that we have Mariella back. We should
treat her nicely so she stays.”
She
hoped they’d go easy on Mariella, who the bullies had found an easy target from
Day One because of her ethnicity and heavy accent. What did most children know
of loss and grief? Nothing—unless they had lived through it. Yet they could
detect a grieving kid getting special attention, which hyperactive children
crave above all else.
In
her nineteen years of teaching, Mrs. Mint had comforted a handful of students
who lost a parent and one student who had lost both parents in a car accident.
She had helped students from abusive homes that showed up for school with
bruises underneath their shirts. The teacher had nurtured students who bounced
between foster homes and didn’t know a single adult they could trust.
Then
in walked Mariella, who had been afflicted with all of these plagues at such a
tender age. And on top of it, the police were pressuring her to hurry up and
identify the monster that ruined her life. Mrs. Mint had spoken with detective
Sneed over the phone that morning and she got the impression that he cared more
about catching the killer than easing Mariella back into class smoothly. Still,
she promised the detective that she’d let him know if the girl dropped any
clues in class.
At
first, Mariella didn’t do much of anything. Mrs. Mint set the paper and pencil
on her desk as the class began copying words from the blackboard. The girl
watched her classmates write without even touching her pencil.
Eva
Hernandez, the only other Mexican girl in the class and Mariella’s best friend,
waved at the girl from a few seats away and said, “Hola.” Mariella gave her a
quick glance and then averted her eyes. She picked up her pencil. She pressed
down so hard that the lead snapped. Mariella stabbed the hollow point against
the page a few times before finally setting it down.
The
girl had been so friendly before this happened, Mrs. Mint thought. She loved
Eva. She could write and sharpen her pencil by herself.
A
horrendous loss can change children completely. Mrs. Mint had seen it in some
of her less fortunate students. She had felt it herself in the weeks after her
father’s death. Socializing becomes too painful because every word and every
gesture reminds them of the person they lost. The numbing grief impedes every
function like grimy tar clogging up an engine. It shouldn’t alarm her that
Mariella acted like an entirely different girl.
But
it did. Her thin lips had once glowed around her smile. As she twirled her
black hair around her finger, Mariella had asked her about unicorns and
princesses with such innocence. Seeing those lips gone silent and cold
profoundly disturbed the teacher. Someone so young should never experience such
brutality. She reminded Mrs. Mint of the black and white photos of the
hollow-eyed children who had survived the Holocaust.
Mrs.
Mint offered Mariella a new pencil. Staring at her outstretched hand
apprehensively, the girl didn’t take the pencil until the teacher set it on her
desk and backed off. She took a walk around the room and inspected her students’
papers until she came back behind Mariella. She had written the first word on
the board, “Jump”, perfectly. Meticulously tracing the letter, “R”, the girl
started on the next word. Without speaking, Mariella had demonstrated that she
harbored the desire for interaction. She had made the first step toward
recovery.
“Great
job, Mariella,” Mrs. Mint told her. “You wrote it beautifully.”
Mariella
responded with a momentary glance, but Kyle and Cole Buckley gave their teacher
a bitter stare. Each of them had written four words and Mrs. Mint realized she
hadn’t said a word. She figured they didn’t need it, as their egos were already
plenty big enough. But, as usual, the Buckleys would demand attention another
way.
It
happened in recess. Mariella leaned against a fence with a bush on her side
that blocked her off from viewing half
treat her nicely so she stays.”
She
hoped they’d go easy on Mariella, who the bullies had found an easy target from
Day One because of her ethnicity and heavy accent. What did most children know
of loss and grief? Nothing—unless they had lived through it. Yet they could
detect a grieving kid getting special attention, which hyperactive children
crave above all else.
In
her nineteen years of teaching, Mrs. Mint had comforted a handful of students
who lost a parent and one student who had lost both parents in a car accident.
She had helped students from abusive homes that showed up for school with
bruises underneath their shirts. The teacher had nurtured students who bounced
between foster homes and didn’t know a single adult they could trust.
Then
in walked Mariella, who had been afflicted with all of these plagues at such a
tender age. And on top of it, the police were pressuring her to hurry up and
identify the monster that ruined her life. Mrs. Mint had spoken with detective
Sneed over the phone that morning and she got the impression that he cared more
about catching the killer than easing Mariella back into class smoothly. Still,
she promised the detective that she’d let him know if the girl dropped any
clues in class.
At
first, Mariella didn’t do much of anything. Mrs. Mint set the paper and pencil
on her desk as the class began copying words from the blackboard. The girl
watched her classmates write without even touching her pencil.
Eva
Hernandez, the only other Mexican girl in the class and Mariella’s best friend,
waved at the girl from a few seats away and said, “Hola.” Mariella gave her a
quick glance and then averted her eyes. She picked up her pencil. She pressed
down so hard that the lead snapped. Mariella stabbed the hollow point against
the page a few times before finally setting it down.
The
girl had been so friendly before this happened, Mrs. Mint thought. She loved
Eva. She could write and sharpen her pencil by herself.
A
horrendous loss can change children completely. Mrs. Mint had seen it in some
of her less fortunate students. She had felt it herself in the weeks after her
father’s death. Socializing becomes too painful because every word and every
gesture reminds them of the person they lost. The numbing grief impedes every
function like grimy tar clogging up an engine. It shouldn’t alarm her that
Mariella acted like an entirely different girl.
But
it did. Her thin lips had once glowed around her smile. As she twirled her
black hair around her finger, Mariella had asked her about unicorns and
princesses with such innocence. Seeing those lips gone silent and cold
profoundly disturbed the teacher. Someone so young should never experience such
brutality. She reminded Mrs. Mint of the black and white photos of the
hollow-eyed children who had survived the Holocaust.
Mrs.
Mint offered Mariella a new pencil. Staring at her outstretched hand
apprehensively, the girl didn’t take the pencil until the teacher set it on her
desk and backed off. She took a walk around the room and inspected her students’
papers until she came back behind Mariella. She had written the first word on
the board, “Jump”, perfectly. Meticulously tracing the letter, “R”, the girl
started on the next word. Without speaking, Mariella had demonstrated that she
harbored the desire for interaction. She had made the first step toward
recovery.
“Great
job, Mariella,” Mrs. Mint told her. “You wrote it beautifully.”
Mariella
responded with a momentary glance, but Kyle and Cole Buckley gave their teacher
a bitter stare. Each of them had written four words and Mrs. Mint realized she
hadn’t said a word. She figured they didn’t need it, as their egos were already
plenty big enough. But, as usual, the Buckleys would demand attention another
way.
It
happened in recess. Mariella leaned against a fence with a bush on her side
that blocked her off from viewing half