Too Much of a Good Thing

by J. J. Murray

  But just when we get into a rhythm, when the kids are starting to show signs of life and laughter, Rose gets into some serious trouble at school.

  Serious, as in “Daddy, they may expel me” trouble. Serious, as in “Daddy, I may be arrested” trouble. Serious, as in “Daddy, I’m wearing handcuffs.”

  I feel the weight of the entire world on my shoulders as I enter the main office at Patrick Henry and see my daughter in handcuffs. “I’m Joe Murphy,” I say, not looking at Rose.

  A secretary whisks me into a conference room, and several folks introduce themselves, as if I really care who they are. My daughter is still sitting outside the room in handcuffs for the entire world to see.

  “Would it be possible for Rose to come in?” I ask, still standing.

  “We’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind,” a woman says.

  She looks as if she’s in charge. Is she the new principal? Mrs... . Thompson, I think. Yeah.

  “Well, I mind.” I start to sweat. “I mind that my daughter is sitting out there in handcuffs. I mind that she’s not in here while we talk about her. And I really mind that she’s wearing handcuffs at all. What could she possibly have done to warrant those?”

  Then they take turns telling me, their words a series of verbal punches. “She cursed out a large group of black students, calling them, um, calling them ‘niggers’ ...” “After we brought her back to my office, she assaulted two deans and a security guard ...” “One of the deans had to go to his doctor for treatment.”

  It isn’t possible! Not Rose! She wouldn’t hurt a fly! “My ... daughter. She did all that?” In one day?

  A series of nods.

  I take my seat. “Um, what started it all?” I ask.

  “We’re not sure,” Mrs. Thompson says.

  I’m sweating again. “Well, have you asked her or anyone else?”

  “We tried to find out what caused her outburst, but she has been difficult,” another woman says. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival.”

  “What do you mean, ‘difficult’?” I ask.

  “She’s been, um, singing the national anthem and calling us Nazis.”

  My hair feels as if it’s graying and thinning at the same time. Where did my little girl go? “Now, by ‘assault,’ what exactly do you mean?”

  And again, they give me a tag-team answer: “She kicked one of the deans in the shin ...” “She punched the security officer in the chest ...” “She kneed the other dean in the groin ...” “Oh, and her language was positively horrific.”

  I look at the floor and blow out a stale breath.

  “Is she on any kind of medication, Mr. Murphy?”

  I look up. “No.” Lord, where is the defense for any of Rose’s actions? “No. She’s not ... taking anything.” I look at my hands. “I can’t believe this happened. It’s not like her at all.”

  “She has, um, changed a great deal, Mr. Murphy, since last year,” yet another woman says.

  I look at this woman. “You’re ... her counselor, right?”

  She nods. “I’m Mrs. Grady.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Grady, Rose has changed quite a bit since her mother died. But she’s never been in any trouble like this.”

  “I have read through her file, Mr. Murphy, and you’re right,” Mrs. Thompson says. “She was a model student last year and made the A–B honor roll. Is she getting any kind of counseling?”

  “No.” Which is my fault. She obviously needs it. I had thought that just being with the rest of us would be enough therapy and that time itself would heal the rest of her wounds.

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, because of the nature of these assaults, Rose will have to go before the DRC in ten days,” Mrs. Thompson says.

  I wait for her to explain what “DRC” means. She doesn’t. “And what’s the DRC?”

  “The Discipline Review Committee,” she says, as if those are the only words that can be abbreviated that way.

  “And what does it do?” I ask.

  She blinks at me. “They will review your daughter’s actions and determine what discipline to give her.”

  Oh. Good name for a committee. “And who’s on the committee?”

  She sighs. I must be exasperating her. “We are.”

  I look at the others around the table, and they are looking more and more uncomfortable. “So why will you wait ten days to discipline Rose when you could make that decision today?” I ask. “You’re all here, aren’t you?”

  That’s when the paper shuffling begins. “We, um, we want to review your daughter’s transcripts and permanent file and talk to her teachers,” she says. “That takes time.”

  “So ... Rose won’t be attending classes until the DRC makes its determination ten days from now,” I say. “Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “But,” I say, “didn’t you just read through her file, Mrs. Thompson?”

  She hesitates. “We, uh, we have procedures that we must follow in cases like this.”

  I lean back. “So these kinds of cases, as you call them, happen all the time?”

  Silence. Hmm. Maybe they do. They must have good damage control here.

  “As a condition of her return to school in ten days to meet with the DRC,” Mrs. Thompson says, plowing on, “we strongly suggest that she begin counseling sessions.” She nods at Mrs. Grady, who gives me several flyers. “And if the committee allows her to return to PH, she must agree to multicultural sensitivity sessions for the rest of the semester. They will meet twice a week during her lunch hour. In addition—”

  “Could Rose come in now?” I interrupt. “She needs to hear all this.”

  They let Rose come in, her handcuffs gone, and she sits next to me, her eyes on her hands.

  “Rose, we were just telling your father what happened,” Mrs. Thompson says.

