Time Out Page 3

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 4

  G-R-E-A-T spells great!

  Suddenly it’s Monday. My Resource kids have already been told that they will have a supply teacher until a permanent replacement can be found—even though I had wanted to tell them myself. And I find myself on the other side of the divider in my own classroom, trying not to be nervous as I attempt to set up the classroom to look like…well, a classroom.

  Peter had this theory, apparently supported by someone he consulted from the dinosaur age, that the room should be completely barren. Nothing on the walls that the students could rip off. No attractive books that pages could be torn out of. Nothing interesting to play with that could be broken or used as a weapon.

  In Peter’s defense, after listening to everything that went on in here the first few weeks of the school year, I can only imagine the rampant destruction that would have ensued had he given them something to destroy.

  On the other hand, after listening to everything that went on in here the last few weeks, I am imagining the great pride the students will feel when presented with a classroom that looks welcoming and interesting. I see it as my way of telling the boys that things are different now, that I trust them to respect their world and, by extension, me.

  And while I’m at it, maybe I’ll see if I can sell them some life insurance.

  So here I am, doing what I can to decorate my half of a classroom with whatever bits and pieces I can find. I didn’t want to take anything of mine from my other “classroom,” because I didn’t want my Resource students to have to face too much change all at once.

  A couple of lame posters and a few even lamer books later, and my half room is ready.

  Now I have to get myself ready.

  I’ve already looked at the work that the kids were doing. Mostly grade one worksheets, from what I can tell. Both boys are ten, with Donny turning eleven in about a week. There’s no clear record of actual learning potential in their student record files and very little information about their personal lives. So basically I’m doing a swan dive off the top of a cliff without any idea how deep the water is below.

  Peter also had them on some sort of token reward system whereby they earned points for tickets that would turn into toys if they got enough of them. According to the chart on the wall—the only decoration in the room when I walked in this morning—no one has ever earned a toy.

  I took the chart down and got rid of the tickets and the cheap plastic toys. I think I’ll do things a different way. I haven’t figured out exactly what that’s going to be yet. I’m hoping it will come to me.

  But they’re kids, right? Just kids. I can’t be nervous about working with a couple of kids. This is what I do…who I am. I’m a teacher. I’m a mom. Everything I do is about kids. Has been since I was one myself. I must have some skills by now.

  “So, all set?” Mrs. Callahan is standing at the door with a big smile on her face. I can’t summon up the energy to pretend to smile back.

  “Not really. This is all pretty sudden. I have to get my head around it. At least it’s only two kids though.”

  “Oh, about that. We have a meeting after school with the parent of a new student. From what I gather, he’ll fit in just fine here. We’ll give you a few days to settle the two boys who are already here and then get him going.”

  “Here? With me? In this half of a non-class?”

  “Yes. We can’t really get proper funding with a two-to-one ratio. We need to fill you up a bit.” She’s already moving away by the time the last word pops out of her mouth. She does that—drops a bomb and then gets out of the way just as it detonates.

  Three kids. What is it the teacher said to me Friday? Multiply the number you have by at least three, and you have the true amount of attention these kids need. So three kids equals nine. Nine to one. The odds are getting worse by the second.

  I don’t have an EA or a youth worker. I don’t even have a time-out room.

  I used to have a time-out chair for my youngest when she was little. It was a place she was supposed to sit and think, which was code for “you’re being punished by sitting on this chair when you’d rather be playing.” At the psych hospital school, they have a whole room for kids to sit and think in. Except there, the kids don’t sit alone. The time-out room is actually a place for the students who need it to de-escalate with the help of a staff member who holds them until they can hold themselves, someone who talks them down from whatever heights their anger and pain have driven them to. Ms. Desmond had told me that I would have to persuade admin to find a way for me to have a time-out room, because my kids would need a place to de-escalate.

  I look around my space. Three kids and me in here. There’s a closet at the back with craft supplies in it, but I think it would be a tight squeeze for me and a student in there. Not much de-escalation going on when you can’t breathe.

  So, in ten minutes I have two behaviorally challenged, most likely emotionally disturbed, boys arriving to be educated in a half-assed room with no program, no real psych support, and no time-out room.

  There’s only me.

  And I don’t know what I’m doing.

  “The cabs are here.” The intercom interrupts my panic attack. The boys in my non-class can’t be on a regular bus, so they’re sent in cabs with unsuspecting drivers. Sounds safe to me.

  I walk down the hall, doing my best to affect a confident stride. Can’t let them see I’m scared. I try, unsuccessfully, to plaster a smiling expression on my face, which ends up making me feel like how a gargoyle looks. Probably scare the poor little buggers right back into the cabs.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Donny looks at me with an expression that makes it pretty clear he isn’t afraid of me. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  “I’m Ms. S. Your new teacher.” I decide to ignore the f-word. Not going to start my first day with a fight. I used only the first letter of my name because I’ve been listening. The boys have always called Peter “Mr. D,” and I think I’ve heard them call Callahan “Mrs. C.” I thought I’d gain points by speaking their language.

