“How long’s it been going on?”
“This is our second year. Hundred kids the first semester, hundred more the second. Even with that, the place was still a ghost town. But the locals felt crowded. Sixty of the eighty-six stragglers were transferred immediately to private schools. All the rest left mid semester. You would have thought we were importing the plague.” She shook her head. “I can understand people wanting to be insulated, the whole idea of the neighborhood school. I know they must have felt invaded. But that doesn’t excuse how ugly it got. Alleged grown-ups standing outside the gates waving signs and taunting the kids. Calling them greasers, wetbacks. Vermin.”
I said, “I saw it on TV. It was ugly.”
She said, “During summer vacation we got vandalized- racist graffiti, broken windows. I tried to get the Board to send down some mental health people, someone to mediate with the community before the new school year started, but all I got were memos and countermemos. Hale’s a stepchild that they’re obligated to feed but don’t want to acknowledge.”
“How have the children reacted to all the hostility?”
“Very well, actually. They’re so darned resilient, bless ’em. And we worked on it. Last year I met regularly with each class, talking to them about tolerance, respecting differences between people, the right to free speech, even if it’s unpleasant. I had the teachers play games and do things to enhance self-esteem. We kept drumming into them how good they were. How brave. I’m no psychologist, but psych was my minor and I think I did at least a passable job.”
I said, “Sounds like the right approach. Maybe that’s why they’re handling things well right now.”
She waved off the compliment and her eyes moistened. “That’s not to say everything was perfect- not by a long shot. They felt it- the hatred. Had to. A few families pulled their kids out of the busing program immediately, but most stuck it out, and after a while things seemed to be quieting down. I really thought this semester was going well. Hoped it had finally dawned on the good folks of Ocean Heights that a bunch of little kids weren’t going to rape their daughters and rustle their cattle. Or maybe they just got bored- this place is the capital of Apathy. Only other issues that get them going are offshore oil drilling within a fifty-mile radius and anything that relates to landscaping. So I made sure our shrubs were well trimmed.” Brief, bitter smile. “I was starting to think we could finally concentrate on educating. Then Massengil goes and dredges it all up- he’s always had a special thing for us. Probably ’cause he’s a local. Lives in Sacramento but keeps a house here for legal purposes. Obviously he views us as a personal burr in the butt.”
She punched her palm. Her eyes were flashing. I altered my assessment about her ability to handle authority.
“The creep,” she said. “If I’d known he was planning a dog-and-pony show today, I’d…”
She frowned, tapped her pencil on her wrist.
I said, “What?”
She hesitated, then gave another mirthless smile. “I was about to say I’d have met him at the gate with a loaded gun.”
3
She looked down at her pad, realized she’d written nothing, and said, “Enough talk. What’s your plan?”
“The first step will be to establish rapport with the kids. And the teachers. Your introducing me and explaining who I am will help that. Second, I’ll focus on getting them to express their feelings about what happened- talking, playing, drawing.”
“Individually or in groups?”
“Groups. Class by class. It’s more efficient and more therapeutic- opening up will be easier if there’s peer support. I’ll also be looking for the high-risk kids- those who are especially high-strung, have had previous anxiety problems or experienced loss or an unusual amount of stress within the last year. Some of them may need one-on-one attention. The teachers can help by identifying them.”
“No problem,” she said. “I know most of them myself.”
“The other important thing- maybe the toughest- will be to convince parents not to keep their children out of school for extended periods.”
“What’s extended?”
“More than a day or two. The sooner they get back, the easier it will be for them to adjust.”
She sighed. “All right, we’ll get on it. What do you need in the way of equipment?”
“Nothing much. Some toys- blocks, figurines. Paper and pencil, clay, scissors, glue.”
“We’ve got all of that.”
“Will I need a translator?”
“No. Most of the kids- about ninety percent- are Latino but all of them understand English. We’ve worked hard at that. The rest are Asian, including some pretty recent immigrants, but we don’t have anyone on staff who speaks Cambodian or Vietnamese or Laotian or Tagalog or whatever, so they’ve come along pretty fast.”
“Ye olde melting pot.”
“Uh-uh, forbidden phrase,” she said. “The memo god commands us to use salad bowl.” She raised a finger and recited: “Every ingredient maintains its integrity, no matter how much you toss it around.”
We left her office and stepped out into the hall. Only one cop remained, patrolling idly.
She said, “Okay. Now what about your fee.”
I said, “We can talk about that later.”
“No. I want things straight from the beginning- for your sake. The School Board has to approve private consultants. That takes time, going through channels. If I put in a voucher without prior approval, they can use that as an excuse not to pay you.”
I said, “We can’t wait for approval. The key is to get to the kids as soon as possible.”
“I realize that, but I just want you to know what you’re dealing with. Also, even if we go through channels, there’re bound to be hassles getting you compensated. The Board will probably claim it has the resources to do the job itself; therefore there’s no justification for bringing in anyone from the outside.”
I nodded. “Same song and dance they pull with the parents of handicapped kids.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I worry about everything. It’s my job,” she said. Most of the softness in her eyes had melted away.
I said, “It’s okay. Really.”
“You realize we’re talking potential freebie?”
“I realize. That’s fine.”
She looked at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s what I went to school to learn how to do.”
There was distrust in her eyes. But she shrugged and said, “Who am I to look a gift horse?”
We walked toward the first classroom. A door at the end of the corridor swung open. A tight cluster of nine or ten people poured out and barreled in our direction.
At the group’s nucleus was a tall white-haired man in his sixties wearing a gray sharkskin suit that could have been purchased for Eisenhower’s victory party. His face was stringy and hawkish above a long, wattled neck- beak nose, white toothbrush mustache, pursed mouth, eyes buried in an angry squint. He kept up a vigorous pace, leading with his head, pumping his elbows like a speed-walker. His minions were whispering at him, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The group ignored us and blew by.
I said, “Looks like the esteemed assemblyman’s run out of words.”