Here, the girls are the center of attention. They aren’t in control—that’s obvious in the way Holly steps in any time the conversation gets off track—but they are her focus.
Finally, at five forty-five on the dot, Holly ends the class.
She opens the door and indicates I can come back in. Like at her class on campus, a few of the students linger, asking her questions.
I can’t help but watch her interactions. There’s something about her that draws people in. It must be the way she focuses her attention on them. The way she listens. The way she actually seems to care. The soothing tone of voice she uses.
As each of the girls prepares to leave, Holly makes sure that they have a ride home and she hands them a brown paper sack with their name written on the front. There’s no discussion or conversation about the bag. Each of the girls takes it, though several roll their eyes when they do.
When we’re finally alone, I ask, “What was in the bags?”
Holly stills. There’s something in her posture that makes me think she’s about to tell me to mind my own business.
But then she slides her laptop into her bag and answers without looking at me.
“Two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an apple, and a Clif Bar.”
“Why?”
“The first year I did this, one of the girls left her cell phone in the class. I had to follow her out to give it to her. I found her behind the school, digging through the cafeteria trash bin.”
Holly zips her bag closed and then slings the strap over her shoulder. Finally, she meets my gaze. Her chin jutted out at a stubborn angle. Like she’s ready to argue with me about it. Like she’s daring me to push back.
“What was she looking for? Her retainer or something?”
I’d accidentally thrown away my retainer in middle school when I threw out my trash from lunch. My mom had been furious.
Holly’s lips curve, but there’s a bitterness to her smile. “The girls who take this class usually aren’t from families who can afford braces.”
She says it like I should have known that.
If there’d been clues about the girls’ socioeconomic status, I’d missed them.
Before I can explain this, Holly says, “She was looking for food. She denied it, of course. But I knew she qualified for free lunch and breakfast. I realized those were the only two meals she ate a day.”
“But she had a cell phone—”
Holly stalks toward the door. “That attitude is just—”
Then she cuts herself off and turns back to face me. She draws in a breath and then exhales like she’s trying to calm herself down. Something I’ve never seen her do before.
I know I’m a pain in the ass to deal with. But this is the first time I’ve irritated her this much. My comment about the cell phone must have really pissed her off.
This wasn’t the low-grade irritation most people felt when I annoy them.
This is a genuine roiling rage. The kind I feel when a grad student contaminates a sample.
“That attitude is not helpful,” she hisses. “People are allowed to have phones. In the modern world, a cell phone is a basic necessity. Not a luxury.”
“Sure, for an adult. For a parent, maybe, but—”
“My former student, Sarah, was an adult. She was eighteen. And she was a parent. She had a two-year-old daughter at home. Sarah qualified for free lunch, but her daughter didn't. So during the day, she ate whatever she couldn't bring home to her daughter, and anything else she stashed in her backpack to bring home to feed her kid. Fresh fruit, bread, rolls, anything she could keep. That meant on any given day, she lived on reconstituted dried eggs, pints of milk, and meat that she was afraid would go bad if she stored it in her backpack. Can you even imagine what it's like to live on such little food? Can you imagine what it's like knowing all you can give your kid is a roll or slice of bread?”
Holly turns back to the door and storms out, saying over her shoulder, “No. I don't imagine you can.”
I race after her.
“My assumptions about her socioeconomic status—” I start to explain.
