Beautiful Child

by Torey Hayden

  Venus remained an almost invisible member of the class. None of the boys interacted with her at all. Indeed, most of the time, everyone behaved as if she were not there. Even so, she had improved. She was more controlled now. Since she’d returned to our class from homebound, there had not been a single outburst in class like we’d had in the fall. Even on the playground she seemed to be better. We still operated our “security system” of aides to watch her, but as the weeks drew out, Venus behaved herself.

  To mark this newfound stability, we had two “celebrations” in February. One was the Shoe Party, which we held on February 8. This was a Friday, and we were due to have our “party” in celebration of so many people managing to keep their traffic lights on green that week. These parties were never much. Given this group’s intolerance for unstructured situations, it seemed pointless to have a genuine party, which would degenerate into chaos all too easily. Instead, we did cooking. The “party,” consequently, consisted simply of making something nice to eat and then eating it. That, and putting on the local pop radio station while we did it. For some reason, the boys perceived this as a particularly sinful treat. “Like getting to watch cartoons at school,” as Billy put it. So our “party” wouldn’t have been very partyish by most people’s standards, but it was enough fun to be enjoyable.

  On the preceding Monday, however, I told them we were doing something special. Instead of a Friday party, we were going to have a ceremony! After all these months I said that I finally felt we had reached the point where everyone could finally keep their shoes on in class. This was dependent, of course, on everyone’s managing to keep their traffic lights on green so we could have the party. And dependent on not having one single knock-down-drag-out all week.

  The boys took this news very seriously indeed. So seriously that Jesse, who was inclined to be the class policeman anyway, annoyed everyone else by reminding them constantly to be on their best behavior. And it was no doubt helped by the fact Billy was home sick with a cold during the middle three days of the week.

  To give a celebratory feel to the day, I ordered a sheet cake from the bakery. I had them make it a very special cake with a big chipmunk design on it and the words “Happy Shoe Day” and each of the children’s names underneath the chipmunk. It arrived at lunchtime full of lots of icing flowers and fancy bits, and from then on, there was talk of nothing else.

  Mindful of the chaos at Christmastime, I did everything I could think of to keep order throughout the afternoon until it was time for the party in the last half hour. Both Julie and I patrolled constantly among the tables, our hands full of yellow and red traffic disks, just as a reminder. And we made it to party time without giving out a single one.

  While Julie had kept everyone occupied after recess, I’d discreetly wrapped a bit of ribbon around each pair of shoes and attached a little blue ribbon medallion that said “First Prize.” Not exactly appropriate, but it was all I could find at the teacher supply store the evening before. And it would do. I knew they’d all like getting a first prize, even if there hadn’t been a contest.

  To start the ceremony, I had everyone sit in their chairs and then I took down the box of shoes from the top of the cupboard where I usually put them. The first pair of shoes I drew out were Zane’s. I held them up, showing off the ribbon and the medallion. “Zane, may I have the honor of presenting you with your shoes?” I said as regally as I could. “And present you with this Medal of Good Conduct?”

  Zane broke into a grin that spread from ear to ear.

  “Go up there,” Jesse said in a stage whisper.

  Billy wasn’t so discreet. “Hey, Zane, get off your butt.”

  He got out of his chair and came up. I pinned the First Prize ribbon on his shirt and then gave him his shoes. I had to help him. He still couldn’t tie them himself. But once he had them on, he held his feet up, one after the other, as if no one had ever seen shoes before. Everyone clapped uproariously.

  Next came Jesse’s shoes. I went through the same ceremony.

  The third pair out were Venus’s. I held them up, showing off the shoes and the ribbon, just as I had with the two boys. “Venus, may I have the honor of presenting you with your shoes?” I asked.

  The boys all turned to look at her.

  She was watching me. I could tell she wasn’t clocked off. Indeed, when I’d first held the shoes up, I saw her start forward in a way that made me think she was actually going to rise from her seat. But then the boys looked at her.

  “Just give ’em to her,” Billy said. “She won’t come up and get ’em. And I haven’t got my shoes yet.”

  I came down the aisle between the tables to where Venus sat. “Shall I help you put them on?” I asked.

  She lifted her feet off the floor. It was only a small movement, but she did it without urging. She lifted them enough so that I could slip her shoes on.

  “And what about your Medal of Good Conduct?” I had risen back to my feet and was standing beside her table. I held the blue ribbon out.

  Unexpectedly, she stood. Venus simply pushed back her chair like any other kid and stood up.

  “Wow!” Billy cried, as if she had accomplished a most amazing feat.

  I pinned the ribbon on her chest. “Shall we give her a round of applause for her good conduct in getting her shoes back?” I asked.

  Everyone clapped wildly.

  Venus stood a moment longer, then sat down again. I think there might have even been the shadow of a smile on her lips.

  Our other February event was building Lincoln’s cabin.

  Because this group had been so contentious and difficult, we had done virtually nothing all year outside the strict structure of the behavior modification program and each child’s individualized education plan or IEP, which was the “academic prescription” I was required by law to write up for each child, laying out his or her academic program. In other years I’d had field trips, activity days, and special classroom projects. This year there had been nothing. But in honor of our newfound stability, I decided it was time to try something fun.

