We fall in line with the people awaiting their turn to order their tacos and burritos. Devon is taking in every person who passes with open curiosity and a smile. I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
“Basically, what I’ve realized,” she tells me, and I try to remember what we were talking about. “Is that everyone needs to be educated about those years of life. The psychology behind them is pivotal for raising mentally healthy people. But no one, not even most educators, feel equipped to handle what these kids are going through. And, believe me, the teachers ask for training, but they are rarely given what they need. No one wants to watch these kids suffer. So that age gets a bad rep. It’s just not fair. They shouldn’t have to feel the weight of other people’s ignorance.”
I think back to what it was like to watch Jenny struggle at that age. I remember the comments.Why don’t you just make her eat? She’s thirteen. She’s just doing this for attention.
Ignorance didn’t even begin to cover it.
“How do we educate that many people?” I ask.
Devon looks at me like she’s forgotten I was beside her, hanging on her every word.
“Doctors would be a good start. Partnering with educators to ensure that there’s mental health curriculum in the schools. Training teachers how to make the students feel safe. There’s an amazing professor from Stanford who’s trailblazing this agenda. Dr. Basantis. She’s been out in front for years, teaching college level classes, launching studies on student mental health, and hacking at the bullshit red tape that comes with mental health.”
She’s obviously given this a lot of thought and research.
“Why don’t you call her? Or contact the APA?”
She shakes her head.
“I’ve spoken to the American Psychological Association. They are pulled so thin that a union with the education system is like asking to see a leprechaun riding a unicorn. And I’m sure the last thing Dr. Basantis needs is some middle school math teacher up her ass. This woman is far too busy fighting the good fight,” she says.
“Maybe she needs foot soldiers. Or maybe you need to go at it from the inside—approach your district and school board.”
She gives a humorless laugh.
“Oh, I’ve tried. I teach in an area more concerned with appearances and standardized test scores than mental health. My district’s number one item is protecting their asses from lawsuits, so no one wants to talk about the scars on Suzy’s thigh or Kayla dropping pounds like they’re going out of style. They want to hide that shit, so other parents don’t complain.”
Ah. I nod. I know these areas. I grew up in one as well.
“Unbelievable,” I murmur.
“But unfortunately, true,” she says. “I almost lost Syd because of their bullshit. My principal told me not to call hermom. That the school nurse had sent the information about her weight in the yearly physical. Syd was nearing crisis, so I went to the guidance counselor, who happens to be a good friend of mine, and ignored him. It could have gone badly. But Syd’s mom was at her wit’s end and just wanted to save her daughter, so we were met with gratitude instead of defensiveness. Thank goodness.”
“Syd is amazing,” I tell her.
She beams at me like I’ve just complimented her instead of her old student, then steps up to the counter to give her order. As much as I feel the frustration pouring out of her when she discusses the shortcomings of her school system, I love how her free hand flutters and flies when she talks about this. Her passion is so intense I can feel it buzzing over her skin, waiting to jolt anyone who needs a wake-up call. I order and pay, then step to the side to wait for our food with her. She’s obviously deep in thought as she sips at her beer.
“Sydney is like a little sister to me,” she explains. “Most teachers and definitely all administrators think it’s crazy to have a relationship like that with a former student.”
“And you? What do you think?”
She takes a long sip of her beer, swallows, pushes her hair back over the top of her ear.
“I think it saves lives,” she says. Her tone is so certain that I can’t imagine the fools who keep her from doing what she believes is right.
Our order slides out toward us on the counter and I grab it while Devon shoves packets of hot sauce in her pocket, then I lead the way toward the floating garden. Of all of the amazing things this city has to offer, this barge is high on my list of favorites. We walk around the hollowed-out rectangle that juts out into the river and I watch Devon’s eyes widen as she takes in the drifting pads of live greenery that float around in the waterymiddle. I let her take it in, feeling lucky Kev and Mer never brought her here. I get to witness the way she lights from within, releasing a nervous soft giggle, when she sees what’s waiting for us at the far end of the barge. I motion for her to sit.
“What the hell is this?” she asks with a laugh.
“It’s a net, Sherlock.”
She looks at the people in the net beside the one in front of us, then scans the entire row of net loungers. Our neighbors have their legs outstretched toward the railing, relaxing on their elbows, a blanket wrapped around their shoulders, staring out at the darkening sky behind the huge Battleship stationed permanently across the water. She leans over the net and looks down into the dark sloshing water that runs beneath it.
“Are there sharks?” She sticks her toe out toward the net lounge and looks at me as if I’ve asked her to go skydiving.
“In the river?”
She points to the baseball park across the water. “Camden Riversharks.”
