Diane said, “It’s been too long, Maggie. If you don’t get some action soon, you might as well donate your snatch to the rummage sale ’cause you ain’t using it.”
Maggie sighed. “I need another cookie.” Diane handed her one, and Maggie took a bite. “Can I see the flyer now?”
Diane held it up proudly. “Another masterpiece. They could hang this thing in the Louvre.” She pronounced “Louvre” as “lube.”
Maggie studied the flyer. It showed a pigtailed schoolgirl rubbing her hands together greedily as a dump truck unloaded a massive pile of clothes, DVDs, skateboards, and other loot. Across the top, the flyer shouted: “DONATE TO THE RUMMAGE SALE!—YOUR TRASH IS OUR TREASURE.” Toward the bottom, the flyer read: “SUPPORT OUR STEAM TEACHERS.”
Maggie smiled at Diane. “Brilliant as usual. We’re going to make a bundle this year.”
Diane brightened. “You think so?”
Maggie nodded. “The rummage sale’s always a hit. Parents love giving us their trash. They love buying stuff too. I just wish they’d give us their cash from the get-go so we could ditch all this fund-raising.” This was a sore point for Maggie. The district could fund all its STEAM teachers’ salaries if every student’s family would just cough up a few hundred bucks every year. Most parents did, but many—far too many—refused. A few couldn’t afford it, and so far as Maggie was concerned, those families could go with God. But the other holdouts’ fancy cars, McMansions, and collagen-injected trout pouts meant they couldn’t convincingly cry poor.
Diane sighed. “You know they’ll never do that.”
“Why not?” Maggie folded her arms, as petulant as any third grader. She hated it when people wouldn’t do the obviously right thing she wanted them to do.
“It’s like the plastic bags, Maggie darlin’. This summer, they finally did the green thing and said we couldn’t hand out plastic bags for free.” Diane worked summers at Ralphs. “So June first, we started charging ten cents a bag, paper or plastic. Ten measly cents! Most folks were fine with it. I guess they got the memo about the Little Mermaid and her buddies choking to death like they’re stuck in some underwater Beijing. But some people couldn’t resist making a stink. The grumblers came from all walks: soccer moms, geezers, frat boys, you name it. They’d buy bags, but not until after giving me major attitude. Those people sucked. But what really balled me over were the idiots who just wouldn’t pay for the damn bags. One guy—an older dude in a toupee—he bought four bottles of superpricey cognac, must’ve run him $200 easy. When I told him he had to pay ten cents for a bag, he wouldn’t do it. He starts ranting at me about freedom and the guv’ment and global warming being a hoax—like he’s putting on a whole AM radio show just for me. Dude tries to carry those four fancy-ass weird-shaped bottles using just his hands. He gets halfway to the door, and two bottles go crash, splat.”
Maggie nudged her to continue. “And your point is?”
Diane said, “My point is—Maggie darlin’—people get monumentally pissed if you make them pay for something they’ve been getting free all their lives. Parents at this school grew up in a world where public education was free, no qualifiers—none of this ‘some restrictions may apply’ crap. They got it all: gym, science, art, and music, right along with the three Rs. Now, suddenly, you’re telling them they have to pay. And they’re just not having it. They’d rather do without.”
Maggie shuddered. She rubbed her temples. “I can’t talk about this right now. It makes me too depressed.” She pointed at the box of Thin Mints. “Hit me again.”
Diane handed over two more cookies. Dutifully changing the subject, she asked, “So, how do you solve a problem like our Connor?” Diane singsonged this to match The Sound of Music’s “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”
Maggie sighed. “I don’t know, but I better come up with a plan. His mom’s coming in tomorrow at ten. And Jeannie’s already told me she wants him on meds.”
Diane frowned. “I like Jeannie, but she pushes those meds like a Pez dispenser.”
Maggie shrugged. “Jeannie likes an orderly classroom.”
“Orderly’s fine. But sedated?”
“Those meds do a lot of good for some kids,” said Maggie.
“Oh sure, they’re helpful—if you need them. But if you don’t, whew, those things’ll mess you up. You get nausea, insomnia, tics. Dammit, it’s worse than being in love.”