  Since it was February, I landed on the idea of doing a unit on Abraham Lincoln, in commemoration of his birthday on February 22. I read the children the story of how he had been born in poverty in a log cabin near Springfield, Illinois, and how he had worked so hard to get an education, including doing his schoolwork by the light of the fire. I went on to explain how he had grown up to be president of the United States and about the Civil War and his part in emancipating the slaves.

  We did several related activities. Billy wrote a report about Lincoln’s assassination. Jesse found a picture of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Zane and Shane counted Lincoln pennies. But our “fun” project was Lincoln’s cabin.

  Initially, I intended to replicate a project Pam, in the classroom next door, had tried one year. She had had her students make little Lincoln cabins out of graham crackers and icing with construction paper roofs. She’d taken pictures of them and showed them to me, so I thought that’s what we would do. But further thinking made me realize that Shane and Zane probably did not have the patience, much less the dexterity, required to assemble these and would become frustrated. Then we’d have lots of fighting and throwing of graham crackers. Next, I found a version in a teaching magazine. This one was made with pretzels and glue. It made a cabin that looked more realistic than Pam’s version, but I realized this would take too much concentration for my group. Plus, they’d spend the whole time pigging on grungy gluey pretzels. I considered alternatives—construction paper strips glued onto paper, drawing, painting. But nothing seemed quite right for what I had in mind.

  Then, when I was up in my attic looking for old teaching materials, I saw the perfect—and obvious—solution: Lincoln Logs. Similar to children’s building blocks, these were notched wooden sticks that were designed to slot together to build rustic log cabin-type structures, and indeed, had taken their name from Lincoln’s cabin. They had been a very popula
r toy in the 1940s and 1950s but had gone out of fashion in the following decades, as Lego and other more sophisticated building toys arrived on the scene. I had inherited a huge set of these many years earlier from a friend when she and her family had moved away. Because they were bulky, she hadn’t wanted to take them along on the move, and so she’d thought I might like them for my classroom. I’d never taken them in because too many of the notched sticks were small—just the right size to lose or pocket or slip on or throw. But now …

  I pulled open the lid on the container. Of all the classes I’d had through the years, this one was not a good candidate for a barrel full of small brown sticks and the accompanying green roof slats, which were about the size of a skinny ruler. It was not hard to imagine what I was letting myself in for. Indeed, because this group was so feisty, I’d long before removed all the small, potentially missilelike toys, such as Legos.

  Yet …

  I struggled down from the attic with the cumbersome barrel-shaped container holding the Lincoln Logs. I had to decant them into two apple boxes to fit them into my car.

  The next day after morning recess, I said, “We’re going to do something special today. But we’re going to have to start by rearranging the room. I want to make a big space in the middle of the room, because guess what we’re going to do? We’re going to build cabins like Abraham Lincoln lived in. Each person is going to get to make his own. But—and an important ‘but’ here, everybody—”

  I caught myself saying that and paused, waiting for Billy to leap in with one of his wiseacre literal comments about butts, but he didn’t. He was leaning against the radiator, listening.

  “But,” I said, “there are lots of little pieces, lots of things that can be stepped on or slipped on. So I want everyone to be a very careful Chipmunk. If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to be careful.”

  We moved the tables back so that there were three along one side of the room and two along the other. I had Jesse and Billy carry the two apple boxes to the center of the room and then carefully empty them into two piles, one on either side of the free area. I showed them how the Lincoln Logs fitted together.

  “Hey, cool!” Billy shouted enthusiastically. “You mean we get to build with these things?”

  “Each person can make a Lincoln cabin,” I said.

  “Wow. We’ll have a town then,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah, Springfield, Illinois!” Billy interjected. “That’s where Bart Simpson lives!”

  “I don’t think so, Billy,” I replied. “There are lots of towns named Springfield.”

  “Well, it might be. You don’t know.”

  “Bart Simpson’s famouser than Abraham Lincoln, I bet,” Jesse said.

  “I’m gonna make Bart Simpson’s house,” Billy said. “Then it will be that Springfield.” He grinned, knowing he was pushing his luck.

  “I’m gonna make a grocery store,” Zane chipped in.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Shane.

  Sitting down cross-legged on the floor, I pulled Venus onto my lap. “Here, I’ll help you.”

  There was a certain amount of silliness. Straightaway, Billy had to see how high a structure he could build. “This is gonna be a watchtower. Probably they had a watchtower, huh? ’Cause that was back in the days when they were fighting with Indians. So, this is gonna be a watchtower.”

  “Yeah, like one a million feet high,” Jesse replied. “Like they’d have one that big. It’s not going to fit in with anything else.”

  “So?” Billy replied, like this was an answer.

  Then Zane discovered that you could pull back the end of the rather springy green roof slats and it made a satisfying smacking sound when it hit something, and, indeed, delivered a satisfying smack. He tried it out on Shane’s behind. Shane let out a yelp and leaped up, fists flying.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I said in a warning voice.

  Jesse was quicker. “Guys, don’t, okay? We’re having fun. And we won’t get to keep doing it if you guys start fighting.”

