Confessions of a School Nurse

by Michael Alexander

  ‘Well, we’re sophisticated over here, we know style. In Italy we wear only the best. You’re from a country of farmers; it’s not your fault, nothing personal.’

  The cocksure little brat actually believed what he said, but then maybe he was right.

  I have to confess that I did struggle with Franco’s handbag. ‘It’s Louis Vuitton, made just for men,’ he explained, rolling his eyes. I thought they made things to do with sailing, all New Zealanders knew that, the discovery they made man-bags was disturbing. I asked what the eagle symbol on his belt buckle meant and discovered it was worth over $2,000. ‘It’s crocodile skin,’ he said casually. I had to substantially revise my estimation upwards of his outfit’s value.

  Perhaps if Franco paid as much attention to school life as he did to how he looked, he might not have been asked to leave, but school wasn’t important to him. All that mattered was looking good, especially for the ladies.

  Franco finally apologised to me, and he sounded genuinely sorry. I wondered if I’d been a little harsh. Perhaps I’d only imagined the arrogance in his voice; maybe I was the one with the chip on the shoulder. My ‘giving him a piece of my mind’ had turned into an education and self-reflection session for both of us.

  Franco never wore $10 trousers or $5 t-shirts – he wouldn’t be seen dead in such things. ‘You have to look good for the ladies … all the time,’ he explained.

  ‘But don’t you want a woman to like you for who you are?’ I asked. Franco found this genuinely puzzling.

  ‘Women are interested in what you wear, how nice you look, how good you smell and the car you drive.’ Franco usually had girls hanging around him. He was a very handsome lad, but other than his money, this seemed the only other thing he had going for him.

  In an ideal world, this meeting would be the perfect opportunity to show him how wrong he was, to discuss meaningful relationships, and how being your true self is what is important. I could have explained how a good woman wants to see the real Franco. But I could be wrong.

  Franco’s world is full of glitz and glamour, from supercars to supermodels. His father has been on the cover of magazines, his mother makes the headlines dating politicians, rock stars and billionaires. Perhaps Franco is right, at least in his circle of friends.

  ‘You’ve seen my latest.’ It was a statement, not a question. There was no way anyone could not notice his latest girlfriend, a Brazilian student, with whom he would walk to and from every class latched to her arm, making out with her outside of, during, and after class. She was attractive and older, but surely this relationship would end up just like the rest – another conquest.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘You gotta know how to please your woman,’ he added.

  I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to be told how to please a woman by a seventeen-year-old boy. All I’d wanted to do was make him change his shoes so he didn’t slip on the ice, or catch pneumonia because looking cool was better than staying warm, and now we were talking about women, fashion, comparing his world to mine.

  He finally agreed to change into some proper winter clothes after I threatened him with detention.

  Franco never graduated from school. He never really even bothered to turn up to class. It’s unusual for someone to be asked to leave for failing grades, but when you not only skip class, but leave the village without permission, it’s a basic safety issue. The school needs to know where you are at all times, and as the school couldn’t keep track of him, he was deemed a safety risk. ‘Dad thinks I should be in school. I’m just here to keep him happy,’ Franco told me one day when I asked him why he wasn’t even trying. When I asked him what he was going to do instead, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Enjoy life … enjoy the women.’

  A few days after Franco had been ‘withdrawn’ from the school, the headmaster came to me and handed me an object the cleaners had found in his room. It’s not unusual for the cleaning staff to find unusual objects or strange substances, from heroin to blow-up dolls, but Franco had something that had me bewildered, a small tube of gel, with various chemical ingredients.

  The moment I got a hit from Google I warned Mr Driscoll not to touch it again. ‘Get if off my desk,’ I said, handing him some rubber gloves.

  ‘I’m not touching it! You get rid of it,’ demanded a suddenly worried headmaster. ‘What the hell is it?’

