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the short hall toward her bedroom.

I grabbed a bed sheet from the floor and curled

up in the chair. I pulled it over my head and

covered my body. Without warning, I heard

Debbie and Tony enter the room.

Huddled under the sheet, I pressed my hands

over my ears, but I could still hear my mother

having sex. The room began to fill with the rank

odor of sweat. The noises got louder, and I

couldn’t keep out the sound.

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“Shit baby, I jus’ cain’t cum. You gon’ have ta

owe me one when I aint done so much blow

sweetheart. Ya man undastand,” Tony declared.

“Yeah, baby. Sure,” she agreed without protest.

The door opened and closed again. Debbie

pulled the sheet from my head, “Let’s go out to

the party baby. It’ll be fun.” She was sweaty,

naked and out of breath as she yanked me from

the chair.

I pulled away from her and let the sheet release

into her hands. She wrapped herself in it and

wiped the sweat away before grabbing her dress

from the floor. I rolled myself from the chair after

Debbie strapped into her shoes. She held her

hand out to me from across the bed, and I made

my way to her. Debbie looked down at me with

her mouth silently agape.

With my hand in hers, she opened the door

slowly and crept out smoothly, silently closing the

door behind me. In a single motion she opened

the door to my bedroom and flung me into the

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darkness. The door clicked closed, and I

scrambled to my bed. Fully dressed and

exhausted, I made my way through the darkness

and climbed into bed. Sleep fell upon me

instantly.

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Brandon transferred in from another state, but his

records were not readily available. At least I had

a warning that he was coming. He had been

enrolled several days before I ever saw his face.

Calls home only gave vague insight into his

absences, but his parent assured me he would be

in any day. When he walked in on his first day,

my shock could not have been any more

apparent.

His parents walked him to class, escorted by the

principal. She made her introductions and made

a hasty departure. Before me stood the boy’s

father, a lanky man, weathered and hardened by

time. He bore the tattooed arms of an ex-con. His

wife wavered beside him, speaking too quickly for

her seemingly intoxicated state. I guessed

methamphetamines based on the smell, thinly

disguised by the pungent odor of cigarette smoke.

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They were fresh transplants from the north,

having moved here with the promise of a

manufacturing job in a local automotive plant.

He was sick. They’d all been sick. They had

trouble finding their way around town. Their

excuses for their son’s absences were different

now than they had been on the phone. My

previous suspicions were immediately heightened.

The boy hid behind his mother’s legs, clinging to

them as if for support. She reached around and

pulled him forward. And there he was; my latest

student could have been my brother, an identical

twin 20 years my junior. His appearance

uncovered innumerable repressed memories of

my own neglect and abuse, and I recognized the

signs as he stood in front of me. Something was

wrong with this scenario, and I was determined to

find out what.

He was shabbily dressed and barely conscious,

with dark black rings around his eyes. His shaggy

brown curly hair lay in tangles around his pudgy

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face, atop a frail and gaunt frame. He didn’t

acknowledge my presence when I introduced

myself. He just stared blankly. Normally I would

have reacted more forcefully to such a response,

but given the scene, and my suspicions, I let it all

slide. His parents told me that there had been

some issues getting his transfer records due to

some money that was owed to his previous

school, but the records should be coming shortly

as soon as the check they had mailed was cashed.

I made a mental note to call the boy’s school as

soon as possible. They said their goodbyes, to

which the boy did not respond, as he had not

responded to me.

The boy entered class and sat in the seat I had

prepared for him. Without asking him to stand, I

introduced him to the class. The boys turned and

looked at him in wonder. There were several

comments as to his consciousness but nothing

rude or disrespectful. The boys had gained a

modicum of respect and empathy, and I was

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proud of their composure and restraint. Brandon

stared blankly at nothing in particular, as I

informed him of the rules of the class and began

our daily routine.

Within moments of our math lesson, the first of

the day, Brandon was asleep sitting straight up in

his chair, his head hanging loosely backward, his

mouth wide open. I walked toward him and lifted

his head forward, but he did not wake. I shook

him gently, but still he displayed no signs of life. I

checked his pulse at his neck. It was faint but

present. I sent for Michelle and Renee. Renee

came in shortly after the messenger, and I filled

her in on the “Brandon Situation.”

I lifted him out of his seat and laid him gently

down on a set of beanbag chairs placed end to

end on the floor away from any possible traffic.

Renee got on the phone and made several calls to

Brandon’s former school in attempts to gain some

insight into the boy’s history. The class worked

diligently on their math assignment, while I

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searched the Internet for any public records of his

parents. To my distress, I learned that his father

was on probation, in addition to having several

active warrants back in his home state. The latest

warrant issued only days before Brandon was

registered in our school. Renee’s digging

uncovered similarly unsettling news, but she got

the school to fax the records we wanted. The

story I had been told earlier turned out to be

untrue. Brandon had never been withdrawn from

school, and they were thankful for the call and

happy to oblige. The principal offered as much

information as was available, which was more

than we expected or wanted to know. When she

returned to my classroom, Renee brought

Michelle in with her, and we compared notes and

took the rest of the day to devise a plan.