“I know,” said Maggie. “But if Connor needs—”
Diane cut in, “That boy does not need meds. He can focus just fine. He must’ve spent an hour reading that Batman comic.” After the 9-1-1 fiasco, Connor had spent the rest of the school day in detention. “Detention” meant camping in the front office’s small conference room while eating cookies and reading comics—courtesy of Diane. If detention was kiddie prison, Diane was the “guy who could get you things,” only for free and with a smile.
Maggie was skeptical. “An entire hour on one comic?”
“Sat just as still as my sister does when the check comes,” said Diane.
Maggie weighed this news. She was no therapist, but she’d seen plenty of kids with attention disorders. Only a tranquilizer gun could make them sit and focus on one thing for that long. But that didn’t mean some shrink wouldn’t whip out his prescription pad. Maggie had plenty of respect for shrinks as a tribe. They’d worked wonders for some of her students, but she’d met more than a few who handed out meds to every third patient, like they were playing a pharmaceutical game of Duck, Duck, Goose. And parents—terrified of being “in denial”—often went right along with it, especially if no other option presented itself.
Maggie’s job was to find that other option. “Maybe we should sic Mr. Baran on this?”
Diane frowned. “I don’t think push-ups are going to get us out of this, Kemosabe.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not push-ups. But maybe Connor just needs to get some energy out, the way you’d run a hyper dog in the morning so it won’t eat the couch while you’re at work.”
“You think Baran would be up for it?” asked Diane.
Maggie grinned. “Only if we ask him.”
Diane nodded. “That just might work. Hell, we might turn that boy into a model student. We . . .” Diane suddenly gasped and put a hand to her chest. “Your prison vision.”
“What about it?” asked Maggie.
“Maybe Connor wasn’t the death-row prisoner. Maybe he was the doctor!”
“A doctor?” Maggie considered this, then simpered, “How about that, a prison doctor! He’ll make us so proud.”
15
SHOUTING FROM THE SAME PAGE
As soon as Diane left, Maggie called Mr. Baran, the school’s beloved PE teacher. He was a gravelly voiced, shouty man with a stiff, bowlegged gait and a formal, almost militaristic, manner. His muscles had muscles. But despite his jock persona, Maggie—like everyone else at the school—adored the man. His boundless enthusiasm and energy were hard enough to resist. But for Maggie, the clincher was his slavish devotion to his first and only wife, “the Judge.” He called her that because he loved to remind everyone in hollering distance that she sat on California’s “esteemed” Superior Court. Diane speculated that he called her “Your Honor” during sex, when he “banged her with his gavel.”
He answered gruffly on the first ring: “State your business.” Maggie laid out the situation, and Mr. Baran immediately barked out his diagnosis: “No drugs! That boy just needs to move!”
Maggie said, “I agree.”
Baran went on, “‘A strong body makes the mind strong.’ Thomas Jefferson said that.”
“He did?”
Baran hedged. “Um, somethin’ like that.”
Maggie came right out with it. Would Mr. Baran be willing to work with Connor before school a few mornings a week?
Mr. Baran asked, “You sure the budget can cover this? I don’t want to get in trouble with the union again.” Union rules demanded teachers get paid extra for any work done
outside of regular school hours.
“I’m sure,” said Maggie. But it would be a stretch. Even with the Edutek grant, she’d have to scrounge for change under some budgetary couch cushions.
“Early mornings are for the Judge. I’ll have to check with her.”
Maggie began, “Of course. You . . .” A clunk let her know that Mr. Baran had put the receiver down on a table. She guessed that he must have trudged over to talk with his wife because she heard voices, his loud and clear, hers a murmur.
A moment later, he returned, “Motion sustained. The Judge doesn’t hold with tranq darts for minor offenders.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet with the boy’s mother tomorrow at ten. Can you stop by?” Maggie wanted to feel out Mrs. Bellman before exposing her to the gale-force power of Mr. Baran’s personality.
“Yes, ma’am.” Baran sounded like he was saluting on the other end of the line.
So Maggie said the only thing she could: “Very good. Dismissed.”
Often, parents turned out to be like the dinosaur babies in Jurassic Park—they imprinted on whichever caring professional got to them first. So the next morning, Maggie arranged some alone time with Connor’s mother before Jeannie could get to her.
