by Liane Shaw
Except that we didn’t need a hamster.
All we really needed was a random act of vehicular violence.
Chapter 18
Glow bugs and raccoons
This is where it would be nice to say that the accident was the turning point in our year, the climactic peak in the storyline of our lives that would lead to a dénouement of happily-ever-after for everyone.
It wasn’t exactly that, but it did seem to be the start of some subtle changes to the group dynamic. No, that’s wrong. It seemed to be the start of a group dynamic, period. Other than random moments, like painting volcanoes or laughing at bad acting, my class has always been mostly an every-kid-for-himself environment. But after the field trip, every once in a while we actually started to feel like…well, a class.
One of the most interesting aftereffects of the accident was Kevin’s suddenly loosened tongue. We knew he could talk—obviously it wasn’t the whale who had been conversing with us all this time—it’s just that sometimes we forgot. So when he started talking himself, it felt like something of a miracle.
Of course, talking is only step one. Trying to expand his vocabulary to something approaching socially acceptable is becoming a bit of a class project. His grammar and syntax seem to work just fine when stringing together profanity. And although Baby has always been a pretty good talker, everyday conversations seem to be a challenge for Kevin when he’s appearing as himself. Everyone but our lone wolf Mike is pitching in to help Kevin figure out how to use his own rather deep and gravelly voice as effectively as he uses his sweetly high-pitched Baby voice.
“Bathroom,” he growls at me one day. Donny looks over at me with a bit of a conspiratorial grin. He whispers in Kevin’s ear.
“Go to the bathroom,” he growls a bit louder.
“May I go to the bathroom?” I say it slowly and clearly, modeling it for everyone. Kevin looks at Donny with a puzzled look on his face and then back at me.
“Sure, go ahead,” he says, pointing in the direction of the door, his words drowned out by the howls of laughter from Donny, Cory, and Chris. I think I even heard Mike chuckle, but I can’t be sure.
Kevin’s newfound skills in language are a welcome addition to his report card. It gives me something to say. Our school board insists that I use the same form as everyone else, the one that focuses on reading, writing, math and science, and all of those other subjects that get short shrift in my room. There’s one tiny section at the end for social-skills development that I’m supposed to use to sum up six hours a day of nonstop social-skills intervention and programming.
And this is only step one in the fun that comes with the midyear reporting period. Step two is trying to explain the so-called reports to the parents and guardians when they come on parent-teacher interview day.
If they come.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be able to come in. Marjorie either. We don’t really see the need. We’ve talked to you a few times, and he seems to be doing all right.” Mike’s father is polite.
In actual fact, the last time I spoke with him was on my home phone at 2:00 a.m. I don’t think that really counts.
“Well, Mr. Williams, I really do have a number of concerns that we need to discuss. And I would like some idea of how things are going at home, now that Mike is in counseling.”
“Oh, well, that. Well, that’s not a concern now.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, he isn’t going. None of us are. He was being…non-cooperating. Um, I think they said hostile. So we’re done for now.”
“I really think you and your wife need to come in to talk to me about this and about Mike’s progress in general.” I’m trying to hold on to a professional tone, but my sheer astonishment is making it hard. He’s done? How many sessions could he have had? I’ve never even had contact with his counselor, and now he’s done?
“Well, maybe another time. Have to go now.”
I stare at the phone as if it might have an answer or two for me. No one else does. He’s not in counseling? Because he’s too hostile? I thought that was the reason for counseling in the first place. How can he be out of it for the same reason he’s supposed to be in it? And how can his parents choose not to come and talk to me?
And who’s going to answer all of my questions?
Strike one.
Strike two is Donny’s foster mom. Even though he’s been there a while now, his placement is technically considered temporary, which is kind of interesting when you think of it, because I thought that foster placements were pretty much all considered temporary. Anyway, his foster mom doesn’t really have the time to attend an interview for him when she has so many scheduled for her other kids. His social worker is busy this week. His mother isn’t supposed to come to the school until all of the issues concerning the assault charge and custody are resolved one way or the other, which doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon.
I wanted to speak to the social worker and the foster mom. I have concerns. All Donny talks about is going home to be with his mother permanently. Every day it comes up in some fashion. He makes her cards and writes her letters continually. It’s pretty close to an obsession, although I’m not sure that’s the right word to use for someone who wants something that he’s actually supposed to have.
Anyway, I want to know what’s going on. Is he really going home? What am I supposed to say to him when he talks about her? Or when he says he’s going home for good?
Mostly I just say nothing. And feel useless while I worry about what all of this uncertainty is doing to his already confused and volatile outlook on life.
So, interview day will be short and sweet: Chris’s and Cory’s mothers and Kevin’s parents, which is fine, because I have to get over to my daughters’ school and attend a couple of interviews of my own.
Attending a parent-teacher interview when you are both things yourself is strange, especially when you work in the same tiny town where your daughters attend school. There’s an awkwardness to the conversation, a stilted formality as you sit down with someone who is essentially your colleague to talk about your own child. It can be particularly uncomfortable if the news isn’t good.