Meanwhile, Brandon slept through his entire first

day of school, resting peacefully on the beanbags.

As spokesman for the group and teacher of the

class, I went to the principal and explained the

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“Brandon Situation” in all its gory detail. We

needed a medical release signed, which was

standard procedure, but this was not a standard

situation. While it wasn’t too far off, it was an

uneasy predicament, as Michelle and Renee

typically would drive the medical release around

during the school day, getting it signed by the

parents and then to the doctor. We were all

concerned with sending the ladies to the home of

a wanted felon. I was eager to get the situation

taken care of, so I volunteered to head over after

school, but I wanted to inform my principal

before taking action. She offered to accompany

me, but I declined.

The yard was a minefield of discarded toys and

trash. Walking to the door of the small house, I

caught sight of a smattering of dirty diapers by

the front steps. I had called ahead, so when I

knocked on the door it was opened quickly, and

the thin man from earlier that day greeted me

with a smile. He opened the door, and I saw

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several older teenagers, too old to be the children

of Brandon’s parents, scurry through the room.

The rancid odor of recently burned crack cocaine

wafted from the house as Brandon’s father

stepped outside. Clumsily smoking a menthol

cigarette, the man stumbled down the steps,

trying to talk me away from the house, insisting

that he had relatives over unexpectedly and

needed to get back inside. There were two

vehicles in the driveway, and one of them was

mine. I spoke with him as he led me down the

thin footpath back to my Jeep. When we got

there, I unbuttoned and pulled off my long sleeve

shirt, exposing my t-shirt and tattooed arms.

Throwing the shirt into the truck, I asked for a

cigarette. His eyes went immediately to my

tattoos, as I had hoped they would. His mood

lightened as he stuffed two cigarettes in his

mouth, lit them both, and handed one to me. We

made our way slowly back toward the house.

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Attentively I listened to his troubles and

complaints about the “white trash ghetto” he had

been living in before moving into the

predominantly Black neighborhood we were

standing in. He said he preferred it here in the

south and would be staying here for a while. I

asked if Brandon had said anything about his day

at school. Now chain-smoking, the man told a

fascinating tale about how Brandon had come

home talking about all of the fun he had at

school. Eager to get inside the house, I mentioned

the form that needed to be signed. After

bumming another cigarette, I asked if we could

go inside. He lit another for me, and we laughed

about nothing as we smoked.

The small house reeked of crack cocaine. Two

bedroom doors that would lead into the room

were closed. Two half-clothed children ran

around the living room—a cluttered mess of filthy

clothes, broken toys, and animal feces. A baby

was perched in a highchair in a small adjoining

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kitchen. Brandon sat awake but motionless on the

couch. He was more alert than I’d seen earlier in

the day.

“Hey Mr. Love,” he said from the couch. I was

surprised he knew my name.

“Hi Brandon. How are you?” I asked.

“You wanna see my kittens?” He asked

cheerfully.

“Not now Bran, your teacher’s gotta get going.

We just have to sign some papers.” His dad

answered. Turning to me, he asked for the paper.

I handed him the form and a pen. He signed it on

top of the television without a word. “There you

go,” he said as he handed the paper and pen back

to me. He stepped toward the door. I had seen

enough. I reached for the door, but he was more

eager, and he opened it before I could grab the

knob.

“Goodbye Brandon. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I said to the boy who looked so much like me that

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I was anxious to get away. Unwelcome memories

washed over me.

He waved from the couch as I walked out the

door. I turned and shook his father’s hand and

thanked him for the cigarettes. He offered one for

the ride, and I accepted, hoping it might calm my

nerves.

The next morning, Brandon arrived on the bus

with the other students. Being the shortest of the

students, he stood at the front of my line as

instructed. He led the line toward the class with a

meandering shuffle. Silently, he went to his seat

and sat down. Seeing him awake relieved the

anxiety that had haunted me overnight. Greeting

and talking with the boys took my mind away

from Brandon’s home and family. As we started

in with our work, Brandon conked out as he had

the day before: sitting upright, head back, mouth

open. The other boys looked, but did not say a

word. I prodded him awake. He closed his mouth

and brought his head down to look at me.

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“Do you want to lie down?” I asked kindly.

“Mmhm,” he muttered.

“Can you get up for me and walk over there?” I

asked, pointing to the beanbag chairs still in

position. He tumbled from the chair and made it

to the makeshift bed just before his legs gave out.

He was asleep before his head hit the cushion. I

found a beach towel among the random items in

my closet and draped it over him. Taking off his

shoes to make him more comfortable, I noticed

his socks were filthy, as if he had played in the

mud before putting on his shoes. I rolled his socks

from his feet and placed them on a piece of

paper. I sent one of my boys to the classroom

across the hall that had a washer and dryer with

instructions to have them cleaned. The other boys

watched in bewilderment as I pampered the

young boy with a tenderness they had not

witnessed from me before. I ignored their

confused stares as if nothing had happened.

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Standing back at the front of the class, I went

back to our lesson. My heart wasn’t in it.

The signed medical release on my desk was eating

at my conscience. Impatiently waiting for

Michelle and Renee, I tried to busy myself with