his neck. They were trying to make him feel at ease, but it only made him more conscious of the fact that he was clearly *not* one of them. Another staff member walked in, a stocky guy with a toothpick in his mouth and a swagger that said he was used to running things around here. He sized Jamie up with a smirk and tapped his forehead, saying, "You better put on some sunscreen, man. It's gonna be a long day for you in the Bronx."

The jokes kept coming, each one hitting that same point: Jamie was an outsider here, a fish out of water. A tall woman with dreads, wearing gold hoop earrings that swayed as she moved, walked by, offering a wink. "Don't worry, baby. By the end of the day, you might just pick up some rhythm. We'll get you grooving yet!"

Jamie offered a weak laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, I'm not much of a dancer."

"No kidding!" a man leaning against the wall said, half-laughing. "Look at him! Ain't nobody ever taught this boy how to two-step."

"I'm more of a... tap-my-foot kind of guy," Jamie admitted, trying to roll with it, but feeling increasingly out of his element.

One of the older teachers, a man in his sixties with silver hair and a calm demeanor, finally came over, cutting through the laughter. "Alright, y'all, let the man breathe. He's got a whole class full of our kids to deal with. Let's see if he makes it through first period."

The jokes subsided, but the lingering energy stayed with Jamie. He knew they were just trying to break the ice, trying to make him feel like one of the crew. But with each passing comment, he only felt more hyper-aware of his obvious difference—his whiteness—in a place where it was impossible to hide.

As the morning bell echoed through the halls, Jamie stood up from the oversized chair, nodding to the staff. They sent him off with smiles, pats on the back, and more than a few good-natured smirks. One woman called out after him, "Good luck, baby! Hope you can handle the heat!"

Jamie just waved over his shoulder, forcing a chuckle. He wasn't sure if she meant the classroom... or the fact that he was about to stand out more than he ever had in his life.