"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
Just before noon and Megan had made her way through half the class. Most of the students were eating lunch, sectioning off into small groups, loosely based on prior friendships. She could see the posturing amongst the establishment, the seven, eight, and nine-year olds who had known each other at least a year. Each group allowed in a few new members, six-year olds just in from the lower age class. You could see the sheepishness in these additions to the ranks, the way they sat quietly while the elder tribe members spoke freely and with conviction. Even in a Montessori setting, the same clique mentality perseveres.
With the troops chowing down, Megan decided to grab a break herself. But, apparently it was not to be, as she saw Shannon approaching from the far end of the classroom. The guide took a bite of her PowerBar in defiance of the oncoming moment. Shannon leaned over the front of the desk.
“I think you might want to go talk to Roger Lakely,” she sounded concerned. “He’s been hiding in the corner of the room all morning. When I went over to introduce myself he shied away. And when I put a hand on his shoulder he winced. Something is up with that kid.”
This was definitely something that bore investigation. Roger was six and as new to the age grouping as Megan. She remembered him from the previous year. He’d come in halfway through and never really seemed to warm up to the rest of the students. He was always a loner, but he did his work. According to the school’s methods the guide isn’t supposed to force a student into anything they don’t want to do. Roger wanted to keep to himself. As long as he got through his learning contract there was no reason to be too alarmed. Megan did have a vague memory of some trouble with a younger student toward the end of the year. Perhaps that had something to do with the boy’s current behavior.
When Megan went to talk to Roger he was curled up in an orange beanbag chair in the nook between the wall and a cabinet. There were headphones over his ears and he cradled a silver Discman in his lap. His eyes were closed but his head bobbed slightly to the music.
Megan said his name but the boy didn’t respond. She repeated herself and still nothing. Kneeling down she said his name a third time, to which he just rolled his body away, facing the wall. Finally, she reached for the headphones. At the exact second her hand made contact with the plastic Roger’s head jerked back and spun to face her.
“Don’t touch me,” the boy said, the color leaving his face, his eyes wild and feral.
Megan backed away, holding her hands palms out to show she was obeying his request. “Roger, it’s me, Mrs. Sanchez. It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“I don’t want anyone touching me,” he repeated.
“Okay, we won’t touch you.” At least he was talking. “You know, some of the kids are having lunch now. Why don’t you come over and join them?”
“I don’t want to eat lunch. I want to go home.”
“Are you sick? If you don’t feel good we could call your father…”
Roger’s eyes went to the floor. “No, don’t call him. Please, don’t call him.”
Megan grew more suspicious. “Is something wrong with your father, Roger? Is he upset with you over something?”
There was a long moment of silence. Roger stared at the floor, his body trembling just noticeably. Then he finally spoke. “My dad is mad at me.”
“Why is he mad at you?”
“He’s mad because I didn’t want to go to school today. I hate it here. I hate this school. I don’t want to go here. But dad says I have to go because he already paid and can’t get his money back and money is tight right now because he lost his job.”
It was easy to connect the dots on this one. Megan just needed the smallest confirmation. She took Shannon aside and asked the exact spot where she touched the boy that made him wince. When she told her, Megan knelt back down and asked Roger if she could just touch him lightly. Sure enough, even the softest tap made him recoil in pain.
There was nothing more that Megan could do. She escorted Roger to the school nurse and then filed a report with the principal. So far the day was not giving much to kill her languor.
Just after two o’clock. With less than an hour to the day how much more could happen? It was a question Megan was afraid to ask herself. As she roamed the computer area she was about to learn the answer.
While discussing a computer animation project with Alethea Boudreaux, she could hear quiet moaning coming from speakers two terminals down. It wasn’t the moaning of pain. No, the sounds she heard were of a very specific nature, one definitely not appropriate for a class of six to nine-year olds.
Mike Glynnis, age nine, was sitting at his computer watching a tiny window playing a movie of a naked man with a naked woman bouncing on his crotch and another naked woman sitting on his face. The moaning that could be heard at least four bays away was coming from the woman bouncing, the woman being fucked.
“What is this?” Megan said in a shocked voice, forgetting for a minute not to speak in corrective tones.
“It’s porno,” the boy said proudly.
“Yes, I realize that. Do you think it’s appropriate for the classroom environment?” she asked rhetorically.
“But it’s part of my web design project,” he defended.
“You mean you have a whole site with this on it?”
“Yeah. I spent the summer compiling mpegs of porno and posting them to an ftp site. Now I have to design the site, add in an age protection program, and send my link to the major search engines. Then I’m in business.”
She had to hand it to him, he was an enterprising little bastard, despite being a mite premature to enter the sex industry. Maybe this was what they meant when they said Montessori students developed at a faster rate than regular students.
“How did you get a hold of all these files?” Megan asked, noticing the long list of mpegs in the folder on his desktop.
“I used my stepdad’s credit card to apply for an adult verification password and then just did Google searches. You can’t get much free porn anymore. All the grown ups have ruined it for us kids.”
“And what happens when he gets the bill and sees the charge on there?” she asked, thinking she’d found the flaw in his plan.
“Please, my stepdad needs to be on my good side because he knows my mom puts me first. If he gives me any trouble I can make things pretty tough for him.”
He had it all worked out. Nine-years old and devilishly crafty. This kid was probably going to end up a Senator at the rate he was going.
“That may be the case,” Megan admitted, “but I still don’t think this is a project that should be worked on during school time. There are more constructive ways to spend your day. If you want to convince me otherwise, we can talk to your mother about it and see what she thinks.”
Case closed.
At three o’clock the students filed out of the classroom and into the cafeteria to await the arrival of their parents. Megan sat at her desk reviewing the day’s events, trying to find something positive to cling to, something to make her want to come back tomorrow.
Becky Mortenson, guide for the three to six group and one of Megan’s former non-teaching assistants, knocked on the open door to Megan’s classroom. The elder guide looked up and gave a forced smile. Becky walked in, pulled a chair in front of the desk, sat down, and put her feet up so that Megan saw the bottoms of her shoes. The left sole looked strange, melted and deformed.
“Chucky Branson,” Becky said. “Kid decides he’s ready to play with the chemistry lab without telling me. Manages to create an industrial grade acid based on something he saw on television. It ate through the Dixie cup he made it in and then spilled onto the floor. When I noticed it I thought I was stepping in water. My mistake.”
“Good shoes?” Megan asked.
“Italian,” Becky answered. “So…”
“My new assistant is out to save the world. A seven-year old has her mother telling her she’s fat. One kid was beaten because his dad got canned and couldn’t get a refund on the tuition. And I’ve got a junior smut peddler setting up a porn ring as a class project.”