  I shake my head. “You’ve told me what Rose did, but you really haven’t told me all that happened.” I turn to Rose. “Rose, honey, what happened? What made you ... snap like that?”

  10

  Shawna

  Crystal comes in hot and bothered from school today, which is nothing new. What is new is that she’s sweaty, hot, and bothered.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Basketball practice.”

  “What?”

  She slumps down on the couch. “I’m playing basketball. We had open gym. I told Junior to tell you.”

  Crystal is playing basketball? This is amazing. And Junior didn’t tell me? That’s even more amazing. I didn’t even know Crystal had any talent in any sport. And where is Junior?

  “So, during your senior year you just decide to play basketball.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll need some new shoes.”

  I feel a ka-CHING coming on. I prepare to say, “I live as I can afford, not as you wish.”

  “Coach is getting us a nice discount on the shoes. They’re so cool.”

  Okay, a small ka-ching. “How much?”

  “She said we’ll only have to pay thirty.”

  I think we can handle that. “But don’t you have to have a physical first?”

  “I got a free one.”

  I stare at her. “Without my consent?”

  She winces. “I, um, put your name on it.”

  “You forged my signature?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d let me play because of my grades.”

  “And I wouldn’t have!” This irks me to no end. “I thought you were through forging my signature.” She once signed all her interim reports before I could see them. Junior had given me his, I had asked for hers ... Long story short, she got busted. “You really shouldn’t be doing anything but studying.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I squint. Hmm. She must want to play basketball really badly. She’s being polite. I like a polite Crystal. “Well, did you pass your physical?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I sigh. “For forging my signature, no TV or phone for a week.”
>
  “Oh, Mama, it was only—”

  “And dishes for two weeks for not thinking you did anything wrong.”

  She sighs. “Yes, ma’am. But can I play?”

  I hold up the “Mama finger,” shaking it back and forth. “You can play, but only if you keep all your grades C or higher.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  I blink. That was too easy. I should have said “B or higher.” Shoot.

  But why is she still sitting there? Crystal usually arrives in a whirlwind, says her piece, and disappears. Something’s up, I can just feel it.

  “Mama, something happened at school today.”

  I knew it. “What happened?” I ask, making it sound like, “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t get in trouble.”

  Thank You, Jesus.

  “Mama, this white girl just ... went off. I’ve never seen anything like it. She just ... blew up.”

  My eyes pop.

  “I mean she just lost it entirely, calling my friends ‘a bunch of niggers.’ ”

  My muscles tense. “She didn’t.”

  “She did.”

  Of all the ridiculous ... When is that word going to die? I grope for words and can’t find them, my anger rising. Why would any child take her life into her own hands like that? And why is this racism still out there? We’re in the twenty-first century now. “She just ... walked up to your friends and started calling them ...”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why on earth would she do such a thing?”

  “I dunno. She was one of those Goth chicks I’ve been telling you about, Mama. She’s a freak. She wears corsets and fishnet stockings.” She shudders. “Freaky. Then later, I heard she punched out two deans and a security guard. They arrested her. I’ll bet they expel her.” Crystal stands. “Just another day at PH, Mama. What’s for dinner?”

  That girl could have been seriously hurt for what she said. I’m surprised Crystal’s friends didn’t dispense some justice with their fists. What is this world coming to? I don’t want to dwell on this, but it’s hard not to. When are we going to be past all this, Lord Jesus? All this name-calling and racist nonsense.

  To calm down, I go to the computer to tell Joe about Crystal playing basketball, but there’s already an e-mail from Joe in there, simply titled: “I NEED HELP.”

  Shawna:

  I am at a complete loss. Rose was arrested today and charged with assault.

  This is creepy. I am not calming down.

  I told you how she dresses, but what I didn’t tell you was how the other kids tease her. A group of kids called her a dyke, and she said some awful, racial things to them. When some deans tried to calm her down, she lost her mind. She may be charged with assault, and she could be expelled. As it is, she’s been suspended for ten days.

  I don’t know what to do or say, Shawna. Please help me.

  Joe

  I minimize the screen and knock on the door to the bathroom, where Crystal has just finished taking a shower. “Crystal?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Take your time. Um, what was that girl’s name?”

  “Which girl?”

  “The one who went off today.”

  “Rose, I think.”

  Rose. What ... ? It couldn’t be ...

  “She rides my bus. Or at least she used to ride my bus.” She opens the door, towels on her head and body. “I seriously doubt she’s crazy enough to ride our bus after today.”

  Oh, dear Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  “You okay, Mama?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  I go back to the computer and sit in front of the screen for the longest time doing nothing. This can’t be a coincidence. What are the chances?

  Joe lives in this neighborhood?

  The girl who went crazy today is his daughter? The girl who uses the N-word and beats up on authority figures is his oldest?

  And that means ... Joe is white.

  Joe is white.

  Well, the Internet is an anonymous place where race usually doesn’t make a difference, but does it matter now?

