by Liane Shaw
“I’m okay. I think.”
“Ms. S, Ms. S, Ms. S, Ms. S!”
“It’s okay everyone! We’re all right. Sean and I are going to check you all out carefully. Just sit tight.” I push myself to my feet, checking to see if I have all my body parts before seeing if the students have theirs. The first one I find is Donny, pushed down on the floor beside his seat, wedged tightly, head on his knees.
“Donny, honey? Are you okay?” Stupid question but the only one I can think of. Are you okay with the fact that I took you on a stupid field trip to buy an even stupider rodent and almost got you killed in a bus accident?
“I don’t know,” he answers weakly, raising his head to look at me with tear-filled eyes. I feel the bile rise up in my throat as my brain starts to fill with bubbles of horror. His face and chest are covered with dark, viscous slime, and I can’t see where it’s leaking from. He’s crying harder now, eyes and ears both pouring out fluids that mix with the slime, making a volcanic mess that I know I should be trying to clean away. I dig through my pockets and find a small napkin, which I use to dab ineffectually at his face.
“What hurts?” I know in some forgotten part of my previously intelligent mind that he might not even know, that shock might be numbing his nerve endings.
“Nothing. I don’t want you to be mad, okay?” He looks up at me with his teary-eyed, snotty, slime-coated face.
“Mad? Why would I be mad? You didn’t cause the accident.” I’ve heard of this. What’s it called? Some kind of guilt thing.
“No, not that. My sundae. You told me to throw it out, and I didn’t, and now it’s all over the place. All over me.” He reaches his hand into his jacket and pulls out an almost-empty ice cream sundae cup. Chocolate sundae. Not blood on his face. Hot fudge. Dark, goopy, slimy left-over hot fudge. Psycho blood.
I start to laugh, which turns into tears without my permission. I stand up and pull him to his feet, looking around to see where everyone else has ended up. Sean is moving between the seats, limping a little but otherwise seeming to be intact. He already has Kevin and Cory beside him. Kevin is looking out the window and shaking his fist.
“Fucking truck! You fucking truck! Fuck off you fucking truck!” He’s saying it over and over and over again. I’m so amazed to hear him talking without the whale that I don’t say anything about his choice of words. Besides, I totally agree with him.
“I was upside down on the seat. Upside down. I, like, flew across the seats and fucking landed upside down!” Cory is jumping up and down and pointing to a random seat. “Want me to show you?”
Before I have a chance to say no, he flings himself at the seat and lands on his stomach with his feet kicking around in the air behind him. He’s laughing, but I’m afraid the pressure of the seat on his full gut will make both of us puke, so I make him get up.
The other two boys are still sitting down, looking pretty stunned but not particularly upset. I take a deep breath, which starts out to be one of relief.
“Off the bus! Everyone off the bus now! She’s going to blow!” The bus driver’s screams slam into me, making me choke on my relief. I look up toward the front of the bus where she’s standing, pointing out the back window. I follow the direction of her hand and wish I hadn’t. The truck has burst into flames.
“Quickly. Get the kids out the front before we catch!” She stands there, captain of the sinking ship, ushering the children past her and out onto the snowy shoulder of the road. She refuses to leave until Sean and I are also safely out.
“Run!” She shouts at us as she scrambles down the steps. We look back, wondering if we should be helping the truck driver, but Good Samaritan cars have now stopped, and we leave the rescuing to them. Without taking the time to line them up, we just start herding the kids down the side of the road. Suddenly, Mike stops.
“Fred! Fred! He’s going to blow up! You have to save him!”
Fred, the source of all this excitement, is still sitting in his box on Sean’s seat at the back of the bus.
“I’ll get him,” Sean says, reversing direction and heading back.
“No, it’s not safe!” The bus driver yells at him, but he ignores her. I know I should tell him not to go. To come back and save himself and let the hamster die.
But Mike wants him saved.
Mike expressed a real concern for something other than himself.
How could we stand there and let the hamster die? The whole point of this field trip was to find something for my kids to care for. Everyone told me it was crazy to think that a class full of emotionally messed up behavior kids could possibly take care of a pet. They told me it was even crazier to actually take my kids outside of the relative safety of the school and into a world where there might be real people who might see us. That they would embarrass me at the pet store and probably kill someone at the restaurant.
They were perfect gentlemen at the pet store, and there was only the one fistfight at the restaurant.
And now Mike wants us to save the hamster! Letting it die would absolutely be the wrong thing to do.
It occurred to me much later on that standing there and letting Sean die would probably have been a bad thing also.
Thankfully, Sean did not die. He bravely entered the not-yet raging inferno, emerging mere seconds later with the box in one hand and the giant bag in the other.
“Let me see him!” Mike demands loudly. Sean looks at me quizzically. We should really be running down the road, but from experience we both know that arguing with Mike would take a lot longer than just giving in. Giving in is even weaker than saying please, but there’s a time and place for everything.
“Ok, quickly.” The boys crowd around as Sean carefully lifts a flap of the box. I can’t resist a peek myself and finally finish my breath of relief when the little guy looks up at us, then scurries around the bottom of the box without a care in the world.