  “Where the fuck is Mr. D?” Cory spits on the ground just in front of my shoe. Pretty sure he missed his target.

  “He has been offered an opportunity to teach elsewhere,” I answer in this strange, formal voice that I usually reserve for job interviews. Which, come to think of it, is probably pretty appropriate here, because I’m fairly certain these two will be the ones to decide if I keep this particular job.

  “He’s been offered a job elsewhere. Which means he’s a chicken shit and just didn’t want to teach us anymore.” Donny shakes his head with as much disgust as anyone could possibly put into a headshake.

  “Yeah, chicken shit.” Cory shakes his head too. Starting to see a pattern here. If this was a cop show and these two were suspects, I’d be aiming my questions at Cory. Easier to break.

  “Well, he’s not here, and I am, so let’s get down to the classroom and see how we get along.”

  See how we get along? What is wrong with me! Now I sound like I’m on a date. A really, really bad date.

  I start to walk, breathing a sigh of relief when they actually come with me.

  “What’s all this stuff?” Donny strolls around the room, looking at the posters on the walls and the few books on the shelves that aren’t math or science texts.

  “This is your room. I wanted it to look…more pleasant, I guess.”

  “Mr. D didn’t like stuff on the walls. Said we would just rip it off, so why bother.”

  “He said that?” The words come out of my mouth without remembering the vow I made at about three o’clock this morning to not talk to the boys about anything Peter did or didn’t do. I don’t want comparisons. I want a clean start.

  “Yup. He said we couldn’t control
our impulses, and so it wasn’t worth making things nice or whatever.”

  “Well, I don’t see things exactly that way. I think you can control your impulses enough to leave a few posters on the wall.”

  The two boys look at each other. I’m no mind reader, but I don’t have to be to see that they’re trying to decide whether or not to run around the room, ripping and tearing and proving me wrong. After what seems like forever, Donny nods almost imperceptibly. Cory nods back, completely perceptibly. I have to get that kid in a poker game some time.

  “I have a poster at home. Can I bring it?” Donny’s arms are crossed, and he’s glaring at me, ready for the no.

  “Of course! That would make the room yours. Great!” Now I’m a cheerleader. G-R-E-A-T spells great!

  Donny smiles and nods slowly, and I realize that I probably just got played. I didn’t ask what poster he had at home. I didn’t talk about appropriate pictures for school. I’ve been brush-stroked into a corner by a pro.

  Ms. Desmond warned me to watch for this. She said that contrary to popular belief, most of the students she worked with were really bright and could manipulate adults better than other adults could. That their lack of performance in school had nothing to do with a lack of intelligence.

  I’m the one lacking intelligence. Ten minutes into day one and I’m pretty sure I’ve just agreed to decorate my class with either pornography or profanity.

  “Okay. I want to talk with you a bit about how I’d like to see things operate around here, and then we’ll get to some work. Okay?” Shit! I broke another vow already. Two more, actually. Number one: never, ever use language you don’t want them to use, even inside your head; and number two: never, ever, ever say “Okay?” as if you are giving them a choice, when you aren’t.

  “Not really. I don’t like work. Stupid pile of crap.”

  “Totally stupid pile of crap.”

  “Well, that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about. I’m starting your programs over. We’re going to try some different types of work than you’re used to. I don’t really know where either of you are at, so we’re going to have to experiment a bit with different things. So say good-bye to the old work.” I pick up the pile of worksheets that are mostly scribbled over with big, black slash marks and throw them ceremoniously in the recycling bin.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I want to do that!” Donny runs over and grabs the pile as it falls into the bin. He gestures to Cory to come over and hands him some papers. For the next few minutes, the only sound in the room is the ripping and crumpling of two weeks’ of worthless worksheets.

  This isn’t exactly what I had planned for first period, but they seem pretty happy, so I decide that maybe it’s all right to let it go.

  Once the worksheets are thoroughly destroyed, we try some hands-on math activities that turn into games—gladiator-style games that involve throwing things around the room and shoving each other to the ground. I manage to get them both back up on their feet without any blood being spilled, and we move on to language.

  Neither boy seems to be willing—or perhaps able—to read, so I spend most of the next forty minutes reading to them while they fidget on the floor, poking at each other and rolling their eyes at me when they think I’m focused on the book. I wonder again at the scarcity of academic information in their files. Has anyone wondered about whether or not learning issues are getting in the way? Even kids without serious emotional problems can go down the “bad” behavior road if they can’t do the work. Feeling stupid doesn’t exactly make a kid want to be well-behaved.

  Noon rolls around, and I realize that there isn’t anything in place for proper lunch supervision. I can’t take them to the lunchroom with the other kids. I can’t send them out on the schoolyard either. It didn’t even occur to me to ask what happens at break times.

  I don’t really have much planned for the afternoon. I thought I would see how the morning went and then figure out the rest of the day on my lunch break.

  There’s no choice. At least not today. It’s me. All me, all the time. I’m not going to have one single second of a break. I can’t even go to the bathroom.

