Free Underdog by Laurien Berenson Page B

lifted the puppy’s lips and had a look. “They’re in good shape now, but it wouldn’t hurt. Especially as she gets older.”
    Yeah, I thought. Right.
    But Aunt Peg was already moving on. She laid critical hands around Faith’s ribcage. “She’s still thin. Not that you ever want puppies to be fat, mind you, but a little more heft than this wouldn’t hurt.”
    â€œI was going to try a new food. . . ,” I said, then stopped. Right until that moment, I’d forgotten all about it. “Something Jenny told me about.”
    â€œReally? What?”
    â€œThere’s a woman named Crystal Mars in Stratford. She bakes her own all-natural kibble. Jenny said Ziggy was pretty picky and he used to love it.”
    â€œYou know you want to make any switch in diet like that gradually.”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd you’ll have to check and make sure that the protein content isn’t too high—”
    â€œAunt Peg!”
    She stopped mid-lecture. “What?”
    â€œI’m not two years old.”
    â€œNo, you’re not.” Aunt Peg shook her head firmly. “You got Faith in September. It is now October. By my calendar you are less than one month old, which means that a little advice won’t kill you.”
    That shut me up, as I guess she’d known it would. I let her lecture on and didn’t bring up the subject of Jenny’s death again until later when we were ready to leave.
    â€œNone of the choices make any sense to me,” I said. “Could someone have wanted to harm Jenny? Is it possible that she wanted to harm herself?”
    â€œDon’t look at me,” said Aunt Peg. “I don’t have any answers.”
    That was definitely a first. Too bad the timing wasn’t better.

Seven
    Hunting Ridge Elementary School is a one-story brick building situated just above the Merrit Parkway in north Stamford. The second wave of the baby boom—the original boomers having children of their own—caught our administration by surprise. For each of the last six years enrollment has been substantially above projections, which means that even though the facilities are up to date and well maintained, we suffer from overcrowding and understaffing. In spite of the fact that the school is bursting at the seams, each spring the town legislators vote to look the other way and hold our budget firm.
    When Davey and I pulled into school at eight-thirty the next morning, we saw that a delivery truck had stalled outside the kitchen door, blocking off a full third of the teachers’ parking lot. Business as usual at Hunting Ridge. I swung back around the front circle, avoided a bus making a wide turn and nabbed a spot in visitors’ parking.
    Like nearly everything else at the school, the parking lots are inadequate for the number of cars that have to use them. In theory our security force is out daily, checking for parking violations. In reality, the force consists of old Mr. Simms. As far as I can tell the major part of his day is spent drinking coffee and chatting with the school nurse. Habitual offenders like myself have little to fear.
    I delivered Davey to the kindergarten playground and headed over to my classroom, which is really an annex to the school library. My first three years at Hunting Ridge, I’d had a room off the main hall like the rest of the teachers. Crowding had been less severe then and popular thinking had dictated that children with learning disabilities were taken from their regular classes and taught in special sessions for at least part of the day.
    Now all that has changed. The new goal is to mainstream the LD kids, that is, to get them to be successful within their own classrooms. I spend most of my day going from grade to grade, taking aside those children that have been identified as needing extra help, and working with them in small groups. We do the same curriculum; we just work a little harder at it.