“Now run, but keep together,” I yell, and we all take off down the side of the road with Kevin’s refrain keeping us in lockstep.
“Fucking truck, fucking truck, fucking truck, fucking truck, fucking truck.”
Chris is at the front of the pack, using his considerable running experience to pace us. I’m really hoping he doesn’t just keep on going until he finds whatever it is that he’s looking for.
Within seconds we come to a white farmhouse straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Perfectly maintained barns line up a short distance behind it, likely housing perfectly maintained cows, judging from the smell.
“Chris! Hold up now,” I’m panting along in the middle of the pack. I am seriously out of shape. There’s no way I could catch him if he decides to keep going.
“Okay!” he calls back and stops. I take a second to catch a couple of breaths. This is so not the way I envisioned this field trip.
Field trip? Is the fact that we very nearly ended up dying in a snow-covered field irony—or just insanity?
“Okay, guys. We’re going to go to the door and ask these kind people if we can please wait inside their house until we can figure out another way back to the school. Remember, we are asking for help from strangers, so we need to be polite.” Social-skills lessons at ten below zero, thirty seconds after a truck tried to kill us. Teacher of the year.
I walk up the driveway and onto the wraparound porch that probably has pots of daisies on it in the summer. I imagine a woman inside, comfortably middle-aged in a flower print dress with an apron on that says something like “home is where the heart is.” She’ll take one look at us and take pity, then invite us in for tea and crumpets.
The kids straggle along behind me and stop. I look at them for a moment and shake my head. She’ll more likely scream and head for the root cellar.
“Remember, inside voices and keep it polite. Actually, try not to talk at all.” I ring the sunf
lower-shaped bell and try to smooth my hair and my nerves a bit while waiting for someone to come.
“Hello?” The door opens to reveal a woman a few years older than me. She’s dressed in a power business suit and has a phone glued to her ear.
“Oh, hi. Sorry to bother you, but we’ve had a bit of trouble and need your help.” I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have any crumpets. At least she doesn’t scream and run away.
“Bruce? There’s someone at my door. I’ll have to call you back. What happened?” She speaks quickly, and it takes me a second to realize she’s turned her attention from her phone conversation to our live one.
“Fucking truck hit our bus,” Kevin says helpfully.
Donny pats Kevin on the back and smiles like a proud papa. She looks a little startled, but laughs a bit. I shrug my shoulders and nod.
“Could we just stand in your front hall until I can get someone to pick us up?”
“Oh, of course. Poor kids. I thought I heard a crash, but I wasn’t sure. Come in.”
“Remember guys. Polite. Kevin, I’m super happy you’re talking, but maybe no more talk about trucks, all right?” The kids push past me and stand uncomfortably in the hallway, a motley and pathetic little crew. I suspect I don’t look any better than they do, a suspicion confirmed by our benefactor’s eyes when she looks me up and down in that way certain women have.
“Are you a teacher?” She says the word with the slightest emphasis, making it sound vaguely embarrassing.
“She’s our teacher. Ms. S.” Donny steps forward, and she steps back. He wipes his hand across his face, smearing the sundae mess even further. She takes another step back.
“Are you all okay?” she asks from a safe distance.
“Fucking truck hit our bus,” Kevin says again, as if that explains it all. Which I guess it does.
“Kevin, what did I say about talking about the truck?” I say it gently, putting my hand on his shoulder. He looks at me and nods. He stands there for a second sniffing, and I wonder if he’s starting to cry. I’ve never seen Kevin cry, but today would be as good a day as any to start. First talking. Now crying. He’s turning into a real live boy.
He sniffs again, and I squeeze his shoulder a bit. He looks up at me and sniffs one more time. Poor little guy. Poor all of us.
He looks away from me and over at the woman who was kind enough to invite us into her home. She smiles at him encouragingly, and I feel a little swelling of pride as he steps a little closer to her, looking up at her with big serious green eyes. Is this it? The moment when he shows me he’s actually picked up a social skill or two from all of my endless lessons?
“Smells like shit,” he says.
Chapter 17
Aftermath
We arrive back at the school on a second bus they sent to retrieve us. There’s little fanfare heralding our return. Mrs. Callahan greets us at the door with what looks like something less than overwhelming concern. I suspect from the look in her eyes that she was feeling more satisfaction than anxiety over the outcome of my experiment. Not that I think she’s happy we had an accident. Just that she was right. I bet she’s reveling in an I-told-you-so moment, although my perception might be somewhat off. I’m pretty sure I’m in some level of shock.
“You need to go to the hospital immediately. I’ll arrange coverage for your class,” she says firmly.
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not really fine. I feel like a truck hit me.
“Go anyway.” Even more firmly. I suspect that this is not a sudden outpouring of concern for my health and welfare. This might be more of a concern over what the teachers’ union will do if I’m not taken care of properly.
“I’ll go after they leave. If I go now, they’ll all freak out. You don’t really want to deal with that, do you?”
She looks at me for a moment. She’s wrestling with herself, her face twisting into different expressions that she’s totally unaware of. I can see the battle between her fear of my students and her fear of my union. It’s a short battle.