  White or not and whether it matters to me or not, Joe is going through hell right now. I open up his e-mail and write a reply:

  Dear Joe:

  Nothing like what you described has ever happened to me, so I doubt I can be much help. Know that you and Rose are in my thoughts.

  Hear her out. Talk to her. Be there for her. Get away from the house for a while if you can. I’ll be praying.

  Shawna

  I send it to Joe.

  And instead of being overly angry at Rose for what she said to Crystal’s friends, I pray for her. Lord, You said to bless those that curse you, and even though she didn’t curse me or my family directly, she cursed my race. You know how that hurts me, Lord, and I hope You can help that hurt go away. I’m praying that You bless Rose tonight. And help Joe. Amen.

  And then, I cry for the two of them, wondering if I should try to meet him. I want to, but if Rose behaves this way, maybe Joe ...

  Lord Jesus, just ... help.

  11

  Joe

  Rose still isn’t talking to me, even after three days’ suspension. “I’m here for you, Rose,” I said that first night. “I’m here for you. Tell me how I can help you.”

  She just hasn’t come to me yet, and it breaks my heart.

  It also breaks my heart that I don’t know how to discipline her. Cheryl and I never had to discipline her much at all. We might have sent her to bed early or cut back on her phone time, but we had no contingencies for this kind of ... aberrant behavior.

  While the school has graciously decided to drop the assault charges if Rose attends the sensitivity sessions, all this will go on her permanent record and may limit her college choices. I’m angry with her, but I can’t help but be angry at those kids as well. Only Rose has to attend sensitivity training for using the N-word, but none of the kids who called her a dyke will have to go since Rose wouldn’t tell anyone their names, and the administration didn’t seem too keen on finding out who those kids were.

  For her punishment, I’ve cut off all screens—TV and computer—and her phone privileges, and I’ve forbidden her to leave the house during her suspension unless I’m with her. She can only read or do the makeup work Joey brings home for her. I just don’t know if she feels even an iota of remorse for what’s she’s done.

  On Saturday, I take Shawna’s advice again and we all get out of the house. We browse Books-A-Million and get mocha somethings that taste great but hurt my wallet. We pick up a few things at K-Mart including a few old videos on sale that we can watch later. One of them just happens to be Metropolis, a movie I heard Rose talking about one day with Joey. Maybe she’ll open up while we watch, since it’s a silent film.

  Since the boys are always hungry, and since they don’t want to go clear across town to Sonic, we stop at the Crossroads McDonald’s, the boys crowding me at the counter.

  “I want a number one large,” Jimmy says.

  I turn to Joey. “The same,” Joey says.

  “Rose?”

  She doesn’t look up. “I’m not hungry.”

  “How about some fries at least?” I ask.

  “Whatever,” she says, and she drifts to the nearest booth.

  I smile at the cashier. “I’ll have another number one, I guess.”

  The cashier presses a few buttons. “Super-sized?”

  “Sure.” Rose can have my fries. “Um, and a strawberry shake.”

  “Can I have a shake?” Jimmy asks.

  “It’s for Rose,” I say.

  “Oh,” Jimmy says.

  “She needs it,” Joey adds.

  I smile at my son in spite of this cloud hanging over us. Some of Joey’s friends have been treating him differently since Rose’s outburst. He’s had some tough bus rides this week. “Um, y’all go get your drinks. I’ll bring it when it’s ready.” I hand them their cups, and they go to
the fountain.

  “You have your hands full,” the cashier says.

  What she doesn’t know.

  “Giving your wife the day off, huh?”

  I sigh. “Something like that.”

  After we eat, we try to decide what to do next. I don’t want to go back to the house just yet. I don’t want Rose to close her bedroom door for another evening. Jimmy wants to go to the skate park at Wasena and since neither Joey nor Rose complains, we go to Wasena Park.

  While Jimmy skates and Joey wanders down by the river, Rose wanders into a stand of trees beside a picnic shelter where, of all things, a trio of medieval knights practices their swordsmanship. Are they even allowed to wield swords like that? Is this legal? Rose, however, seems interested, and she even looks the part in her gown.

  “Are you going to be okay here?” I ask her.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll, um, I’ll be ...” And I walk away toward the swings before I can finish because I don’t know where I’m supposed to be at a time like this. I want to go back to when I was pushing my kids on these very swings, Cheryl right beside me, watching them rise higher and higher into the air, listening to their laughter, their cries of “Higher, Daddy, higher!” I wish I could go back to when Rose was a little girl in pigtails, her ribbons like angels’ wings—

  “Hey, mister, can you push me?”

  A little black girl sitting on the first swing motions to me.

  “Can you push me?” she asks again.

  “Uh, sure.” I look around for the girl’s mother and only see a black boy nearby sitting on a bench with another black girl wearing a wildly colored dress, her head covered by a scarf.

  “Thanks,” the little girl says.

  Then I push her, lost in her giggles and sighs. This is how I want it to be, Lord. Something as simple as swings, Lord. That’s all I’m asking. Something pure and—