“Dorothy,” is all she gives me, sitting down at her desk with her back to me and signaling the end of the conversation.
Students continue to trickle in the door, in various stages of disarray, a parade of mismatched socks, uncombed hair, and open backpacks, exchanging hesitant smiles and whispers, their excitement tempered by a touch of apprehension.
Max walks into the classroom, and within thirty seconds, he:
Shoves poor Dorothy, who is in the middle of putting her lunchbox away
Knocks the pencil cup over
Laughs maniacally
I march over to him, knowing I have to nip this in the bud, here and now, or else the rest of the year will be a nightmare.
I tap on his desk. “Meet me outside in the hallway, please.”
“But I didn’tdoanything,” he groans, but reluctantly shoves his chair back, ensuring a maximum volume screech against the floor, then marches outside, knocking a stack of papers over on the way out.
“Listen to me,” I say, once we’re in the hall. “We’re on the same team here, buddy. I’m not out to get you or anything. I just need you to follow directions, be a kind friend, and be ready to learn. That’s not asking very much.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“When you get inside, I’m going to need you to pick up those pencils and those papers you knocked over, put them back in the cup or on my desk, and apologize to Dorothy.”
“No,” he says simply.
I tap my foot. “I have your parents’s phone numbers on a list on my desk. Do I need to give mom or dad a call?”
There is a flicker of fear in Max’s eyes, and I am immediately filled with guilt.Crap, I think Max’s dad is the one the team wrote was “batshit crazy”.
“Listen, Max. Believe me when I say that I do not want to call your parents. I can help you clean up the pencils and paper, but you’ll have to apologize to Dorothy yourself. Is that a good compromise?”
“Whatever,” he mumbles, and walks back into the classroom.
I take a deep, calming breath and follow him in.
A week passes at PS 2 without incident.
Well, at least without Major Incident.
Mr. Flores and I run into each other exactly one more time, at 7:02 AM sharp at the main doors of the school.
“Ms. Baker,” he said, nodding.
“Mr. Flores,” I smile brightly. We walk in silence, the air heavy with the unsaid words of two people who are obviously uncomfortable with one another. I am walking past his office towards the staircase, pleased that we could have one semi-normal interaction, when he clears his throat. I turn around.
“I am still waiting for those lesson plans you promised me,” he says.
