with bright red cheeks, looks up from the table when I speak to him.
“It’s my cat, Mister P.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask. It’s impossible to tell. The green blob on the paper seems to have three legs—from this angle it looks like a giant booger. Lucas is either sarcastic or a terrible artist. He hasn’t been in my class long enough to know which. “What’s his name?”
“Mister Willikins,” Lucas says.
“Well, that’s just great Lucas. Keep going. I want you to write three things you love about Mister Willikins.”
He grins and returns his attention to the green blob. I move on to the next student, keeping an eye on Jasmine Welch as I do so. Jasmine is sitting at the next table over with a look of deep concentration on her face. She’s sketching a picture in gray and black.
The girl next to Lucas is Beth Grice. She’s drawn a unicorn. Or maybe it’s a rhinoceros. It’s pink and sparkly, so probably a unicorn. “Beth, that looks great!”
She blushes bright red. Beth is the shyest girl in my third grade class—I don’t think I’ve heard her speak a word yet. We’re only a week into the school year, of course, so she’s got some time.
I move over to the next table.
Jasmine’s picture is remarkable for a third grader. It depicts a black and gray horse. She’s drawn the horse’s mane flowing back into the air with little ribbons tied around its braids, and a little girl is riding on the horse’s back, her own pigtails trailing behind her. It’s a third grader’s work, of course, with nothing in the way of perspective. She’s dramatically captured a feeling of motion.
“Jasmine, that’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”
“That’s my horse,” Jasmine says. “His name is Mono.”
“Mono?”
She nods. “Mom says it’s because he used to be sick. It’s a joke, but I don’t think it’s funny.”
Mono? Maybe not belly-laugh funny, but definitely weird funny. It’s strange hearing her talk about her mother in the present tense. I met them twice, once during a parent-teacher conference and a second time during a field trip last fall. Jasmine’s father was a warm man with a ready smile and a ragged gray beard. His wife seemed a lot more uptight, and I didn’t get much of an impression from her. I got the feeling that they were people I might like.
A brief whine hisses from the speaker at the front of the room. The school secretary. They finally have the intercom working again. “Mister P? You have a visitor coming, a Miss Welch.”
“Thanks,” I say back to the disembodied voice. I straighten and walk toward my desk. Lunch is in five minutes.
“All right, boys and girls. Please start packing away your crayons, it’s almost time for lunch. Make sure your name is on your picture, then put it in my box.”
The kids start packing everything away, some of them scrambling to write their names on their pictures.
Jasmine doesn’t move. She has her mouth scrunched over to one side, and one eye is squeezed almost shut. She’s rubbing a gray crayon on a square in the corner of the picture.
I stand to get a better look, just as the door to the classroom opens.
“Zoe,” I say.
She’s wearing a knee length skirt today, brown and red, with matching top, and I have to look away from her very blue eyes. “Come in.”
“Mister P,” she says.
“Matt,” I respond. “Please.” I walk toward Jasmine’s table. “Jasmine, if you can put your crayons away.”
The bell for block 1 lunch rings. That’s us.
“Almost finished,” Jasmine says. That’s when I see what she’s drawing in the corner of the picture. Zoe seems to see it at the same time. A quick intake of breath and she takes a step forward.
Jasmine is drawing two gravestones in the corner of the picture. One says, “Mommy” and the other “Daddy.”
Zoe mutters something under her breath, then I meet her eyes. I quickly look away. “That caught me by surprise,” I say, quietly.
“Hey, Jasmine,” Zoe says
“It’s my cat, Mister P.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask. It’s impossible to tell. The green blob on the paper seems to have three legs—from this angle it looks like a giant booger. Lucas is either sarcastic or a terrible artist. He hasn’t been in my class long enough to know which. “What’s his name?”
“Mister Willikins,” Lucas says.
“Well, that’s just great Lucas. Keep going. I want you to write three things you love about Mister Willikins.”
He grins and returns his attention to the green blob. I move on to the next student, keeping an eye on Jasmine Welch as I do so. Jasmine is sitting at the next table over with a look of deep concentration on her face. She’s sketching a picture in gray and black.
The girl next to Lucas is Beth Grice. She’s drawn a unicorn. Or maybe it’s a rhinoceros. It’s pink and sparkly, so probably a unicorn. “Beth, that looks great!”
She blushes bright red. Beth is the shyest girl in my third grade class—I don’t think I’ve heard her speak a word yet. We’re only a week into the school year, of course, so she’s got some time.
I move over to the next table.
Jasmine’s picture is remarkable for a third grader. It depicts a black and gray horse. She’s drawn the horse’s mane flowing back into the air with little ribbons tied around its braids, and a little girl is riding on the horse’s back, her own pigtails trailing behind her. It’s a third grader’s work, of course, with nothing in the way of perspective. She’s dramatically captured a feeling of motion.
“Jasmine, that’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”
“That’s my horse,” Jasmine says. “His name is Mono.”
“Mono?”
She nods. “Mom says it’s because he used to be sick. It’s a joke, but I don’t think it’s funny.”
Mono? Maybe not belly-laugh funny, but definitely weird funny. It’s strange hearing her talk about her mother in the present tense. I met them twice, once during a parent-teacher conference and a second time during a field trip last fall. Jasmine’s father was a warm man with a ready smile and a ragged gray beard. His wife seemed a lot more uptight, and I didn’t get much of an impression from her. I got the feeling that they were people I might like.
A brief whine hisses from the speaker at the front of the room. The school secretary. They finally have the intercom working again. “Mister P? You have a visitor coming, a Miss Welch.”
“Thanks,” I say back to the disembodied voice. I straighten and walk toward my desk. Lunch is in five minutes.
“All right, boys and girls. Please start packing away your crayons, it’s almost time for lunch. Make sure your name is on your picture, then put it in my box.”
The kids start packing everything away, some of them scrambling to write their names on their pictures.
Jasmine doesn’t move. She has her mouth scrunched over to one side, and one eye is squeezed almost shut. She’s rubbing a gray crayon on a square in the corner of the picture.
I stand to get a better look, just as the door to the classroom opens.
“Zoe,” I say.
She’s wearing a knee length skirt today, brown and red, with matching top, and I have to look away from her very blue eyes. “Come in.”
“Mister P,” she says.
“Matt,” I respond. “Please.” I walk toward Jasmine’s table. “Jasmine, if you can put your crayons away.”
The bell for block 1 lunch rings. That’s us.
“Almost finished,” Jasmine says. That’s when I see what she’s drawing in the corner of the picture. Zoe seems to see it at the same time. A quick intake of breath and she takes a step forward.
Jasmine is drawing two gravestones in the corner of the picture. One says, “Mommy” and the other “Daddy.”
Zoe mutters something under her breath, then I meet her eyes. I quickly look away. “That caught me by surprise,” I say, quietly.
“Hey, Jasmine,” Zoe says
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