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A curly-haired woman pops her head out from where she’s kneeling behind a closet door. “Hello?”
Beside me, Tabby has clammed up. Her chin is on her chest, and her hair, which has escaped the braid I put it in this morning, is around her face. I wave, stepping inside. “Hi, Miss Shepherd. I’m June Harlow, Tabby’s nanny. I emailed you earlier this week, but I wanted to come in and meet you in person.”
Miss Shepherd stands, a warm smile on her face, and dusts her hands on her pants. “Of course.” She extends a hand, and we shake. “Nice to meet you.” She squats in front of Tabby. “Hey, Tabby. Good job today on your art project. I love what you did.” She points to the row of smiling cats painted in primary colors hanging on the wall. Tabby shrugs. Miss Shepherd glances at me, and then she points to the corner, where there are books and pillows strewn in a reading nook. “Would you do me a favor, Tabby? Could you please tidy the Reading Corner? I could really use the help.”
She nods, shuffling over to the brightly colored pillows and tables, and starts organizing. Miss Shepherd motions toward her desk, and I follow her. “I’m so glad you could come in to see me.”
“Of course. I just graduated from Rutgers with dual elementary education and special education degrees. I know how important it is to have good home-to-school communication.” Miss Shepherd hums in agreement. I motion around the room. “I would be happy to come in and help in any way you need. Mystery reader, helping with parties, field trips, whatever. Please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“Thank you. That means so much.”
“I wanted to see how Tabby is doing so far. Her father and I want to make sure you know we’re here to support her.”
“I’m glad you did. I planned to reach out in the next week, anyway.” She opens a drawer and rifles through a filing cabinet of folders, selecting one. It has Tabby’s name written on the tab. “Last year, Tabby’s teacher suggested they place Tabby in our inclusion room. She’s not a classified student, but the teacher thought it might be good to have her in a room where there would be two teachers, so we could have double eyes on her if she continued to struggle.”
I know that inclusion rooms are the same as single-teacher rooms in a school, but they have a second certified special education teacher present who makes sure students with special needs have them met—through extra time, modifications, emotional support, or any other help.
Miss Shepherd opens the file and pulls out a few pieces of paper. They’re tests and classwork, and none of the grades are good. They aren’t all failing, but they’re consistently low. Since the work isn’t very difficult, I suspect Tabby could guess at every answer and get about half of them right.
“These are her most recent math grades.” She slides two pieces of paper toward me. There are some corrections, but she manages Bs and Cs. “And this is her most recent word work.” She opens a composition book. The writing on the pages is rudimentary, even considering the age and academic level. Educators expect a certain amount of misspellings at her age, but Tabby’s writing lacks spacing between the words. Most of it is a string of letters. She capitalized some letters and placed a period before each of them. But the capitalization doesn’t make much sense, and the periods are out of place.
“I see.” I do, actually. Tabby’s writing suggests some sort of learning disability. I’m not able to diagnose it, but I’ve studied enough to know if something is wrong.
Miss Shepherd holds my gaze before tucking the work back into Tabby’s folder and closing it. “She’s struggling, Miss Harlow. My resource teacher and I don’t know exactly how, but Tabby closes down more every day. She struggles to concentrate, and when she gives her work attention, it’s difficult for her.” She inhales. “We would like to refer her to the child study team.”
“I see.” I glance across the room at Tabby, and my chest aches. Last year’s progress reports suggested a problem, but to hear it confirmed, to see the full extent, it breaks my heart. She’s a quiet kid, but I can already tell she’s very sensitive and intuitive. Undoubtedly, she can tell something is wrong. At seven, feeling different can be very difficult.
“I’m going to send home the Vanderbilt diagnostic scale. Are you familiar with it?” I nod. Doctors and educators use the assessment to determine if someone is at risk of ADHD. It asks questions about the student’s behaviors both in and out of the classroom. It’s usually the first step toward school intervention. “Good. I’ll send two copies, one for you and one for Mr. York. Please return them as soon as possible.”
“I will.” I smile and nod before sticking out my hand to her. “And keep in mind what I said about helping. I want to be present here.”
“Thank you. We would love that,” she says and shakes my hand.
I join Tabby and help her finish her task. As we leave, walking side by side down the hallway, she sighs.
“You wanted to meet Miss Shepherd because of me, didn’t you?” she asks.
I squeeze her shoulder. “Of course. I wanted to know your teacher.”
“No.” Her shoulders hunch over a little. “I mean because I’m stupid.”
My heart pounding, I stop, reaching for her hand and halting her with me. Squatting down, I look in her eyes, still holding her hand. “You’re not stupid at all,” I say, steel in my voice. “Why would you say that?”
She shrugs. “That’s what the kids at school think. They don’t say it, but I can tell.” Her mouth twists, like she’s trying to keep it from shaking. “I’m not like the rest of them.”
My eyes sting, but I hold it together. She doesn’t need my emotions right now. Her own are probably overwhelming enough. I want to step in, to tell her she fits in, that she is like the rest of them. But it doesn’t matter if I believe that. It’s her perspective that matters. “Why not?”
“I don’t think like they do.”
The words are devastating, and she heads off down the hall, walking too fast. She doesn’t stop until she pushes through the exit, coming to a halt on the pavement outside the door. She tilts her head up to the sky and inhales a deep breath, like there hadn’t been enough oxygen in the school.
Biting my lower lip to keep from crying, I glance back at the classroom.
Whatever is going on with Tabby, I’m going to help her work through it. There is nothing in me that will allow that smart, sweet girl to feel like this for much longer.
Duke
It’sduskwhenIget home from training camp. I got dragged into three different meetings, and I’m completely exhausted by the time I pull into the driveway. But the sight of June covered in sweat wakes me up. She’s got on short shorts and a T-shirt, and her hair is in a messy ponytail. We’ve been going through an uncharacteristic heat wave, so it’s still over eighty degrees. She wipes her brow with her forearm and stands. Around her are the remnants of a cardboard box and what appears to be the start of a basketball hoop.
