Fiction: Reason #155

 

    "Miss, what are we doing?"

    "The same thing we've been doing for three days, dear. You've been in class, I have seen you with my eyeballs."

    "Working on the scene, right, right? With our group."

    Smith nodded at the student, named Devin. Generally speaking, they had no issue with autistic students-in fact, they were some of their favorite people. However, this young man was not really high functioning enough to be left without a Para in class, and was eating up at least twenty percent of their class time. Mostly repeating themself. 

    This is my fault, they thought, I'm the one who said "Rehearsal means repeat."

    The general population in the class had acclimated to him, for the most part. For the most part. There was one girl remaining who had some sort of issue with Devin. Which confused Smith, as both students had parents from Ghana. The Islanders in the building all seemed to get along, so Smith made the very wrong assumption that camaraderie held for others. 

    It did not.

    The student was named Layla, and like Devin, was a freshman. Both students were freshman in a district that was primarily remote or hybrid for 20/21. This meant that they had not been in a full classroom since the seventh grade. This was a factor all teachers district wide were prepared to face back in August, and  then immediately discovered there was not enough man power to deal with the waves of issues that were drowning the building.  

    When Devin performed, Layla would sit on her phone, deaf to Smith's nudging, protocol reminders or the low grade she was receiving in the class. As a cheerleader, she was allowed to have an "F" and still cheer. It appeared she had chosen this class as her token "F".

    Smith stood on the apron, watching as Devin gleefully set the stage---his favorite part of scene work--and Laya, as per her habit, strolled in ten minutes late with a Starbucks. Without looking up at her, Smith said "Layla, trashcan. Hallway. No food or drink in the theatre. You know that." Layla rolled her eyes and dragged her feet back to the hallway, where she finished her expensive iced coffee while talking to friends. Smith heard another teacher in the hall urging the group to disband and get to class. 

    Smith watched Devin's group for another minute, then fussed at a second group who were on their phones instead of rehearsing, before venturing into the hallway. There they found Layla, leaning against the wall on her phone, ignoring the security guard who was walking toward her saying "Get to class, please."

    Smith stopped a few feet in front of the student and said "Hey, Layla, your group needs you to come rehearse."

    Layla shrugged.

    Smith tried again.

    "Layla, is there something up today? Do you want me to write you a pass to counseling?"

    Layla shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Just because I don't want to be in this stupid fucking class don't mean I need a counselor."

    Smith paused, looked at the security guard, who was within two feet now, for help.

    The security guard said quietly but authoritatively "If you are supposed to be in class, please go to class."

    "Make me."

    Smith stood flabbergasted. They had no authority to ever touch or speak harshly to students. Teachers had been told repeatedly to have grace, to speak softly, to allow kids to readjust after the lock downs. Smith had encountered everything in the last twelve weeks from being completely ignored to being told to fuck off, both when asking students to be on time to class.  In ten years of teaching, it was the roughest they'd ever seen it, but there had been no confrontations.

    This was new.

    Usually the expletives were thrown over a dismissive shoulder. Passive aggressive seemed to be the new trend, and Smith preferred it to confrontations. 

    "Excuse me?" Smith asked quietly.

    At that moment, Devin blew through the double doors of the theatre into the hallway, bellowing "Layla, are you in a group? We need another girl in the group, can you be in our group? You're supposed to be rehearsing, the scene is due Friday."

    Without any change in tone or demeanor, as if she were answering any other question, Layla spoke again.

    "Fuck you, retard."

    Smith recoiled as if they'd been hit, and the security guard blinked.

    "I don't gotta do nothing I don't want to, nobody can touch me, and " she looked directly at Smith "I don't want to listen to this bitch dyke any more."

    There was a pause. Layla sucked down the last of her beverage, the sound of her empty plastic cup floating eerily in the air between the two adults. 

    Smith handed the security guard their keys and badge, nodded and walked out of the building.

    They were the seventh teacher to quit  the building since the beginning of the school year. They were twelfth in the district. They were the first of the school year to walk out midday.

    They were not the last.