My daughter’s grade three teacher is an old friend with whom I worked at my first school. She’s pretty happy with overall progress, but has some concerns about inverted writing and spelling—mirror image, to be exact. In other words, my daughter can write entire sentences backwards, every letter and every word, so that you have to use a mirror to read it.
“She’s just creeping up on her eighth birthday. It’s still pretty natural for some kids at this age. Especially seeing as she’s a December baby, which makes her younger than most of the other kids. I’ll keep an eye on it.” I’m trying to sound like a mother, but I know I’m coming across as a spec. ed. teacher know-it-all. I see it in her eyes.
“Well, we’ll keep an eye on it here. I’ll let you know if we want to consider going ahead with testing.” That’s code for You don’t know everything, especially when it comes to your own kid.
“Thanks. And I will let you know if I think she needs it.” That’s code for I do so!
We smile politely, both relieved it’s over, and I head down the hall to the JK room. I haven’t had any splash-pants-related phone calls recently, so I’m hopeful that things will go well here.
“So, I’ll get right to the point,” she says. This is not a good start. Points are sharp and usually painful.
“O…kay.” I draw out the syllables.
“We’re a bit concerned about her…fantasy life, I guess you’d call it.”
Fantasy life? She’s four. What other kind of life does she have?
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, she’s been telling some quite outlandish stories at sharing time. And it appears she believes them. We
can’t get her to admit that she’s making them up.”
“What do you mean?” Outlandish? What year is it, 1965?
“Well, she likes to tell the class about adventures she pretends to have had. With a girlfriend who she says visits her at night and takes her away to another land. Chloe?”
“Oh! Chloe. She’s not a girl exactly. More of a bug—a glow bug.” I smile cheerfully as I provide this all-important clarification. Her eyes tell me that she doesn’t care. Or maybe they’re just saying that she doesn’t like glow bugs. I can’t tell.
“It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that she is convinced that this…glow bug?…comes into her room and takes her away to some place and brings her back in the morning. She tells us she’s too tired to work sometimes because she’s been up all night.”
I laugh, but stop quickly at the look on her face. Oh. She doesn’t find this funny. “Yes, she tells me the same stories. One time she even had her party shoes laid out beside the bed because she had been to Chloe’s birthday party the night before. She has a very creative imagination.” I grin proudly. It was so cute—little shiny-white party shoes so carefully set out beside the bed so that she could bring me into her dream world. I’m pretty sure it’s a sign of genius.
“I understand that. And an imagination is a wonderful thing. But she doesn’t seem to understand that she’s imagining this Chloe and all the things they do together. She thinks it’s real. I keep trying to explain the difference to her, but she won’t listen.”
She is obviously not buying the genius theory. “Oh, I see. Well, did you tell her Santa Claus and the Easter bunny are all in her mind too? Because last time I looked, they weren’t exactly real.”
“Of course not. That’s not the same thing at all.”
So it’s okay to lie to kids about chocolate-loving bunnies and an imaginary fat man who only gives presents to rich kids, but my kid can’t fly around at night with a glow bug?
“So, what is the concern here?” I ask in the politest tone I can dredge up, which isn’t really all that polite because I am feeling more and more pissed off by the second. She looks at me like she thinks I’m really, really stupid. I just smile, even as I feel my fingers curling into annoyed fists.
“She will not admit that she is making up her adventures. I am concerned that perhaps the strain of your…situation…might be taking a toll on her. Have you considered counseling?”
“For her or me?” I hear there’s a spot opened up down at the clinic.
“Of course it’s up to you. I just wanted you to know of my concerns.”
“Well, I appreciate it. And no, she doesn’t need counseling. She’s four. And I don’t tell her that her adventures aren’t real. They’re real to her. I’m fine with that.” I try to ignore visions of a stuffed black whale laughing in my face. Back off, Baby.
“Well, so long as you are okay with it. I just wanted you to know.” Great. Now she’s offended. It’s really not a good idea to offend your child’s teacher.
“I do appreciate your concern, and I will keep an eye on her. Are there any other problems? She’s wearing all her outside clothes and keeping her teeth to herself?”
“Yes. Of course. And her academics are fine.”
Gee, that’s a relief. I’d hate to see her super important four-year-old “academics” slide.
And that was a snippy little thought. I think it’s time to go back to school and sit on the teacher side of the desk before I say something out loud that I’m going to regret. Besides, I’m pretty sure my palms are starting to bleed where my fingernails are digging in.
✘
“So, you mentioned on his report card that he’s finally decided to speak to you?” Kevin’s mother looks very pleased. Good start for my team.
“He did. The day of the accident, actually.”
“Oh really? And what did he say?”
What did he say? Something involving a four-letter word and a truck. Don’t think I want to tell her that.
“I can’t remember exactly. But we’ve been working on social language skills ever since. Asking questions. Having conversations. That sort of thing. The other boys are helping. Kevin still doesn’t speak as well as Baby, but we’re working on it.”