“Fine. There’s less than an hour before their cabs come, I guess. But make sure you go as soon as they’re all gone.”
It occurs to me after she leaves that she didn’t say anything about taking the children to the hospital. I don’t even think she’s going to call the parents and guardians. I know that no one seems to be hurt, but I would certainly expect to be called immediately if something like this had happened to either of my children.
Then again, I’m not sure that everyone here thinks of my guys as children at all. They’re just behavior kids. Screwed up, violent, rude, and socially unacceptable. Tough as the proverbial nails. Nothing can break them.
Not even an out-of-control half-ton truck.
Maybe my students need a union. Kevin can be their rep, now that he’s talking.
The rest of the afternoon is preternaturally quiet. Shock can do that.
“It’s so quiet in here. Maybe you should have more accidents.” The head pops around the corner, disembodied and dis-empathetic. It belongs to Ms. Keller, our vice-principal-slash-sixth-grade English teacher. I’ve seldom seen her anywhere near my classroom. She doesn’t appear to notice that the children are still here.
“Fuck you, bitch,” says Kevin. Speaking for the group—including me. I can’t help but swell with pride. He’s still talking!
“Are you going to let him get away with that?” the disembodied head is asking me.
“I didn’t hear anything. Guess my ears are ringing from the accident. Good thing because that way I can say I didn’t hear you either. And then I won’t have to do anything about the fact that you came into my class and interrupted me with my students just to say something ignorant.”
The accident has loosened my tongue…unhinged my inhibitions. Maybe I should go to the office next.
“Well!” The head sputters incoherently and withdraws. Presumably to float down to the staff room to share with the other talking heads.
“Awesome, Ms. S.” Cory high-fives me. My shoulder hurts when I raise my arm, but I’m too brave to let on.
“Owww!” Well, maybe not that brave.
“You okay, Ms. S?” Donny looks at me, concern producing wrinkles on his eleven-year-old forehead.
“Yeah. I’m all right.”
“Ms. K’s such a bitch,” Chris pipes up from where he’s lying on the floor. I’m not sure why he’s down there, but at least he’s still here, so I haven’t said anything about it.
“Probably better if you find another way to say that.” Social-skills lesson number seven hundred and ten.
“Ms. K’s a total and complete fucking asshole of a bitch.” Chris smiles up at me. I shake my head at him, trying to look disapproving. A smile creeps across my face instead.
“Hey, Kev. You really told that truck off!” Donny’s sitting on a chair beside Kevin’s desk, helping him pretend to do a word search puzzle.
“Fucking truck hit our bus.”
“Totally.” Donny nods and scribbles over another word that isn’t really a word.
“Hey, he likes his cage!” Cory is at the back of the room helping Sean get Fred settled. Everyone but Mike goes back to check it out. His concern for Fred’s health and happiness seems to have been left behind on a snowy road somewhere in farm country.
“You all right, Mike?” He’s sitting quietly at his desk, staring at a book that I’m pretty sure he isn’t reading.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” He looks at me with his usual look of total disgust.
“No reason.” Maybe you get attacked by trucks every day, but it’s new to me.
Half an hour later, the boys head home and I head to the hospital. I shouldn’t be heading anywhere. I should be on the phone calling parents and guardians, but Mrs. Callahan wouldn’t let me stay. She told me to
go and not to worry about it. That she would take care of everything.
I really hope that’s true.
Three thirty in the afternoon, and there are only four people in the waiting room. Looks like a short wait.
A few minutes later, the triage nurse disabuses me of that assumption. “Actually, the doctor is not here yet, so you will have a bit of a wait. We have a few people in the examination rooms already, so you’ll just have to sit tight.” She smiles at me cheerfully. I smile back, somewhat less cheerfully. Small town hospitals. Fewer people in the waiting room. Fewer doctors in the examination rooms.
Still better than the city, though.
I don’t even know why I’m here. Nothing really hurts. My back feels a bit sore, but nothing’s bleeding, and all my body parts are still attached. I’d rather just pick the girls up early, order a pizza, and have a Care Bears movie marathon.
Sean isn’t here. I wonder if he’s one of the people already in the examination rooms. Once we got back to the school, he admitted that he had a pretty deep gash on his leg that looked stitch worthy.
I sit down carefully. Guess my back is more than a bit sore. I wonder how the kids are doing. Will the ones who have parents at home be going to the doctor tonight just to be sure they’re okay? Will Donny get checked out too? Will anyone make sure they aren’t traumatized by the disastrous end to our very first field trip?
What the hell was I thinking? That’s what everyone will ask. Everyone thought I was nuts to try to take them anywhere. Bunch of messed-up behavior kids shouldn’t be allowed out in public, after all. I’m sure the fact that the accident had absolutely nothing to do with my kids won’t occur to anyone.
My kids.
My class.
I hate to admit it, but sitting there together in the aftermath of our accident, it occurred to me—for just a moment—that we felt like a unit for the first time. A group that belongs together instead of some random collection of individuals that all want to be somewhere else.
Just for a moment.
But maybe it was a start. Maybe I should tell Callahan that my experiment worked after all.