perfume.
"I love these children," she said, her face back to sweet.
"You do?"
"Yes. In my classroom, they are my children."
Ms. Rodriguez sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She seemed older now.
"Of course, I often think I am their mother. I have them from seven in the morning until seven at night. They come for the free breakfast and stay for the free dinner. They are on welfare and WIC and CHIPS, but they have the manicured nails and the pierced ears and the new Nike sneakers and their parents have the iPhones and drive the fancy pickup trucks with the silver wheels and they all have the satellite TV. Most are undocumented, as my parents were, but my parents sacrificed so I could go to college and have a better life. I do not think these children will have a better life."
She bit her lower lip, and Bode thought she might cry.
"Thank you, Governor, for caring about these children. Mrs. Bonner, she has told me how much you care. As she says, 'If we do not educate them, we will certainly have to incarcerate them.' I look at them each day and wonder who will be educated in twelve years and who will be incarcerated. I am afraid that more will be in prison than in college. That saddens me. I know it saddens you as well."
She planted her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around him.
Bode felt terribly uncomfortable. The truth of the matter was, he hadn't thought about these kids in that way. He thought of them as a budget item—an item that was ballooning out of control, just like the defense budget at the federal level. And just as the president would be committing political suicide if he cut the defense budget, Bode Bonner would be committing political suicide if he cut the education budget. That would mean he didn't care. So, like every governor before him, he had thrown billions more at education to prove he cared. But for what? Half of these kids would drop out before graduation to get a job, join a gang, go to prison, or have a baby. He took one last glance around the classroom and wondered how the State of Texas could ever spend enough money to make the public schools work. How could any state? It was depressing, another aspect of the job he didn't much care for.
Ms. Rodriguez hung tight.
He patted her back but desperately hoped to escape her grasp and this classroom without her tears or the kids' peanut butter fingers all over his Armani suit. But when she finally released him, Mandy herded the little rugrats around him for the cameras.
"Come on, kids, we'll make a memory," she said in her perky voice. "I'll send your teacher a photograph for your classroom."
The kids gathered close and put their sticky hands all over his suit, which now looked like an Armani peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly. Memories were made, and Bode was brushing the peanut butter off his coat when a black boy, taller than the others and wearing brand new Air Jordan sneakers, low-slung pants, and a Kobe Bryant jersey when he still wore number eight, pushed forward and said, "My mama says you don't care about poor folks like us."
The kid was in kindergarten but looked like he should be in the penitentiary; his hair was braided into long dreadlocks in the fashion favored by black pro athletes. And he sported the same gangster attitude. Bode wanted to get down in the kid's face and say something like, "Poor? How much did those sneakers cost your mama?" But the Professor cleared his throat like he was choking on a chicken bone and nodded at the cameras. So Bode forced a smile.
"Well, son, your mother's mistaken. I'm the governor, and I care about all Texans."
"You sayin' my mama's a liar?"
"I'm saying your mother doesn't know me."
"Unh-huh. Mama says only time you come east of the highway is when you wanting to get reelected. Rest of the time, we don't never see you."
"Well, you're seeing me now."
"Mama says she saw you play football on TV, says you wasn't no good, says—"
That did it. Now Bode got in the kid's
"I love these children," she said, her face back to sweet.
"You do?"
"Yes. In my classroom, they are my children."
Ms. Rodriguez sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She seemed older now.
"Of course, I often think I am their mother. I have them from seven in the morning until seven at night. They come for the free breakfast and stay for the free dinner. They are on welfare and WIC and CHIPS, but they have the manicured nails and the pierced ears and the new Nike sneakers and their parents have the iPhones and drive the fancy pickup trucks with the silver wheels and they all have the satellite TV. Most are undocumented, as my parents were, but my parents sacrificed so I could go to college and have a better life. I do not think these children will have a better life."
She bit her lower lip, and Bode thought she might cry.
"Thank you, Governor, for caring about these children. Mrs. Bonner, she has told me how much you care. As she says, 'If we do not educate them, we will certainly have to incarcerate them.' I look at them each day and wonder who will be educated in twelve years and who will be incarcerated. I am afraid that more will be in prison than in college. That saddens me. I know it saddens you as well."
She planted her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around him.
Bode felt terribly uncomfortable. The truth of the matter was, he hadn't thought about these kids in that way. He thought of them as a budget item—an item that was ballooning out of control, just like the defense budget at the federal level. And just as the president would be committing political suicide if he cut the defense budget, Bode Bonner would be committing political suicide if he cut the education budget. That would mean he didn't care. So, like every governor before him, he had thrown billions more at education to prove he cared. But for what? Half of these kids would drop out before graduation to get a job, join a gang, go to prison, or have a baby. He took one last glance around the classroom and wondered how the State of Texas could ever spend enough money to make the public schools work. How could any state? It was depressing, another aspect of the job he didn't much care for.
Ms. Rodriguez hung tight.
He patted her back but desperately hoped to escape her grasp and this classroom without her tears or the kids' peanut butter fingers all over his Armani suit. But when she finally released him, Mandy herded the little rugrats around him for the cameras.
"Come on, kids, we'll make a memory," she said in her perky voice. "I'll send your teacher a photograph for your classroom."
The kids gathered close and put their sticky hands all over his suit, which now looked like an Armani peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly. Memories were made, and Bode was brushing the peanut butter off his coat when a black boy, taller than the others and wearing brand new Air Jordan sneakers, low-slung pants, and a Kobe Bryant jersey when he still wore number eight, pushed forward and said, "My mama says you don't care about poor folks like us."
The kid was in kindergarten but looked like he should be in the penitentiary; his hair was braided into long dreadlocks in the fashion favored by black pro athletes. And he sported the same gangster attitude. Bode wanted to get down in the kid's face and say something like, "Poor? How much did those sneakers cost your mama?" But the Professor cleared his throat like he was choking on a chicken bone and nodded at the cameras. So Bode forced a smile.
"Well, son, your mother's mistaken. I'm the governor, and I care about all Texans."
"You sayin' my mama's a liar?"
"I'm saying your mother doesn't know me."
"Unh-huh. Mama says only time you come east of the highway is when you wanting to get reelected. Rest of the time, we don't never see you."
"Well, you're seeing me now."
"Mama says she saw you play football on TV, says you wasn't no good, says—"
That did it. Now Bode got in the kid's
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