Susan Bellman was a pale, mousy creature with big, trusting blue eyes and a strong lisp so that “Susan” came out “Thoo-thin.” She apologized frantically for her son, saying, “I’ve tried everything. I’ve read tho many parenting bookth: I’m Not Kidding Thith Time!, Mommy Machiavelli. Nothing helpth. My huthband thayth I don’t dithipline him enough. He thayth I have to remember I’m in charge.” Susan squinted in determination. “I’m in charge. I am in charge. I am in charge.” She shifted the emphasis around as she practiced this impotent mantra, like an actress hunting for the right line reading. She finished, saying, “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” asked Maggie.
“Medication. I’m willing to do it,” said Mrs. Bellman.
“No one’s said anything about medication.”
Mrs. Bellman reported cheerfully, “Mrth. Pather did. No, wait, thhe thaid ‘therapy,’ but I knew where thhe wath going. Thhe called me latht night.”
“Did she now?” Maggie forced a smile while a “FUCK!” banner unfurled inside her brain.
“Yeth. Thhe thayth loth of boyth hith age have attenthion problemth. And there’th no need for him to thuffer. Thhe wath tho nithe about it.”
Maggie’s smile was beginning to hurt. “I bet she was.”
“I thpoke to our pediatrithian thith morning.”
“Did you?” Now the banner said: “FUCKETY FUCK FUCK.”
“Yeth, and he’th going to refer uth to a therapitht.”
“I see.” In Maggie’s experience, therapists tend to recommend—guess what—therapy. In therapy, Connor’s twitchiness would become a “symptom.” And symptoms demand medication. And meds would bring gnarly side effects. “Side effects” were Big Pharma’s greatest semantic trick. The phrase implied that a drug’s benefits were the entrée, while its drawbacks were mere side dishes that could somehow be skipped.
Maggie hedged. “Therapy is definitely an option, but we might want to gather more information before we go that route.” Information gathering, like therapy, was presumptively benign and could potentially go on forever.
Mrs. Bellman’s eyes widened. “What kind of informathion?”
Maggie said, “We could check to see if exercise helps. Exercise often improves focus for our more active children.”
Susan weighed this. “Maybe we thould try both—therapy and extherthithe. Come at thith problem with everything we’ve got.”
Maggie stalled. “That is one way to go, but, uh . . .” Maggie knew this evenhanded approach would lead inexorably to therapy and medication. The “two options” approach defied several Parental Laws of Physics. First, the Law of Exhaustion—that is, parents have limited time, energy, and money. Pursuing multiple options exhausts all three. More importantly, there’s the Law of Bargain Discrimination. If one option costs money (therapy), and another costs zilch (exercise), parents will overvalue the option they pay for and undervalue the option they get for free, figuring that if they pay for something, it must be worth more. This is a corollary of the Market Is Never Wrong Theorem (see Milton Friedman et al.). And, finally, the Law of “My Poor Baby!”—parents are phenomenally uncomfortable with their children experiencing discomfort. Accordingly, the quickest relief (medication) is always the best. Follow both paths, then fast-forward a month or two, and Connor’s “exercise regimen” would be gathering dust in the attic (like much of Maggie’s gym equipment), but the pills would stay. Nobody puts pills in the attic.
But Maggie could say none of this. She ransacked her brain for an argument against therapy, but came up with nothing. Fortunately, Mr. Baran saved her.
He entered and took a seat. Maggie explained, “I’ve asked Mr. Baran—he’s in charge of our PE program—to sit in with us this morning. He might be able to assist us with Connor.” Even sitting, Mr. Baran dominated the room. Energy radiated off him in waves. He sat ramrod straight with his hands splayed on the table, his chin in a perpetual jut, his lips pursed.
Mr. Baran told Mrs. Bellman. “I’ve seen plenty of tough cases. Sometimes, it’s a kid with a bad attitude, but that’s not what we got here. I’ve met your boy. He’s a good kid. You’re raising him right.” Mrs. Bellman brightened at this. And Maggie wondered idly why male compliments carried so much more weight than female ones. Probably because us ladies are starving for them, she thought.
Mr. Baran went on, “The way I see it, we’ve got ourselves a physical problem. To get Connor to focus, we got to siphon off some of his energy, redirect it. Tell me, what’s the boy’s sport?”