  This is crazy. I need to talk to Mrs. Callahan about this after school.

  Oh, right. I’m talking to Mrs. Callahan today after school about adding another student to my non-class. I’m sure she’ll figure out a way to disappear before I get a chance to mention anything else—like peeing or eating.

  Now I have to figure it out while trying to keep them busy for an hour in a mostly empty classroom. I’m afraid to take them outside in case one or both of them run away or beat someone up. I can’t take them to the gym because I didn’t think to book it. I don’t have any games or toys in the room.

  I’m going to have to resort to the teacher cheat of watching a video for now. Assuming I can use the intercom to find someone who can go and see if there’s a TV available. And assuming that the boys will actually slow down long enough to watch a video.

  And I’d better do it fast, because they’ve already stopped eating and are starting to throw their leftovers in each other’s faces.

  “Donny! Sit down. Cory, stop hitting Donny. Donny, don’t throw that. Cory, put that down. Donny, leave Cory alone. Cory, leave Donny alone.”

  Both of you, leave me alone. At least long enough so that I can figure out what to do.

  If I start running now, there still might be a chance of catching up to Peter.

  Chapter 5

  What do you say to a whale?

  “Dickhead.” The woman sitting across from me in Callahan’s office smiles pleasantly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “His one word. The one that he uses. It’s dickhead.” She puts a slight emphasis on the word this time just in case I still don’t understand.

  “The only word that he uses at school is dickhead?” I’m not sure why I repeat it. Twice is enough in one conversation, I think. I look over at Mrs. Callahan, who is smiling benevolently at no one in particular.

  “Yes. I’m not sure why,” the parent of my soon-to-be new student continues. “I don’t know where he heard it. Certainly not from me!” She shakes her head for emphasis. I nod to let her know that I firmly believe that her son could never, ever have heard such a word from her. It’s a well-known fact that parents are incapable of using profane language of any kind. Children always learn it from someone else.

  “Well, we’ll just take it one step at a time. There are lots of good consonant sounds and even a couple of vowels in dickhead that can certainly start us off.”

  She nods at me as if I have said something wise instead of completely ridiculous. “Well, I’m sure he’s in the right place. Oh, and one other thing. He doesn’t like sleeves.”

  “Sleeves?”

  “Yes, you know, like on shirts and sweaters and things. Sleeves.” She pulls on her own fuchsia blouse just in case I still don’t get it. I nod, patting the sleeve of my own black sweater before I can stop myself.

  “So don’t ever loan him a shirt with sleeves. He becomes very upset. At home, I just cut the sleeves off. He likes it that way.”

  I nod again. I’ve been nodding so much that my neck is sore, but I’m at a loss. I want to ask her why she doesn’t just buy sleeveless shirts, but I’m a little afraid of the answer.

  “I knew you’d understand. He has a few little…quirks. Without a formal diagnosis, it’s been really difficult to figure out what to do for him. It’s just that no one seems to be able to figure him out, you know? But I feel really good about this placement. He’ll do really well here. Most schools don’t have these classes anymore, you know.”

  “Well, Ms. McNally, it was explained to you that this is an integration-based program. We aren’t technically a class. Kevin will be spending time in a class with same-aged peers when he’s ready.”

&
nbsp; That’s the theory anyway. For all of them. Hard to imagine at the moment.

  “Oh yes. I know. But at least he’ll have somewhere safe to start out and somewhere to go if it doesn’t work out in the regular classroom. I think you and he will get along just fine.”

  “Yes, it’s too bad he couldn’t have come with you today so I could meet him and show him the room before he starts next week.”

  “Next week? Oh no. I thought he was going to start tomorrow!” She looks from me to Mrs. Callahan and back again. I look from her to Mrs. Callahan and back again. Mrs. Callahan smiles benevolently at no one in particular.

  “Oh yes,” she says, turning to me. “I forgot to let you know. We did decide that Kevin should start tomorrow rather than later on. You’ve had a great first day with the boys who are here already. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She still isn’t looking directly at me. I wish she would. The phrase “if looks could kill” springs to mind.

  A good first day—if you don’t count the profanity, the wrestling match during math, the food fight at lunch, and an afternoon mostly spent watching a video with no educational value before almost missing the cabs at the end of the day because neither of them would come when I told them to. But no bones were broken nor blood spilled, so I guess some people might see that as a good day. It’s all relative.

  Ms. Desmond told me that there might be a honeymoon period at the beginning. If this is the honeymoon, I don’t think I want to see the marriage.

  “Tomorrow’s perfect. He’s burned a few bridges at his current school, so he’s just sitting at home right now. Not that he actually lit any fires. Or at least not many. Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer. If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”

  Kevin’s mother picks up her purse and scurries out of the room before I can open my mouth. I have a lot more questions! I look over at Mrs. Callahan, but she’s already up and moving out the door.

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow!” she chirps cheerfully.

  If Donny were here, he’d call her a chicken shit.