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“I didn’t know.” She wanted to know more about what had landed him in the system to start with, but she held back, uncertain if he didn’t want her to know yet or he just didn’t want to discuss it in front of Rafe. She couldn’t imagine Ronan didn’t already know.
“The kids don’t get listened to, so people don’t know. Kids are imaginative and have crazy thoughts, don’t you know.” He sounded bitter.
“That was years ago. And some children do exaggerate and even lie.” Tessa had seen that firsthand as a teacher.
“Sure. And so do some adults.” Jett let a long breath. “I apologize. I don’t usually get into that black space. But let’s leave the authorities out of this unless we have some idea that Taylor is really a danger to his son. If he goes nuts and all he does is knock off an elected official, I promise I’ll try to feel bad about that, but I’d have to fake my feelings.”
Ronan chuckled. “Another lost politician would be a true tragedy.”
Tessa laughed with them because she could see neither meant it. She put her hand on Jett’s. “Okay.” She said it calmly, reassuringly, but she felt anything but calm. “But if you didn’t want me to do anything, why did you want me to know this?”
“It always seems that we should know as much as possible about someone like that. Knowledge is power, some teacher told me years ago. I always thought that made sense,” said Ronan.
“But only if you act on that knowledge.”
Jett frowned as though irritated. “Acting before you should can be as dangerous as not acting when you should. There’s a balance.”
She understood. She agreed. But part of her was screaming that she should act. The question was what to do.
Chapter 8
The troubling informationthat Rafe had uncovered about Harvey Taylor, coupled with Jimmy’s obvious growing disconnect from the classroom and his diminished enthusiasm for almost everything, had Tessa on edge. The idea that a kid should suffer because the adults around him couldn’t get their act together seemed wrong. As his teacher she felt a responsibility to him that went beyond any legal requirement. She never minded going the extra mile to help a child, but it drove her crazy when she felt her hands were tied.
Now she had a student who needed help, but the problem was with the parent. Any outside attempt to do anything really useful that she could think of would likely just reinforce his father’s paranoia—it would probably make the situation even worse.
Her plan to monitor Jimmy’s mental state wasn’t going well. Attempts at casual conversation with him didn’t get far. She’d ask, “How are things at home?”
He’d shrug or say “fine,” without any amplification, without giving her any insights.
Doing something, even thinking of something else to do, took her attention away from other, equally deserving students. She couldn’t slack off on her full-time teaching role to focus on helping one student. It pained her.
After a few days, she got an idea. She gave the class a writing assignment.
“I want you each to write a short essay on the most interesting thing going on at home,” she told them. “Spend the next half-hour writing a little bit about anything that’s going on. Write it like you were telling it to a friend. It has to be real, not something you make up, and it doesn’t have to be a big deal. It could be your mom baking cookies, or a visit from a cousin, or something your pet does that you think is funny or clever. Whatever interests you or you think is important.”
The idea seemed perfect. She’d not only get something out of Jimmy, but reading the papers would give her insight into the lives of the rest of the class as well. Most would be as trivial as she’d suggested—she hoped most would be.
Every time she gave the kids an assignment of that sort, it fascinated her to see how some of them attacked it eagerly while others seemed at a loss to think of a thing to say. She circulated through the room, coaching the ones who seemed to be blocked. The end of the half-hour coincided with the end of the period, when they would all go off to gym, and when the bell rang, the students scrambled to gather up their books and bags.
“Leave your papers on my desk,” she called out, and they flowed by her desk, dropping their papers on it as they went out the door, talking and laughing in that happy way of children.
Except for Jimmy.
He remained in his chair glaring at her. The paper in front of him had two words written on it: “My father…”
“Are you finding this a tough assignment, Jimmy?”
His face remained expressionless.
“Is it tough because you can’t think of anything interesting to write or because you don’t want to write about your father at all?”
He dropped his eyes and stared at the paper. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“Trick you?”
“You know I’m not allowed to share any home stuff.”
“I know you can’t share his ideas. This wasn’t about those at all. Why can’t you write about what you did? Maybe even a television program you liked or hated.”
