by Liane Shaw
“He’s up there?” I ask needlessly. What do I think they’re doing—bird watching?
“Yup. Skittered his way up there like a squirrel.” Sean looks impressed.
“Chris. I think it’s time to come down now!” I try to raise my voice enough to carry up to him while not sounding like I’m actually shouting. It’s harder than it sounds.
“No! Mike’s a jerk.”
“Sometimes. You still need to come down and deal with it on the ground. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“You don’t care if I get hurt! You just don’t want to get in trouble!”
“That’s not true. We do care. I would like you to come down.”
“Come on, bud. It’s time to chill.” Sean joins in.
“You don’t even know me. You don’t care about me. I could fall out of here right now, and you would forget all about me by tomorrow.”
“That’s not true.”
“Enough! I can’t have him hurting himself. We have to get him down right now, or I’ll have to call the police.” Mrs. Callahan joins the conversation, using her no-nonsense voice.
Again with the police. Is this going to be her new refrain? We can’t control the little criminals ourselves, so we’re going to call the cops? Then again, that’s exactly what I told Mr. Williams to do last night. This morning. Whatever.
“Just give us a few more minutes.”
“No. It’s time for him to come down.” I am expecting her to run back into the school and call 9-1-1. What I am not expecting her to do is grab the bottom branch of the tree and start pulling herself up the side of the trunk, high heels, silk skirt, and all.
“Mrs. Callahan, I don’t think climbing up after him is a good idea!” I look at Sean in a panic. What is she doing? She thinks she can…what…climb up there and carry him down over her left shoulder like some panty-hose-clad firefighter? Sean shrugs and grins a little.
“I don’t see anyone doing anything more constructive,” she grunts, scrambling awkwardly up to the next branch. One of her shoes falls off, almost impaling me in the process. I bet she did that on purpose.
“Mrs. Callahan—” I don’t know what else to say. I’m sure as hell not going up after her. This is a really, really bad idea on every possible level.
Sean’s grin widens as shoe number two tumbles down, and Mrs. Callahan keeps on climbing in her panty-hosed feet. She’s surprisingly agile for someone her age. Actually, I don’t know how old she is, but I assume she’s a lot older than I am. And I don’t think I’d be able to get up there.
“Phew. I’m just about there!” she calls down as she reaches the branch just below where Chris is sitting, silently watching her progress and shaking his head.
“Ms. S! I think I’ll come down now!” Chris yells, ignoring Mrs. Callahan completely. He nimbly and quickly climbs down the tree. Sean’s right. He does have an impressively squirrely quality to him.
“Ready to go in, bud?” Sean asks cheerfully, putting his arm around Chris’s shoulder in a friendly half hug that I can see is tight enough to hold him in case he runs again.
“Yeah. But Mike better keep his mouth shut!”
“Agreed.” And off they walk, two buddies just sauntering across the yard without a care in the world.
I look up. Mrs. Callahan is clinging somewhat precariously to a branch about twenty feet off the ground.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but I really, really, really want to laugh.
“Are you okay?” I ask loudly, trying to mask the borderline hysteria that is about to break loose.
“I am fine. However, I would appreciate it if you would contact the custodian and inform him that I am in need of a ladder,” she answers, sounding as dignified as a principal up a tree could possibly sound.
“Will do!” I turn quickly, literally running back to the school. I almost make it to the door before the laughter overcomes me. I laugh and laugh until I start to cry.
Mr. Zeeman looks a little startled when I appear at his door with teary eyes and flushed cheeks. He looks even more startled when I inform him that he needs to take a ladder next door to get his boss out of a tree.
There are moments when I really love my job.
Chapter 15
Field tripping
“You want to do what?” Mrs. Callahan looks at me with an exaggerated expression of astonishment.
“I want to buy some kind of pet for the class. Teach them a little compassion and responsibility.” I turn my lips up in what I hope looks like a reasonable smile.
“There are allergy restrictions. Not to mention the reality that anything living in your class will likely end up dead.”
I open my mouth to give her the response that she deserves. But calling her a dickhead probably won’t get me my way here, so I suck it up. I even try a little chuckle, as if I agree with her.
“I’m talking about something like a hamster. In a cage. Something they have to feed and clean up after. Something they can care about.”
“I don’t know. These are pretty rough kids.”
“Things have been going a bit more smoothly recently. Chris hasn’t run anywhere in a few weeks. Donny seems more settled. Kevin is actually working once in a while. Cory…well, he isn’t beating people up every day.”
“And Mike?”
“He hasn’t had any real issues since the phone call. At least not here.”
She nods slowly, and I imagine that we are both flashing back to the conversation we had after she finally managed to get down out of the tree and return to her office, with both her dignity and her pantyhose in shreds.
“I finally spoke with Mr. Williams,” she had told me, “He did go to the hospital after phoning you. They kept Mike there three hours for observation and then let him go.”
“That’s it? No follow up? Nothing?”
“From what Mr. Williams told me, they didn’t feel they had reason to keep him once he calmed down.”