  ‘It’s lignocaine,’ I began, but the name meant nothing to him and I told him it’s a common anaesthetic. ‘Though it’s not commonly used as a penis-desensitiser.’ Mr Driscoll grabbed the alcohol hand wash from my desk and applied liberally.

  ‘Damn him,’ I thought. Franco had had the last laugh.

  Expulsion

  Franco wasn’t the first student I knew to be expelled. Although, it’s not really called that. They say ‘withdrawn’ instead. Maybe this makes the parents feel better, but for those in the education business, it’s code for ‘something bad happened but we won’t tell you what it is’. Schools don’t like to tell other schools what the ‘bad’ thing was, they believe in giving everyone a fresh start. It’s pretty fair, and unless you break specific rules, it’s surprisingly hard to be kicked out of school. I think it’s because, according to Mr Driscoll, ‘there’s no such thing as a bad child, just bad behaviour’. If any of you reading want to get withdrawn from my school, you will need to break one (or more) of the following:

  Drugs

  Any drug will do, except for alcohol and cigarettes. Part of my role involves drug testing and education, and cannabis through to heroin will see you instantly expelled. Depending on the country, if a drug test is positive, the school informs the family and advises them to leave the country, as they are legally bound to inform the police, who have to prosecute.

  Cigarettes

  Expulsion is an option for repeat offenders, but considering that 30 per cent of the students smoke, this is unlikely to be the sole reason for exclusion.

  Alcohol

  Again, only repeat offenders, and always tricky, especially with the Eastern Europeans as they use vodka for medicinal purposes. Vodka and black pepper apparently works for stomach upsets, and while we’ve confiscated bottles from rooms, students have avoided being reprimanded because their parents protested.

  Stealing

  Often instant expulsion, although the case has to be airtight. Rumours can be true, exaggerated or completely wrong, and a wrong accusation can damage an innocent person’s reputation, even force them to change school. It’s an intermittent problem and most of it seems more opportunistic than planned, such as a student leaving their wallet in the lounge, and someone taking it, rather than a concerted effort to break into a room or locker.

  Spending the night in another dorm

  This can go either way, although generally boys in girls’ dorms means dismissal, but it also depends on age. Even with consent, it doesn’t look good if parents hear there was a group of senior boys in a dorm of underage girls.

  Sex

  Realistically, if this carried an instant punishment, we’d be expelling half the school. And while the school rules say ‘hand-holding’ only, I’ve known Mr Driscoll to bump into students in action, and instead of stopping them himself, come and ask me to deal with it. I think he thinks that by having nothing to do with ‘it’ he can deny any responsibility.

  Fighting

  Again this depends on the seriousness of any injuries sustained, the reasons why, and whether it’s a one-off or an on-going problem. Often groups of kids will occasionally clash based on cultures, the Saudi students and the Brazilians, or the Russian students and the Americans. They play on each other’s stereotypes, and in the process live up to their own. But generally, and unlike most schools, fighting is not a problem.

  Self-harm

  Cutting and burning are the most common and lasting. Generally, this isn’t grounds for expulsion, but forced withdrawal for health reasons, although it’s not automatic. It depends on the counsellor’s verdict
and whether she thinks we can deal with the problem. A student may get one chance if they’ve cut only once while at school, but if they do so again, then they have to go. One self-harmer can take all of the counsellor’s time and energy. It’s often sad to see the students removed, as we’re sometimes the only security they’ve had, but cutting spreads; I swear it almost becomes fashionable.

  Unfortunately, we sometimes have to let students go, even when we really are the best place for them.

  Maria

  ‘Can I bring my daughter on the thirteenth?’ asked Mr Ricardo.

  Alana explained that school began on August twentieth.

  ‘But I can pay. It’s not a problem.’

  Alana had spent the last three years working in admissions, and this was the first time someone had tried to drop off their child early. She again explained that it wasn’t about paying someone to look after his daughter, but the fact that none of the staff would be on campus by that date.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ For the third time Alana turned him down.

