Just Another Kid: Each was a child no one could reach – until one amazing teacher embraced them all. Torey Hayden

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      Shemona persisted with ear-splitting screams, making it nearly impossible to continue the conversation. Moreover, the other children were milling around inquisitively.

      I looked over at Carolyn. “Do you suppose you could spare Joyce to watch my gang for a moment? There’s an art project all laid out up there. Maybe to be on the safe side, you could take Dirkie down with you. But I’d like a private moment to deal with Short Stuff, here.”

      Carolyn nodded. Getting a good grip on Shemona’s jacket, I dragged her, still kicking and screaming, off in the direction of the teachers’ lounge. Once there, I shut the door firmly behind us, then pulled her across the room to the sofa and sat down.

      “Do you want to sit here beside me?” I asked.

      She simply continued to scream.

      “Would you like to sit in my lap?”

      “No!”

      “Oh, all right. Very well. The thing is, however, I can’t let go of you. I need to hold on so that you don’t hurt yourself in here. Or hurt anything else. When you look like you’re more in control, I’ll let go of your wrist.”

      This brought a new spurt of anger, and she struggled savagely, clawing at my arm with the fierceness of a tiger cub. Grabbing her free hand with mine, I hung on and said no more.

      Shemona screamed. And screamed. Tiredness eventually crept into her voice, but she still managed to carry on shrieking in monotonous, syncopated bursts. Then exhaustion finally overtook her, and her screams faded to squawks and then grunts. At last she was hoarse. Genuine tears filled her eyes at that point, and when she looked at me briefly, I saw the anguish. Sinking down first to her knees and then all the way down, she sat on the rug at my feet. I let go of her wrists.

      I smiled. “That was hard work, wasn’t it?”

      She gave no response.

      “I’m tired now. Are you?”

      She fingered the red marks left on her wrists by my grip, then she snuffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her blouse.

      “This must have been a hard day for you. It must be scary, having to come to school without Geraldine. You must miss her.”

      Very slightly, Shemona nodded.

      “Geraldine takes good care of you, doesn’t she?”

      Tears came back to her eyes. Her lips quivered, and she sucked them between her teeth to keep from crying.

      Noisy silence enveloped us. The refrigeration unit on the pop machine came on. The Xerox machine whirred. The heating plate under the coffeepot clicked. The clock jumped the minutes with an audible tink.

      “Would you like to sit up here beside me?”

      She shook her head.

      “It’s very soft, see? They’re nice cushions, these, just the kind for relaxing against. You’d probably find them nicer than the floor.”

      Again she shook her head.

      “I was a bit upsetting too, wasn’t I? Playing that game with you at the chalkboard. Did you think I was trying to trick you into talking? I didn’t mean it to be a trick, you know. Just a help. Just something to get you over the first time, because it’s the first time that’s so hard.”

      She stared at her hands.

      “And then there was Dirkie. What an annoying boy he can be. He wants to touch my hair all the time too, and I don’t like it either.”

      The tears had begun to run down her cheeks. They dripped off her jawbone and onto the collar of her blouse. She did nothing to stop them.

      I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Come here, Shemona.”

      She shook her head.

      I watched her. She watched her feet.

      “I’m kind of thirsty,” I said. “Are you? I would think so, after all that screaming. Shall we split a can of pop?”

      Lifting her head, she looked at me through her tears.

      “What kind would you like?”

      No response.

      Standing, I pulled a handful of change from my pocket and went to the machine. “Coke? Shall we share a Coke?”

      She nodded.

      I put the money into the machine, and the can rattled noisily down into the tray. When I turned around to bring it back, Shemona was sitting on the sofa.

      I sipped the froth off the top of the can and then handed it to her. Shemona reached up eagerly and put the Coke to her lips. Several seconds were lost in greedy gulping. Then finally she lowered it.

      “What do you say?” I asked.

      “Thank you.”

      That was no breakthrough with Shemona. At best, it was détente. Once back in the room with the others, the veil came down again, and she retreated into silence. It had been a worthwhile time in the teachers’ lounge because it had forced her to acknowledge me as someone to be reckoned with, but I hadn’t made her talk. Exhaustion and loneliness made her talk. That and the Coke. I had the sense to know it wasn’t me.

      On the other hand, there had been a major breakthrough, which had been almost entirely eclipsed by Shemona’s tantrum. And that was Leslie. When she had come to me in the janitor’s closet, that had been the first time Leslie had ever made even so much as a communicative grunt. It had startled me beyond reaction when it had occurred, and then I’d become too embroiled in Shemona’s mess to acknowledge it afterward. But once things settled down, I was astounded by the implications. Could Leslie actually talk? Could she control her speech? I’d been so accustomed to her silence that I’d just accepted it as part of her. I had assumed that the deterioration of her speech had been part of her general disturbance and had thought no more of it. That sort of thing was fairly common in children with Leslie’s kind of handicap. But could Leslie really talk?

      After school, I waited up in the room with Leslie in an effort to lure Dr. Taylor out of the protection of her blue Mercedes and into the classroom. Within five minutes of the other children’s departing, Dr. Taylor was there.

      “Do you suppose I could speak to you for a few moments?” I asked.

      Her brow furrowed and her expression grew wary. I wondered if she thought I was going to get after her for having missed the conference on the previous Friday. Or perhaps her husband had clued her in about what we’d discussed.

      There was a long, expectant, thoroughly uncomfortable pause in which we regarded one another. When I didn’t look away and she couldn’t stare me down, she finally dropped her gaze. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

      “Let me take Leslie downstairs to stay with the other teacher here.” I guided Leslie toward the door. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m going to stop and get myself one on the way back.”

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