Mrs. Bellman said, “He doethn’t have a thport.”
Mr. Baran blinked rapidly, his brain seemingly short-circuited by the notion of a boy without a sport. He recovered quickly. “Great! We’re not stuck with one game. We can try them all: soccer, basketball, tennis. We’ll find his thing. Everyone’s got some beat he can dance to.”
After more of Mr. Baran’s mini-infomercial, Mrs. Bellman agreed to have Connor work with him before school three mornings each week.
And as for therapy? No worries. Maggie would “make a few calls” to “her contacts” to find a top-notch therapist. Maggie said piously, “It’s so important to find the right fit.” What Maggie didn’t mention was that her few calls would be aimed at identifying which therapists had the longest waiting lists for new patients. Sometimes, the best defense is a slow, tedious surrender.
16
BACK TO LUCY
Lucy’s mother made her read a kiddie biography of Hillary Clinton. Mrs. Wong said Hillary was the “best politics woman” in the world, but Hillary seemed lonely to Lucy. Supersmart, but still lonely. She lost the election because she was not popular enough to get into the electoral college. Lucy wondered if Hillary went into politics to make friends so she’d have an excuse to talk to people and shake hands.
Lucy knew all about loneliness. She made a few more half-hearted assaults on Friend Hill, but they all ended in retreat. So Lucy was soon back to reading alone at recess and raising her hand in class to ward off boredom.
The only bright spot was science class with Mr. Carlsen. He looked like the type of man Lucy had seen in her mom’s romantic comedies—not the dreamy leading man, but one of the unkissable guys in a montage of the heroine’s failed blind dates. Somewhere in his thirties, Mr. Carlsen was a tall, spindly man with thick glasses. He sported short-sleeve, button-down shirts, clip-on ties, and a thick mustache that fascinated Lucy. It looked like a giant, fuzzy brown caterpillar.
Mr. Carlsen began by talking about the scientific method. “It’s how scientists figure out answers to their wacky questions.” He made jazz hands as he said “wacky,” and Lucy rolled her eyes. Adults use exclamation points and zany adjectives to trick kids into thinking dull things are fun. Lucy raised her hand when Mr. Carls
en asked what “hypothesis” meant, and he called on her right away—which is what teachers ought to do.
Lucy said, “Hypothesis. A theory designed to predict or explain something. Hypothesis.” Lucy’s mom had made her watch the national spelling bee too many times, and it had influenced her phrasing.
“That’s right, Lucy.” Mr. Carlsen smacked his hands together. “Can anyone tell me how you figure out if a hypothesis is right or wrong?” Again, Lucy was the only one to raise her hand. Mr. Carlsen waited a beat, then pointed to her, “All right, brave Lucy, let’s have it.”
Lucy felt her cheeks redden. No one had ever called her brave before. “You test it. You do an experiment.”
“Yes, ma’am. And that’s what we are going to do today. We are going to come up with a hypothesis, and we are going to test it.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out two matchbox cars, and held them high. “Who can tell me what these are?”
Lucy decided to leave this low-hanging fruit to her classmates.
A boy called out, “Race cars.”
Mr. Carlsen pointed to the boy. “Correctamundo. Now, there’s only one visible difference between these two cars: color. One’s red, and one’s blue. Raise your hand if you think the red car is faster.” Everybody in the class raised their hands, everybody but Lucy and big Rachel Klemper, that girl who’d gotten into a fight on the first day of school. “Raise your hand if you think the blue car is faster.” The other kids lowered their hands, but Lucy and Rachel did not move.
Mr. Carlsen pointed to Rachel. “I notice that you did not vote for either car. Why’s that?”
Rachel said, almost in a whisper, “The car’s color doesn’t matter in a race.”
Mr. Carlsen asked Rachel for her name, then turned to Lucy. “How about you, brave Lucy? You agree with Rachel here?”
Lucy nodded. She didn’t like being lumped in with Rachel, but logic had pushed her there.
Looking from Lucy to Rachel, Mr. Carlsen said, “I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.” He laid the red car flat on his left palm and ran his right index finger along its sides—as if trying to sell it on the Home Shopping Network. “This isn’t just any red vehicle. It’s shiny and has flames on its sides. Do the flames change your minds, ladies?”
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 9