  ‘What day is the twentieth then?’

  Alana told him it was a Saturday.

  The summer passed without incident and too quickly, as usual. The Friday night before opening day was the first cool evening of the season. Late summer in the mountains is unpredictable; the day is scorching hot, then you’re greeted the next morning with a dusting of snow on the surrounding peaks. If you’re new to the mountains it’s easy to get caught out, especially if you go out for a drink and let the alcohol numb your senses.

  Mike and Christie’s senses weren’t numb. They were boarding school veterans; they had spent a decade in the mountains, and never got caught out by the weather. They’d spent the evening at the local pub catching up with the returning staff. At 12.30am, they decided to call it a night and began the fifteen-minute walk home.

  On their way home they had to walk past the girls’ dormitory; an empty, old building, made depressingly creepy by the lack of life. But … there was life there that night. Next to the main door was the silhouette of a child. Surprised, Mike and Christie went to investigate.

  They found a young, olive-skinned girl huddled against the wall, clutching her bag to her chest in an attempt to keep warm.

  ‘Are you from the school?’ she asked. Christie knelt down beside her and told her she was. ‘Why’s it locked?’ the girl blurted, before suddenly becoming suspicious. ‘How do I know you’re from the school?’

  Christie opened her handbag and handed the girl her school ID card.

  Christie asked how she ended up out here in the middle of the night. ‘Dad dropped me off at midnight,’ she stammered, shivering from the cold. Christie took off her jacket and wrapped it around her. ‘He said that’s when you’re supposed to be open.’ Christie and Mike couldn’t believe what they were hearing. ‘Your dad just left you here?’

  ‘It wasn’t actually Dad, it was my driver. But my driver was only doing what Dad told him to do.’

  The girl’s name was Maria. She was fourteen years old and from Brazil. She was Mr Ricardo’s daughter. He obviously couldn’t get rid of his daughter soon enough, and had chosen to take Alana’s words literally. As of the stroke of midnight on the twentieth, school was open for business.

  What does one do with a child abandoned on the side of a mountain? You get them inside, give them something warm to drink, and call the headmaster.

  Maria spent her first morning in the health centre catching up on some rest while Mr Driscoll tried to contact her parents.

  It should have been a police matter, but since when has doing the right thing been so straightforward? A child who had just flown in from the other side of the world, abandoned on the side of the mountain, in the middle of the night. It took two days before someone from administration finally got hold of Mr Ricardo.

  He was apologetic, but insisted it was a misunderstanding about when the school was to be open. He added that his driver had made a simple mistake, and promised to sort the situation out.

  Fortunately, Maria didn’t seem too shocked by the whole ordeal, and instead of ‘resting’ she was busy telling us and anyone who would listen about life back in Brazil: ‘You don’t want to piss off my dad.’

  Michaela told Maria that the school had already been in contact with her father and that he had apologised about the misunderstanding.

  ‘And you believed him?’ asked an incredulous Maria. ‘This was no mistake. My parents couldn’t wait to get rid of me. They don’t know what to do with me.’

  The young, abandoned girl from Brazil was beginning to show some teeth.

  ‘I’m sure your parents want you,’ offered an uncertain sounding Michaela.

  ‘Then why’d they dump me here? Why aren’t they angry about the whole mess? I bet he blamed it on the driver. My driver isn’t stupid. He always follows orders to the letter. But I don’t care.’

  I suspected she did care, otherwise she wouldn’t have raised her voice and become so animated, so angry. That’s what kids do when something is wrong at home. They pretend they don’t care, but it’s just a show – a shell to protect themselves.

  Michaela changed tack and began to talk about all the good things that Maria had to look forward to at school. She also stressed to Maria that she was welcome to come and visit us in the health centre anytime, even if she wasn’t sick.

  Maria promised to take her up on her offer, although not without giving a warning first: ‘You don’t know what you’ve got yourselves into.’ I hoped she was only joking.

