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believe is a Chihuly chandelier, trickling down in a million white glass twirled tubers from the double-height ceiling and illuminating the hourly rate Philip quoted. My eyes land at the back of the hall, where the spine of a staircase is incongruously shrouded in scaffolding.
    “Ms. Hutchinson?” I turn to see a young woman approaching from a door on the right. “It’s okay, Meredith, I’ve got it. Sorry to keep you waiting—”
    “Not at all, I just walked in, actually.”
    “Oh, good. Gene asked me to meet you—he’s coming to my homeroom next period and thought it’d be great for you to see the kids in action.” She pulls her hand from the pocket of her trapeze sweater. “Ingrid Wells. History, Forensics Club, and eleventh-grade homeroom.”
    “Nan, the potential new director of staff development.” We shake, her bangles making a silvery ping. “Am I crazy or didn’t this building used to be a shelter for runaway teens?”
    She nods. “And now it’s for—”
    “Runway teens,” I fill in.
    She laughs. “I’ll take you through the back way.” She gestures for me to follow her toward the scaffolded stairs. “It’s off-limits to the students, but much faster. The building’s just being finished.”
    “Didn’t Jarndyce used to be in the East Fifties?”
    “Yes, the middle and lower schools are still there. But a few years ago the board sold the air rights to that building in order to buy this place and gut it. The Jarndyce of the new millennium is . . .” She gestures to the chandelier as we pass under it. “Luxury education.” I trail her through the arc of faux stumps and a plywood door at the base of the scaffolding, letting us into a drywalled stairwell. “This building was only supposed to house the high school,” she explains as we ascend one flight. “But the parents protested at the thought of having to send their drivers to two separate locations for pickups and dropoffs, so the middle school will join us next year and this will be their floor.” On the landing she opens the door and my eyes are immediately drawn to the antiqued mirror panels on the hallway ceiling. Yes, just what seventh graders need: reflective surfaces. “And they recently closed on another property in the neighborhood for the lower school—over by the highway.”
    “Wow.” I step out behind her into the corridor of barn-planked flooring that runs the length of a city block, lined on either side by backlit boxwood hedges in narrow rectangular zinc planters. “And I was psyched to have a locker.”
    “Right? It’s raised some hackles in the faculty. Some took early retirement last year. But, personally”—she leans in—“I love it. I live in Bed-Stuy and get to spend the day in a Domino spread. I don’t know if it’s done jack for the kids’ self-esteem, but it’s been great for mine.” As I laugh she looks to me, her brunette topknot listing. “So, you’re in the running to be the new Shari?”
    “Shari?”
    “Shari Oleson. Our ambassador to the board.”
    “Ambassador, I like that. I always think my job could use a little diplomatic immunity. Yes, I’m interviewing.”
    She withdraws her hands from the pockets of her twill sailor pants as we approach the next set of double doors, the hall turning to the left.
    “And through here”—she pushes into them—“this becomes the science floor, where my homeroom is currently situated. Due to a backorder on some desks coming from Germany a few of the floors are still doing double duty.”
    “Gotcha.”
    We pass into the next section of hallway, where, interspersed between the black classroom doors, the walls are lined with life-sized holograms of famous scientists from Marie Curie to Stephen Hawking. “So, this is my temporary homeroom.” She gestures to the door behind her, from which emits the clamor of contained chaos. “I’m just going to make sure no one is pile-driving anyone in there. Gene should be here any second, are you okay