“So, he just comes to school?”
“Well, he didn’t have any real issues today, did he?”
“No more than usual, but that isn’t the point. He could have. The kid was up all night!”
“I’ll talk to Daniel Norton about the situation and see if he can find out whether the counseling has started yet. I didn’t think to ask Mr. Williams. Did you?”
“Not at 2:00 a.m., no.” I remember Mrs. Callahan had smiled at me, almost kindly, I think.
Turns out that the incident did jump start his counseling. A very small lining of silver in an otherwise pretty dark cloud. Maybe the clinic can figure out how to help the whole family.
Back to the present. Mrs. Callahan is watching me with impatient eyes. I guess I’m the only one flashing back. She’s sitting comfortably in the here and now waiting for me to talk.
“I guess I think we need something that will make us feel more like a regular class…instead of just a bunch of people sharing space. You know?”
Callahan looks at me with an expression that clearly states that she does not know what I’m talking about at all.
“I think it will take more than a hamster to make your class regular.” She makes it sound like we all could use some laxative.
What we could use are some resources. Maybe daily psychological support. A time machine, so the kids can go backward and find a better start to their short lives and a chance for a better finish.
“I know. But we have to start somewhere, and I really think this might be a positive thing for them—us. Oh, and I want to take them with me to choose the pet. A field trip.” I say it quickly so she doesn’t have a chance to say no before I can get it out into the air.
“A FIELD TRIP?” I can hear the capitals.
“Yes. Like other classes do. Only smaller. Sean and I can handle it. We’ll just go to
McDonald’s and then the pet store and back here. Two hours. Tops.”
“I don’t know. The liability issues—”
“The permission form covers all of that. The boys have been with me long enough that I trust them to do this. How will they ever have a chance in the real world if we keep them out of it?” I try to look earnest and honest as I lie through my teeth.
I don’t actually trust them at all. How can I? I have no idea what they’re like outside the walls of this school. That’s not true. I do have some ideas, none of them particularly good ones. I know that a field trip could be an unmitigated disaster. But I want to try. I want them to believe in themselves a bit. Or at least think that I believe they can do something “normal.” I want them to share something besides our classroom and a rather impressive vocabulary of profanity.
She looks at me for a moment. I can see the word NO forming on her lips. She closes her eyes for a second and shakes her head. “All right. Make sure the forms are signed at least a week before by the proper guardians. If it all falls apart, it’s on you.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks.” I’m so shocked she said yes that I can’t make sentences.
For the next three weeks we engage in “how to go out in public properly” lessons. It’s amazing how much we take for granted in this area of kids’ development. I’m not talking about manners—the pleases and thank yous and excuse mes that don’t really mean very much to anyone. It’s the little, real-life things, like knowing how to start a conversation, or how to ask for help appropriately, or the best way to react to criticism, constructive or otherwise, without punching someone in the head. There’s an assumption that children are just being rude when they don’t demonstrate the social niceties that we’ve decided are signs of a civilized person. But some kids, like my guys, actually don’t know much more about social skills than they do about algebra. They need to be taught about social variables and how to manipulate them properly with the same care and attention that we shower on math skills. In our classroom, social-skills lessons take precedence and are taught in all kinds of ways, from very specific step-by-step instructions, to reading social stories and books, right through to role playing, the class favorite. The kids particularly enjoy the performance-art variety during which Sean and I act out potential problems and they have to come up with solutions for us.
We’ve had a few strange looks from people passing by the room as I yell hysterically at Sean while he gives me a lecture about finishing my homework and the boys roll on the floor laughing. Those lessons sometimes get away from us, and I’m not sure how much learning goes on. Although having fun is a social skill too, and learning how to come back from a silly situation without losing control is one we’re all still working on.
Finally the big day arrives, and we head out to find our new classmate. We have a real school bus, smaller than most but still yellow and still different from what the kids are used to. The bus is actually tiny, one of those charmingly referred to as a handicapped bus, as if it isn’t as strong or capable as all of the other buses. Even though there are lots of seats, Donny and Cory manage to have a fight over who gets to sit with Kevin as they walk up the steps of the bus.
“Hey, guys! No one fights on the bus. There are two trips anyway, so you can share. Now sit down and zip it or you aren’t coming!” The bus driver, an obvious veteran in the world of yellow buses, is glaring at the boys, who both stop in their tracks. I can tell they’re wondering if they should get into it with this new person who thinks she can boss them around. I really hope they don’t. I want this trip to work, if only to prove Mrs. Callahan wrong.
Cory takes his fighting stance, feet planted, hands fisting. I put my foot on the bottom step so I can fly up and intervene, but Donny beats me to it, reaching over and touching Cory on the arm. He shakes his head and walks past him, sitting down behind Kevin. Cory shrugs his shoulders and follows, plopping himself beside Kevin.
The rest of the trip is charged with excited energy, and Sean and I have a few more close calls with overstoked emotions before we finally arrive. We even make it into the restaurant and manage to get food ordered without anyone getting a black eye or any other such drama. If you don’t call the one little fistfight in the lineup dramatic, that is.