“That’s good. At home, Baby only comes out when we have company. It would be nice if Kevin could speak directly to our friends. Funny that the accident is making such a difference. We took him to see it, you know.”
“See what?”
“The bus. We called the police and asked where it was. Kevin needed to see it for some reason. So we went.”
“Oh, goodness. He never said anything.” Of course he didn’t. He still can barely ask to go to the bathroom.
“I just about passed out myself. I couldn’t believe the damage. The bus is basically scrap metal now.”
I shake my head. I don’t think I want to see it. I don’t want to think about how close my girls came to being half orphans.
“Well, I’m just glad everyone is all right.”
“Anyway, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to thank you for keeping him. This is the longest he’s been in one school in a while. There’s been so much moving around trying to find the right place. Now we just have to find the right diagnosis and we’re off to the races.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do—”
“I’ll let you know.”
She heads off down the hall, followed by her ever-silent husband, and I sit back to wait for interview number two. Or four, depending on how you look at it.
I don’t think Kevin should even be in our class. His issues are so different from the other boys. He seems like he’s on the autism spectrum more than anything, but I’m no expert. And the experts haven’t managed to diagnose him with anything yet, so I’ve got him. Which isn’t such a bad thing for us, seeing as Kevin still seems to be the classroom neutral zone. He doesn’t bother any of the other kids, and none of them bother him—at least not in front of me.
“Excuse me?” A very small voice comes at me from the door of my classroom. An equally small woman is standing there. She’s wearing large sunglasses that cover most of her face and a baseball cap over long, curly brown hair. She looks acutely uncomfortable and seems hesitant to come all the way into the room.
“Hi. You must be Chris’s mom. Come on in!” In my effort to make her feel at home, I accidentally shout at her, making her cringe and shrink into herself. If I don’t calm down, she’ll disappear completely. I walk toward her slowly, the way you do with a skittish horse that might turn tail if you get too close.
“Would you like to sit down?” I try again, this time with a softer voice that’s aiming for soothing. She nods slightly and perches on the edge of the chair.
“I know the report card isn’t very illuminating. Chris hasn’t been here as long as the other boys, so I really couldn’t fill it in the way I would have liked.”
“That’s okay,” she says in a whispery voice. She reaches up and pushes the ridiculously large sunglasses more firmly onto her nose. As they move on her face, I get a quick glance at the skin underneath her left eye. It’s an angry shade of purple. I feel myself wince and hope she didn’t see it.
“Chris is a really interesting young man. Very intelligent and capable. We just have to figure out a way to get him to channel his smarts into school work.” I smile as if I’ve said something useful instead of filling the air with empty teacher talk. She smiles back very slightly and waits for me to say something else. But what?
I can’t figure out how to talk naturally to her. She’s so scared that I want to give her a hug. I want to ask her why her eye is purple and tell her I can get her some help. I want to ask her if Chris knows that someone hit her. I want her to tell me what happens to him at home.
I can’t ask her any of those ques
tions. I have to talk about school. Looking at her sitting there, I imagine that school is not the most important thing on her mind.
“So, Chris is working on all grade-level assignments right now. We feel he is a good candidate for integration and will be looking at that in the new year.” I still sound like a robot. A teacher-bot.
“Integration?”
“A return to the regular classroom. We would start slowly and then gradually increase his time until he’s ready to go back full-time.” She looks at me from behind her glasses. I can’t really see her eyes, but from her posture I suspect that they aren’t filled with happy pride.
“I thought he would stay here with you.” Her voice confirms my suspicion. She sounds panicked.
“Of course he will have my support as long as he needs it. Don’t worry. We won’t rush anything.” I can’t tell if my words pacify her at all. I shouldn’t have brought the integration idea up so soon. I thought it might make her feel positive or something. I don’t know. I seem to be making a mess of this interview.
“It’s just…he had troubles at the other school. Saying things he shouldn’t say. Does he do that here? Talk about…it?” I imagine that behind those glasses her eyes are begging me to tell her that he has stopped talking about things that he shouldn’t even know about yet.
“There have been a couple of incidents, but we’re working on it with him. That and running away from things instead of staying here and working it through are the two biggest issues that we’ll be focusing on with him before any thought of moving him into another room.” I feel like we’re talking in code, both of us too polite to mention sex. Social skills.
“Okay. Thank you for helping him. I have to go. My baby girl will be awake soon.” She gets up and scuttles from the room without looking at me. Her baby girl? There’s a baby in the middle of whatever nightmare is being played out at that house?
This is crazy. There’s obviously something very, very wrong in that household, and no one can do anything about it unless someone has the courage to admit it. We haven’t had as many incidents of sexualized talk as there were at his previous school, but I suspect that’s because it’s more difficult for him to get away from big-eared staff here. Most of the incidents at his last school involved his sharing detailed information with younger children, which then got reported to understandably horrified parents. We watch him closely all of the time here, especially with the JK room right across the hall. But stalking him isn’t helping him deal with whatever is happening in his life.