the short hall toward her bedroom.
I grabbed a bed sheet from the floor and curled
up in the chair. I pulled it over my head and
covered my body. Without warning, I heard
Debbie and Tony enter the room.
Huddled under the sheet, I pressed my hands
over my ears, but I could still hear my mother
having sex. The room began to fill with the rank
odor of sweat. The noises got louder, and I
couldn’t keep out the sound.
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“Shit baby, I jus’ cain’t cum. You gon’ have ta
owe me one when I aint done so much blow
sweetheart. Ya man undastand,” Tony declared.
“Yeah, baby. Sure,” she agreed without protest.
The door opened and closed again. Debbie
pulled the sheet from my head, “Let’s go out to
the party baby. It’ll be fun.” She was sweaty,
naked and out of breath as she yanked me from
the chair.
I pulled away from her and let the sheet release
into her hands. She wrapped herself in it and
wiped the sweat away before grabbing her dress
from the floor. I rolled myself from the chair after
Debbie strapped into her shoes. She held her
hand out to me from across the bed, and I made
my way to her. Debbie looked down at me with
her mouth silently agape.
With my hand in hers, she opened the door
slowly and crept out smoothly, silently closing the
door behind me. In a single motion she opened
the door to my bedroom and flung me into the
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darkness. The door clicked closed, and I
scrambled to my bed. Fully dressed and
exhausted, I made my way through the darkness
and climbed into bed. Sleep fell upon me
instantly.
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Brandon transferred in from another state, but his
records were not readily available. At least I had
a warning that he was coming. He had been
enrolled several days before I ever saw his face.
Calls home only gave vague insight into his
absences, but his parent assured me he would be
in any day. When he walked in on his first day,
my shock could not have been any more
apparent.
His parents walked him to class, escorted by the
principal. She made her introductions and made
a hasty departure. Before me stood the boy’s
father, a lanky man, weathered and hardened by
time. He bore the tattooed arms of an ex-con. His
wife wavered beside him, speaking too quickly for
her seemingly intoxicated state. I guessed
methamphetamines based on the smell, thinly
disguised by the pungent odor of cigarette smoke.
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They were fresh transplants from the north,
having moved here with the promise of a
manufacturing job in a local automotive plant.
He was sick. They’d all been sick. They had
trouble finding their way around town. Their
excuses for their son’s absences were different
now than they had been on the phone. My
previous suspicions were immediately heightened.
The boy hid behind his mother’s legs, clinging to
them as if for support. She reached around and
pulled him forward. And there he was; my latest
student could have been my brother, an identical
twin 20 years my junior. His appearance
uncovered innumerable repressed memories of
my own neglect and abuse, and I recognized the
signs as he stood in front of me. Something was
wrong with this scenario, and I was determined to
find out what.
He was shabbily dressed and barely conscious,
with dark black rings around his eyes. His shaggy
brown curly hair lay in tangles around his pudgy
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face, atop a frail and gaunt frame. He didn’t
acknowledge my presence when I introduced
myself. He just stared blankly. Normally I would
have reacted more forcefully to such a response,
but given the scene, and my suspicions, I let it all
slide. His parents told me that there had been
some issues getting his transfer records due to
some money that was owed to his previous
school, but the records should be coming shortly
as soon as the check they had mailed was cashed.
I made a mental note to call the boy’s school as
soon as possible. They said their goodbyes, to
which the boy did not respond, as he had not
responded to me.
The boy entered class and sat in the seat I had
prepared for him. Without asking him to stand, I
introduced him to the class. The boys turned and
looked at him in wonder. There were several
comments as to his consciousness but nothing
rude or disrespectful. The boys had gained a
modicum of respect and empathy, and I was
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proud of their composure and restraint. Brandon
stared blankly at nothing in particular, as I
informed him of the rules of the class and began
our daily routine.
Within moments of our math lesson, the first of
the day, Brandon was asleep sitting straight up in
his chair, his head hanging loosely backward, his
mouth wide open. I walked toward him and lifted
his head forward, but he did not wake. I shook
him gently, but still he displayed no signs of life. I
checked his pulse at his neck. It was faint but
present. I sent for Michelle and Renee. Renee
came in shortly after the messenger, and I filled
her in on the “Brandon Situation.”
I lifted him out of his seat and laid him gently
down on a set of beanbag chairs placed end to
end on the floor away from any possible traffic.
Renee got on the phone and made several calls to
Brandon’s former school in attempts to gain some
insight into the boy’s history. The class worked
diligently on their math assignment, while I
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searched the Internet for any public records of his
parents. To my distress, I learned that his father
was on probation, in addition to having several
active warrants back in his home state. The latest
warrant issued only days before Brandon was
registered in our school. Renee’s digging
uncovered similarly unsettling news, but she got
the school to fax the records we wanted. The
story I had been told earlier turned out to be
untrue. Brandon had never been withdrawn from
school, and they were thankful for the call and
happy to oblige. The principal offered as much
information as was available, which was more
than we expected or wanted to know. When she
returned to my classroom, Renee brought
Michelle in with her, and we compared notes and
took the rest of the day to devise a plan.