“Okay guys, garbage in the can, coats on, and we’re gone. Cory, Donny, please don’t start that again. The pet store is expecting us.” I’m not supposed to say please when they’re threatening to beat each other’s brains out for the umpteenth time. Authority figures do not assert their authority by using mannerly words. It sounds too much like begging. But I’ve been overly well-bred and can’t seem to stop.
The pet store is directly beside the restaurant, and the boys troop in with remarkably little fuss. The pet store owner is kind and matter of fact with them. He doesn’t appear to see anything strange about us, and the boys seem to respond positively to his attitude.
“So, what do you think?” With the exception of Mike, they’re all peering into a cage with a pile of little rodent bodies scuttling around. Mike is standing back, hands in his pockets, looking very bored, like he considers himself far too cool for field trips.
“I like that one,” Donny says, pointing to one of the bodies, which looks the same as all the other bodies.
“Does everyone agree?” The other boys either nod or shrug. Donny has become an unofficial class leader over the last little while. I don’t know if that’s because he’s the oldest and the tallest or if it’s some other quality that I can’t really define as yet. But the other boys seem to give him a modicum of respect—which is far more than they give to anyone else most of the time.
Except for Mike. Mike mostly ignores him when he isn’t trying to trigger him.
“Excellent choice. I’ll package him up for you.” The storeowner seems enormously pleased. Donny smiles a little self-consciously. It makes my eyes water a bit, and I feel a little sniffle coming on.
“Come on, guys, help me take Fred to the bus.” Sean picks up the cardboard box containing our new class mascot. Fred. I have no idea why the hamster’s name is Fred other than it being the end result of a rather loud and long lesson on the concept of democratic voting.
I stay at the cash for a few moments to pay while Sean herds the boys into something resembling a line, and they march out to the bus, a ragged army of misplaced soldiers heading back to the front.
Our brave bus driver smiles as the kids pile on, patiently watching them as they insist on pushing through the door two or three at a time instead of heeding my request that they try the single-file method. I think I accidentally said please again. The kids could each have their own seat, but they insist on sitting together, which would be a sign of positive social growth if they didn’t use the close quarters as an opportunity to push, shove, hit, and curse each other out. I sit at the front, body turned sideways and legs out in the forbidden aisle, and Sean sits at the back, hamster securely held in his lap so that he at least makes it home alive. I have his shiny new cage and bags of shavings and food sitting beside me in a large, environmentally un-cool bag.
After the first few minutes, the kids start to calm down, lulled by carbohydrates into a state almost approaching peaceful. I just start to congratulate myself on the wonderfulness of my plan, on my wisdom and understanding of the needs of my students, and on standing up to my principal when the bus driver’s voice interrupts me.
“Oh my God!”
She’s screaming the words, and at first I can’t understand why because none of the students are anywhere near her. I spin around to look at her, and she’s pointing out the front window, frozen in a tiny fraction of a minute that’s broken off from the universal timeline to complicate our lives. My eyes follow the direction of her shaking finger, and I suppress my own scream. A half-ton truck is coming toward us down an icy hill, spinning in endless three-sixties. I stare at it, the spinning hypnotizing m
e so that I don’t immediately recognize the danger of what’s about to happen.
The bus driver unfreezes and grabs the wheel with both hands, twisting to the right as hard as she can to avoid the unavoidable. I glance out the window and see the yawning abyss of a deep ditch, kept away from us by a tiny cable fence that wouldn’t hold up to a mountain bike. The kids are noticing now, starting to make loud sounds, and I know I should turn around and figure out some empty lies to comfort them, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the pseudo fence that is going to make the difference between life and death.
The truck finishes its mad arabesques with a deafening crash as it pounds into the bus. Unsatisfied with its performance, it flies over us in one final leap before crashing to the ground to await our ovation.
Chapter 16
Blood and vomit
The bus finally stops moving, and I feel myself joining in the dance, doing my own flying leap out of my seat and onto the floor. I can hear crying and shouting all around me. My glasses are gone, and I feel around on the floor for them.
“Ms. S! Ms. S! What happened? What happened?” The voices are in my ear, and I should stop crawling around on the floor and figure out if the kids are all right, but I need my glasses. I can’t do this without my glasses.
“Ms. S! Ms. S! Ms. S! Ms. S!” Each “S” is louder than the last, but my hands still scramble madly across the floor until my fingers finally stumble on a familiar shape. I grab my dirt-smeared and probably totally scratched-up glasses, cram them on my face, and take a deep breath before I force myself to look around. I don’t really want to. I don’t want to know that they’re hurt. I don’t do blood and pain. I’m a teacher, not a nurse. The two worst things that can happen in my classroom are vomit or blood. When I see vomit, I always feel the need to puke my own guts out in sympathy. When I see blood, my head goes light and fuzzy, and I feel like I’m going to faint.
“Sean?” I call his name first, needing to know that there’s another adult here to help with the blood and vomit.