by Liane Shaw
“That’s it?” I’m incredulous, but at the same time I can’t think of anything better off the top of my head, which is exploding with all of this new information about an already scary kid.
“I don’t know for sure. That’s what’s most likely anyway. He sounds like he needs intensive help—even residential. But the spots are few and far between. He hasn’t really done…enough…to snag one.”
“So he actually has to stab someone first?”
“I don’t want to answer that. Suffice it to say, it sucks for everyone. I have told his parents they should call 9-1-1 next time he goes off, or try to get him to the emergency room, but I don’t think they’ll do either one. It’s a mental health issue, like with most of your students. Too many issues, not enough solutions. The local mental health clinic is our best—our only—bet right now.”
“It’s all so crazy. If you’ll pardon the word.” I’m shaking my head like a bobble-head doll.
“It’s the right one. I’m sorry to tell you all this and then not be any help with it. Once they get into counseling, the clinic will work with the school. We can even set up some sessions here.”
“When will it start?” Mrs. Callahan asks briskly, looking at her calendar as if getting everything organized into little squares will fix the unfixable.
“When there’s a spot. I’ll try to fast-forward it as much as I can, but everything comes with a waiting list. Anyway, I’ll leave you my card, and you can contact me if there are any more concerns.” He hands us each a card, shakes my hand, and leaves.
I stare at the card as if it might have some answers. Someone has to answer for all of this. Someone has to tell me why these kids have to completely bottom out before the system can find a way to help them claw their way back to the surface again.
✘
I tuck the card away in my pocket, along with the rest of the day. I have to put it all away before I pick up my girls from the daycare. I can’t bring any of this home with me. I can’t let the insanity of the world my students have to live in bleed over into the relative stability I’m trying to create for my daughters. I have to check the teacher at the front door and walk in as a mother.
“So, she did it again.”
“Uh-oh. What it was it this time?” My three-year-old is high-spirited and fiercely self-protective. Which is code for the fact that she bites.
“Same old. She bit Jenny. Who bit her back. I was tempted to put them in a room and just let them have at it. Get it out of their systems.”
The head teacher of the pre-K room, Sue, grins at me. I respect daycare staff as much as I do social workers. I used to be one, and I know how hard it is to work with large groups of tiny children, many of whom have overprotective parents with guilt complexes. Daycare teachers spend all day with our youngest, most vulnerable and valuable citizens. Most of us can barely cope with one three-year-old. Imagine a whole room full of them.
“You know, there used to be a theory that the best medicine for biting is to bite back.” I look down at my little blonde cherub. She looks like an angel. Looks can be deceiving. Just ask her sister. I know I should say something strong and parent-like to her about the need to keep her teeth to herself. But it’s been a long day, and I just want a hug.
“Yeah, well don’t try that theory. I don’t want to have to call Children’s Services on you. You seem like a good mom after all.” Sue pats me on the head. I swat her away laughing. We used to work together a lifetime ago, before I switched over from tiny orange time-out chairs to large, ugly time-out rooms.
We go down to the “big kids” room to pick up daughter number two, who, at almost eight, no longer bites anyone, as far as I know. Gives one hope.
Driving home I think about Sue’s comment. I know she was kidding around, but I wonder if she meant it. Do people see me as a good mom? I imagine the parents of the children my daughter bit today don’t think so. Is it my fault that she bites? Is she acting out over the separation? Did she bite before we separated? I can’t remember.
My instant gut reaction to hearing about Mike’s home situation was to blame his parents. It must be their fault that he’s so terribly out of control that they have to lock their own daughter in her room. They must be weak and horrible parents to let him stab their bedroom door over and over again without having figured out that he needs serious help.
My daughter chews on other kids. I tell her no and laugh about it with her teacher and then let it go, figuring she’ll outgrow it. Is that how it starts? Was Mike a normal little kid who bit people when he was frustrated and then just didn’t grow out of it? Is it his parents’ fault? Or did he arrive with something inside of him already broken?
Am I responsible for everything my children do? And will do in the future? Am I to blame when they do something “wrong”? Do I take the credit when they do something well? Is my mother responsible for everything I am?
I don’t know where I end and they begin.
I don’t know where they end and I begin.
Chapter 12
Bombshells and volcanoes
“So, good news! The board has officially designated your class a class.”
“What?”
“Your class. It’s been given full status, which means I—we—get additional funding. It’s an integration-based behavior class.” Mrs. Callahan is practically rubbing her hands together with glee. I wonder if she’s planning to redecorate her office.
“So, does that mean I can get some of my own workbooks?” At the moment, I beg, borrow, and most often steal supplies for my kids from other rooms. I also spend a fair bit of my salary on resources from the local teacher store, trying to find ways to interest the boys in learning. I am supposed to be paying attention to their academics…somewhere between social skills, life skills, and keeping them from killing each other.
“Well, we’ll have to wait until I get the numbers, and then we’ll figure it all out. In the meantime, they’ve set the cap at ten full-time, twelve with part-time integration.”
“What?” I say it again. My ears work, but my comprehension is having trouble. Ten what?
“You’re to have no more than ten full-time students with the option to go to twelve if we have students who can spend more than fifty percent of their day in the regular stream.” She smiles brightly. She thinks this is some kind of an accomplishment. I just stare at her blankly until her smile falters.
“Anyway, I guess you need to get down to your room. We’ll chat later.”
Chat? We’ll chat later? About the potential number of students in my room creeping up to ten or even twelve? Is she kidding me? We’re struggling enough with the number we have, and she wants to double it?
As of two weeks ago, four became five with the addition of Chris, a complicated little guy who brings a whole new set of challenges to the room. He’s only nine, with a head full of ringlets and piercing brown eyes that are as shrewd and calculating as Mike’s blue ones, but with less apparent malice. Chris doesn’t seem all that interested in beating up any of the others. He’s mostly interested in running away.
He lives at home with his mother and father. There have been some incidents in the past that have made school staff suspect some level of abuse in the home. He has never arrived at school with bruises or anything like that. The problem is that he says things that demonstrate an unusual level of sexual understanding. There’s a concern that he’s been shown pornography or has been present when adults are engaging in sexual behavior. There’s an even bigger concern that he’s been molested. The very thought of it makes my heart clench every time I look at him. Chris is very bright and well-versed in the art of diverting questions about his home life, so no one has ever been able to confirm or deny these suspicions. Apparently he was found in a school bathroom one day, blocking the exit route of a little guy who still had his pants around his ank
les. There was no proof that he did anything but scare the other child, but the incident resulted in the decision that he needed to be in a placement where he could be watched all the time. As in, he can’t go to the bathroom without an escort.
How could we watch him that closely if we had ten or twelve kids coming and going?
Oh, right, the other thing we were told is that he was put on a waiting list for a psych assessment. The estimated wait time for his case is eighteen months. That’s the equivalent of almost two full years of school. In the meantime, all we can do is follow him around.
Chris can read, write, and do arithmetic. He’s smarter than I am and knows it. He’s a lot more manipulative than we were expecting. Watching him is a full-time job.
Watching Cory is also a full-time job. And Donny. And Kevin. And Mike. Especially Mike.
Mike hates Chris with a vengeance. Mike needs to be the smartest one in the room. He needs to be controlling the show, under the radar when he can and right in our faces when he can’t stay low enough to keep out of trouble. He’s been in the time-out room more than all of the other boys put together. I keep telling myself that he’s in there for de-escalation not punishment.
But it’s hard to see the difference sometimes. Most of the time.
And Mrs. Callahan wants me to be excited because I now officially have a class, which might mean more money. And will definitely mean more kids. And doesn’t seem to mean more staff.
She obviously has absolutely no concept of what we do in a day.
We’re all going to lose our minds. And maybe a student or two.
✘
“The cabs are almost here.” Sean’s voice startles me out of my silent panic attack.
“Okay, coming,” I answer, but he’s already gone off down the hall. The cab drivers don’t stick around to be sure we’ve arrived on the scene. We learned that the hard way, arriving a split second too late to prevent a full-on fistfight between Donny and Cory. We haven’t been late since.
“You the teacher?” A voice calls out to me from inside the first cab as I arrive at the drop-off area. I walk over to the cab.
“Yes. Is everything all right?” I peer into the back. It’s Mike. He looks angry. Not a good start.
“No. Kid here didn’t want to come to school. His father managed to make him get into my car, and then he kicks my seat the whole way here, swearing at me like a trucker. Next time, tell his father I don’t want him.”
I take a moment to be impressed that Mike’s father forced him to do something. Anything. Makes me wonder if the counseling sessions have started without anyone telling me.
“I’m sorry. We’ll take care of it.” Not sure why I’m apologizing. I didn’t kick anything.
“Okay, kid. Out of the car. I have to go.” The driver looks at Mike in his rearview mirror. Mike kicks the seat, square in the driver’s back.
“Fuck you.”
“Mike. Out of the car.” Firm, authoritative. Hoping against hope that I don’t have to pull him out kicking, screaming, and foaming. I see Sean out of the corner of my eye. He’s got the other four guys by now. He’s likely trying to decide if it’s safe to leave me on my own.
“Sean, could you please take the boys to the room and call down to see if Ms. Jackson can come and help you get the day started? Then could you give Mrs. Callahan a call and ask her to come out here?” Sean nods and ushers the boys into the school.
“Mike. I would like you to get out of the car. Now. Mrs. Callahan is coming, and she won’t be too happy that you’re detaining this gentleman from his job.” Although I don’t imagine Mike is afraid of having his father called or being suspended or whatever other principal-style threats usually scare students somewhat straight.
I don’t imagine Mike is afraid of anything.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Kid, out of the car!” I want to tell the cab driver to stay out of it, that he’s just going to escalate the situation, but I don’t. After all, it’s his cab. He’s the one who has to drive the kid here, all alone, every morning. It’s a ridiculous situation when you think about it. I don’t know what Mike’s capable of, but I don’t think there are too many limits.