  Within a few weeks, problems had begun to arise. Cathy had met with Maria regularly, and kept us up to date on how she was doing. ‘Things have been going missing in her dorm. But Maria insists she’s innocent.’

  The bottle of vodka the cleaning staff found in her room was the next complaint. Though it was unopened, she denied it was hers. Apparently she only drinks rum. Alcohol offences are taken seriously, even seniors with drinking permissions aren’t allowed alcohol in their room. Given her age, she could have been expelled if it had been found opened.

  As a result Maria began to spend more time being counselled by Cathy. All students who have alcohol infractions have to see the counsellor, usually as a ‘one-off’, but Maria was an exception.

  ‘She’s started smoking,’ Cathy told us. ‘She’s the most cheerful lost child I’ve seen in a long time.’ Like nurses, counsellors are bound by confidentiality but Cathy does tell us what we need to know. ‘But I think if you scratch beneath the surface you’ll find a whole lot of anger, and a very frightened little girl.’

  It wasn’t long before Maria got into her first fight; a hair-pulling contest between her and her now ex-roommate. The usual words were slung with ever increasing ferocity and decreasing creativity – ‘you thief’, ‘you cow’, ‘you bitch’, ‘you fat bitch’, ‘you ho’, ‘you slag’, and finally ‘you slut’. Sadly ‘thief’ stuck and a search of Maria’s wardrobe uncovered some shoes and a coat that belonged to the ex-roommate. Maria’s defence was that her roommate had forgotten she’d lent them to her – a plausible story.

  Meanwhile, the complaints were coming in thick and fast from teachers, dorm staff and parents.

  If she continued on her path of self-destruction Maria would be sent home. The impact on the other students was simply too great, and we warned her of such. ‘I’m never going home,’ she insisted. ‘Why would I ever want to? All Mum does is drink, and when Dad’s not dragging her around the house by her hair, he’s high on coke.’

  If I had a dollar for every time a kid has lied, I’d have retired a very wealthy man years ago, but Maria’s story felt different. It may have been the way she was dumped here, or the family that were impossible to contact, or her choice of words. She could have said that Dad ‘beats Mum’ but the words ‘dragging Mum around the house by the hair’ were very specific, too real for a young girl to make up? Perhaps.

  Cathy said it was time to speak with the headmaster.

  I
suggested we go to the police, but Mr Driscoll said it was no use. ‘It’s the word of a wayward teenager against her family.’ Isn’t it always one person’s word against another? I kept quiet, waiting for him to finish.

  Cathy, Michaela and I asked Mr Driscoll if we should contact the child protection service, but he said that wouldn’t help either.

  ‘She’s not an urgent case,’ he explained, ‘they’re busy with urgent cases, with children in actual harm’s way.’

  This didn’t feel right, but this isn’t my home country. If a child made allegations like this in New Zealand, action would be swift.

  ‘The moment the family hear anything suspicious, she’ll be back in Brazil in the blink of an eye.’

  If Maria was sent home, nothing would change, certainly not for the better. The school was the best place for her. It was for this reason that Mr Driscoll decided to keep her as long as we could. ‘But she can’t keep on being so disruptive, or I’ll have no choice but to let her go.’

  All schools have to make this decision at some stage; the future of the many versus the good of the one. Schools like ours have the added problem of being international. I don’t know what laws there are in Saudi Arabia, Brazil, Iran, so we relied on Mr Driscoll’s past experience in such matters.

  Six months later, Maria was on her final warning. If she was caught smoking, stealing, fighting or missing another class, she’d be sent home. It was too late to change her failing grades to a pass, instead the challenge was to make it to class, and not be too disruptive.

  The final straw came when Maria’s parents gave their daughter permission to travel to a nearby city for the weekend, despite the fact she was not allowed to travel, according to school rules.

  It’s strange that when we want to contact a parent, it’s often hard, but when the kids need permission to do something, they hound us until we accede to their wishes.