Four

Nancy Lawrence looked all of twenty-four and had a Carrie Underwood poster on one of the classroom walls near a verb-tense illustration.

“I saw her in the Portland Civic Center,” she explained. “She was great.”

“I bet,” Peyton said.

Nancy Lawrence had blond hair and was slim, and the length of her dress seemed more appropriate for a cocktail party than classroom instruction. Then again, what did Peyton know about fashion? She counted wrist ties and a Taser among her accessories and attended her last youth soccer game wearing a .40 pistol.

“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Cote.”

“Please, call me Peyton.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s a habit my parents drilled into me.”

“Call your elders mister or missus?”

“Um, would you like to take a seat?” Nancy Lawrence pointed at the chair across from her.

It was a classroom chair designed for fifth-graders. Perfect. Now Peyton felt huge and old.

“Anyway,” she said squeezing into the seat, “thanks for taking time to see me. I’m worried about my son.”

“He’s being evaluated.”

“Yes, and I’m awaiting the results. But I wanted to see how he’s doing in your class?”

“Students change classes in fifth grade,” Nancy said. “Not all districts do it like that. But, here, fifth grade is middle school. I only have Tommy for math.”

“And how is he doing?”

“To be truthful,” Nancy said, “he needs to work harder. He’s failing.”

“He finds the material very difficult, but he’s working hard—two, three hours each night.”

“Really?”

A buzzer sounded. Nancy Lawrence drank some coffee. It smelled like hazelnut. Peyton wished she’d been offered a cup.

“Yes, really. Ms. Lawrence—”

“Call me Nancy.”

“Nancy, his scores are not indicative of his effort.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Peyton watched as Nancy Lawrence crossed her legs and bobbed her ankle. She wore an ankle bracelet and had a tiny heart-shaped tattoo near her right ankle.

“Where do we go from here?” Peyton asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Can he get extra help?”

“Are you offering to pay for a tutor?”

“I guess,” Peyton said. “There’s no free time during the day when he could meet with you?”

“No.”

Peyton wouldn’t have been surprised if Nancy Lawrence snapped her gum and twirled her hair around an index finger.

Garbed in her uniform greens, Peyton crossed her legs, her military-style boot dangling three inches off the floor, and felt her iPhone vibrate in a cargo pocket of her forest-green work pants.

“Is there a plan to help Tommy?” Peyton asked.

“We don’t have an IEP, if that’s what you mean. Once the testing is completed, Tommy’s teachers will meet to put together a plan, if the testing dictates one is needed.”

“IEP?”

“An individual educational plan,” