“I think we need to continue pushing virtual school as the best option.”
I pause, breathe.
But before I can come up with something I want to say (something that won’t get me reprimanded…or fired), she continues, “So there’s no need to bend over backwards to make a ton of in-person accommodations, especially with the school year well underway.”
I pause again.
Breathe. Again.
Then say, each word tight and clipped. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
I do.
But I also don’t fucking want to believe it.
Because this is not what I thought this school was, not who I thought Holly was.
She sighs and leans back in her chair, the leather creaking in protest, and I’d like to think it’s protesting in solidarity with me.
And the bullshit that is swirling in this room.
“You know that funding is down,” Holly says, and that’s true.
“But it’s not a funding issue,” I remind her. “It’s a legal issue. He has a right to be in the classroom?—”
“But he will be in the classroom. The virtual classroom, so legally we’re covered.”
My temper, quiet and not often prone to eruption—mostly because it’s regularly tested by twelve- and thirteen-year-olds—begins to boil up.
In a minute, it’s going to be boiling over.
“Let’s face it,” she says. “Yeah, he might be back in the classroom for a couple of weeks, but he’s going to get sick again. That’s just the fact of life,” she adds, volume rising to speak over me when I start to reply. “If we put in all this time and effort and money to accommodate him, what are we taking away from the other students?”
My temple starts to throb.
My temper is contained by the most slender thread of my control.
I grind my teeth together and stand. “I’ll coordinate with Adrian’s parents about what we need to get him back in the classroom.”
Holly opens her mouth.
“Once that’s done, I’ll let the others”—Adrian’s vice principal, the counseling office, the nurse—“know what’s needed so we can coordinate.”
Holly’s lips press flat.
“For now”—I deliberately glance at my phone—“it’s getting late and I have to head out.”
I gather my stuff, start shoving them into my bag, rage such a tightly coiled ball inside me that it’s taking everything to keep it contained.
Breathe.
Calm.
Persist.
But I want to persist by smacking her upside the head to knock some sense into her.
Or maybe by going all Jason Bourne and using my pen for some stabby stab.