  To my surprise, Shane did stop himself. He bared his teeth at his brother, then knelt back down over his cabin, shifting it away from Zane and over closer to Jesse.

  I’d intended the activity to last only half an hour, which was pretty much the limit of this group’s attention span, but when the half an hour was up, all four boys were still deeply engrossed in creating their log cabin town on the floor. They were planning together, discussing the layout, helping one another find the right-sized logs to build with. There was even the odd comment about Abraham Lincoln in the conversation. So I let it continue uninterrupted.

  I concentrated on getting Venus to add logs to the small building I was constructing. It took about twenty minutes but she finally joined in, cautiously adding the wooden sticks, if I handed them to her.

  “Can we leave this up when we’re done?” Jesse asked.

  “Yeah, and can we leave the room this way?” Billy added.

  I nodded. “If you want. As long as everyone is careful not to trip.”

  “We could make more and more,” Shane said.

  “Yeah!” Billy cried. “We could make, like, a log cabin city. All around the room. Can we? Please, please?”

  “I don’t think there are enough logs to make that many buildings,” I said.

  “But we can leave it up?” Zane asked. “Can we keep adding to it?”

  I nodded.

  “And leave the room this way?” Jesse added. “Leave our tables side by side like that?”

  “Okay.” I was tempted to put provisos on it, as in “Yes, if you can keep from fighting,” but I thought that didn’t sound like I had much faith, so I kept my mouth shut.

  The boys went back to building.

  “You know what?” Billy said suddenly. “If this was Abraham Lincoln’s time, Jesse and Venus would be slaves. They probably wouldn’t even get to come to school.”

  Jesse bristled slightly. “Well, you wouldn’t even be in this country. You’d still be in Mexico. Probably they’d be shooting at you.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Billy said indignantly.

  “Boys,” I said gently, “let’s see if we can keep from arguing.”

  “Yeah, but he said—” Jesse replied.

  “I said if this was Abraham Lincoln’s time, you and Venus would be slaves. I didn’t say I wanted you to be slaves,” Billy retorted. “So don’t get so hot and bothered.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t say I wanted you to get shot at either.”

  There was a long pause. Jesse reached over to sort through the pile of logs for the size he wanted. Billy watched him. Then he went back to building.

  A long, busy silence followed.

  Billy paused again. He looked at Jesse and then around at the others.

  “Know what?” he said to no one in particular. “I didn’t used to like black kids. Before I came in this class. That’s ’cause there’s these black kids over at my brother’s school and they’re always beating people up. They beat me up once. And my brother says that’s ’cause they’re black.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s stupid to think like that,” Jesse replied. “What color you are doesn’t mean you’re gonna beat people up.”

  Billy nodded. “Yeah. I know. I figured that out. I’m just saying what it was before.”

  There was a pause.

  Billy watched Jesse as he worked. “You and me are friends, huh?”

  Jesse shrugged.

  “That’s what I told my brother. The other night I was saying that to him. I said I know a black kid at school and he’s my friend. So don’t go saying anything bad about black kids or I’ll pop you,” Billy said. “ ’Cause that’s what I do, if someone insults my friends.”

  Jesse nodded slightly. “Yeah, you’re my friend too. I told my grandma that.”

  A pause.

  “She said, ‘You don’t got no friends,’” Jesse continued. “She said, ‘That’s ’cause you got Tourette’s and that’s what makes you the way
you are. So it makes it so you can’t get friends.’”

  “That ain’t true,” Billy said. “That’s the same as being prejudiced, huh, Teacher? Like saying you got no friends ’cause you’re a black kid. That’s what I was talking about. That’s what I meant. Before, before I knew Jesse, I didn’t think I could be friends with him, ’cause he was black. But now when I look at Jesse, I don’t think about him being black. And it’s the same about Tourette’s. ’Cause when I didn’t know you, Jesse, I thought all your jerking and stuff was weird. But now I don’t see it. You don’t see how people are different, if you know ’em. You just see how you’re alike. Huh, Teacher?”

  “That’s what I said to my grandma,” Jesse replied. “I said, in my class, I got friends.”

  A moment passed in silence as the boys worked on their buildings.

  “You know what?” Billy said. “I think we’re lucky to be in this class. I told my brother that. I said this here was the best class I ever been in. I’m glad I don’t go to any other school.”

  “Me too,” Shane said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Zane said.

  Jesse nodded. “Yeah, me three.”

  “That should be ‘me four,’” Billy interjected. “Me,” he pointed to himself. “Me too,” he said, and pointed to Shane. “Me three.” He pointed to Zane. “And me four.” He pointed to Jesse.

  Jesse laughed. “Yeah, me four too, then.”

  Chapter

  22

  Over the following weekend I went out to garage sales early Saturday morning with a girlfriend, Beckie. This was an activity I did purely in the spirit of friendship, as I have transformed through the years into one of nature’s natural disposers. I could see the point of having garage sales—how wonderful to palm off all your old junk on someone else—but the point of going to one to acquire what other people were trying to get rid of was lost on me. I went along, mainly because the outings always ended with a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast at one of my favorite restaurants.