The impasse seems to have gone on forever when Mrs. Callahan finally arrives.
“Is there a problem here?” She looks into the cab and then at me.
“Fuck the hell off!” Mike screams at her from the backseat.
“Oh,” she says. She looks at the driver.
“I’m reporting this to my boss,” he says as Mike kicks him in the back of his seat again.
“I see. Young man—”
“Mike.” She looks at me briefly as I interrupt. Her eyes tell me to shut up.
“Mike. You have three seconds to vacate this vehicle. You are trespassing on this gentleman’s private property, which is not going to be tolerated.”
“What’re you going to do about it, bitch?” Mrs. Callahan doesn’t even flinch.
“If you are not standing calmly on the sidewalk by the time I count to three, the police will be called, and you will be removed forcibly by them. One…two…”
And the door opens and out he comes.
So I guess he is afraid of something. Maybe we can hire a cop to hang out in my classroom for the rest of the year.
“And there will be no more of this today. Understood?” She’s glaring at him with hard, principal-quality eyes. I’ve never seen this side of her before. I have to admit to being a tad impressed.
Maybe now she’ll understand what I’m dealing with, and there’ll be no more talk of ten students.
Mike nods without looking at any of us. Mrs. Callahan looks at me.
“Well then. I guess everything’s fine now. Have a nice day!” And she’s gone back to the sanctity of her cozy little office space, leaving me to escort an extremely angry Mike to the classroom.
It’s not even nine o’clock, and I’m pretty much ready to go home. Between Callahan’s little bombshell and Mike’s charming performance in the cab, this day is already pretty far away from being nice.
We walk into the classroom where the other boys are already sitting at their desks, looking about as thrilled as I feel. I have to do something to turn this day around, or it’s just going to go from bad to worse.
We need to do something fun.
I stand at the front of the room, waiting for morning announcements, trying to think of something we can do that won’t result in total chaos. If I was still teaching Resource, this is one of those days when I’d make the kids redo all of my bulletin boards.
I don’t have any bulletin boards in this classroom. Nothing sticks to the painted brick walls except paint.
Except paint.
“Sean? Can you hold down the fort for thirty seconds? I just have to run down the hall to see if Mr. Z’s in his room. Boys, I can still hear you when I’m out there!” I try to look menacing before I dash down the hall to our see if Mr. Zeeman, our beloved and multitalented custodian, is in his office. He’s there, and I quickly explain what it is I want to try to do.
“Sounds fine to me. Just put some soap in the paint, and it should wash off fine,” he says, smiling. I can tell from his eyes that he thinks I’m a bit nuts. That’s okay, though. He’s probably right about that.
I run back down to the classroom, praying that they’re still behaving moderately well so that I don’t have to cancel my idea.
“So, we’re going to do something different today!” I blurt out somewhat breathlessly. My announcement is not greeted with excitement. Different is not always better in their worlds.
“We are going to paint a mural on our back wall! Spruce up this place a bit!” I smile encouragingly at Sean, who looks a little pale at the brilliance of my idea. I hurry over to the sink and start digging aro
und in the cabinets underneath. There are still all kinds of art supplies under there from when this was a “regular” classroom, and I manage to find several cans of paint and a few brushes that still have pliable bristles.
“So, here you go. You can work together to come up with a theme, and you have the whole back wall as your canvas. Go for it!”
They all sit there looking at me with the same basic expression Mr. Zeeman had on his face. Everyone around here thinks I’m nuts.
“You want us to paint on the wall?” Donny asks, looking more than a little dubious.
“Yup. It’s fine. Mr. Zeeman said it’s okay. You can paint whatever you want. Well, almost anything.” I smile encouragingly. Donny looks at Cory and shrugs.
“Cool. Let’s go. Come on!” Chris hops up and heads over to the paint. No one wants the new guy to get first crack at the wall so suddenly everyone’s on his feet, even Mike, who seems to be coming out of his funk. Sean and I try to stay close enough to keep some sort of order, but far enough back to let them come up with a plan on their own.
“Seriously, we can just, like, paint all over the wall?” Donny asks again, paintbrush poised ready to strike.
“Seriously.”
And so they do. After a remarkably few seconds of intense consultation, all five of them grab brushes and start to paint. Sean and I watch in fascination, and a little trepidation, as masses of brown, black, orange, and red paint find their way onto the wall. At first it looks like the boys have decided to go the abstract art route, but after a few minutes a shape begins to emerge.
I start to laugh as a giant volcano takes its place on my classroom wall, complete with rivers of lava pouring out of the exploding crater at the top. A few dismembered bodies appear to be floating downstream, with what looks like blood dripping out of various orifices.
It doesn’t take a psych degree to figure this out.
“Um, did you ask Mrs. Callahan about this?” Sean asks, staring at the wall as if unable to tear his eyes away.
“Not exactly,” I answer, smiling widely as I imagine just how much she is going to enjoy the new decoration on my wall.