Meanwhile, Brandon slept through his entire first
day of school, resting peacefully on the beanbags.
As spokesman for the group and teacher of the
class, I went to the principal and explained the
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“Brandon Situation” in all its gory detail. We
needed a medical release signed, which was
standard procedure, but this was not a standard
situation. While it wasn’t too far off, it was an
uneasy predicament, as Michelle and Renee
typically would drive the medical release around
during the school day, getting it signed by the
parents and then to the doctor. We were all
concerned with sending the ladies to the home of
a wanted felon. I was eager to get the situation
taken care of, so I volunteered to head over after
school, but I wanted to inform my principal
before taking action. She offered to accompany
me, but I declined.
The yard was a minefield of discarded toys and
trash. Walking to the door of the small house, I
caught sight of a smattering of dirty diapers by
the front steps. I had called ahead, so when I
knocked on the door it was opened quickly, and
the thin man from earlier that day greeted me
with a smile. He opened the door, and I saw
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several older teenagers, too old to be the children
of Brandon’s parents, scurry through the room.
The rancid odor of recently burned crack cocaine
wafted from the house as Brandon’s father
stepped outside. Clumsily smoking a menthol
cigarette, the man stumbled down the steps,
trying to talk me away from the house, insisting
that he had relatives over unexpectedly and
needed to get back inside. There were two
vehicles in the driveway, and one of them was
mine. I spoke with him as he led me down the
thin footpath back to my Jeep. When we got
there, I unbuttoned and pulled off my long sleeve
shirt, exposing my t-shirt and tattooed arms.
Throwing the shirt into the truck, I asked for a
cigarette. His eyes went immediately to my
tattoos, as I had hoped they would. His mood
lightened as he stuffed two cigarettes in his
mouth, lit them both, and handed one to me. We
made our way slowly back toward the house.
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Attentively I listened to his troubles and
complaints about the “white trash ghetto” he had
been living in before moving into the
predominantly Black neighborhood we were
standing in. He said he preferred it here in the
south and would be staying here for a while. I
asked if Brandon had said anything about his day
at school. Now chain-smoking, the man told a
fascinating tale about how Brandon had come
home talking about all of the fun he had at
school. Eager to get inside the house, I mentioned
the form that needed to be signed. After
bumming another cigarette, I asked if we could
go inside. He lit another for me, and we laughed
about nothing as we smoked.
The small house reeked of crack cocaine. Two
bedroom doors that would lead into the room
were closed. Two half-clothed children ran
around the living room—a cluttered mess of filthy
clothes, broken toys, and animal feces. A baby
was perched in a highchair in a small adjoining
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kitchen. Brandon sat awake but motionless on the
couch. He was more alert than I’d seen earlier in
the day.
“Hey Mr. Love,” he said from the couch. I was
surprised he knew my name.
“Hi Brandon. How are you?” I asked.
“You wanna see my kittens?” He asked
cheerfully.
“Not now Bran, your teacher’s gotta get going.
We just have to sign some papers.” His dad
answered. Turning to me, he asked for the paper.
I handed him the form and a pen. He signed it on
top of the television without a word. “There you
go,” he said as he handed the paper and pen back
to me. He stepped toward the door. I had seen
enough. I reached for the door, but he was more
eager, and he opened it before I could grab the
knob.
“Goodbye Brandon. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I said to the boy who looked so much like me that
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I was anxious to get away. Unwelcome memories
washed over me.
He waved from the couch as I walked out the
door. I turned and shook his father’s hand and
thanked him for the cigarettes. He offered one for
the ride, and I accepted, hoping it might calm my
nerves.
The next morning, Brandon arrived on the bus
with the other students. Being the shortest of the
students, he stood at the front of my line as
instructed. He led the line toward the class with a
meandering shuffle. Silently, he went to his seat
and sat down. Seeing him awake relieved the
anxiety that had haunted me overnight. Greeting
and talking with the boys took my mind away
from Brandon’s home and family. As we started
in with our work, Brandon conked out as he had
the day before: sitting upright, head back, mouth
open. The other boys looked, but did not say a
word. I prodded him awake. He closed his mouth
and brought his head down to look at me.
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“Do you want to lie down?” I asked kindly.
“Mmhm,” he muttered.
“Can you get up for me and walk over there?” I
asked, pointing to the beanbag chairs still in
position. He tumbled from the chair and made it
to the makeshift bed just before his legs gave out.
He was asleep before his head hit the cushion. I
found a beach towel among the random items in
my closet and draped it over him. Taking off his
shoes to make him more comfortable, I noticed
his socks were filthy, as if he had played in the
mud before putting on his shoes. I rolled his socks
from his feet and placed them on a piece of
paper. I sent one of my boys to the classroom
across the hall that had a washer and dryer with
instructions to have them cleaned. The other boys
watched in bewilderment as I pampered the
young boy with a tenderness they had not
witnessed from me before. I ignored their
confused stares as if nothing had happened.
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Standing back at the front of the class, I went
back to our lesson. My heart wasn’t in it.
The signed medical release on my desk was eating
at my conscience. Impatiently waiting for
Michelle and Renee, I tried to busy myself with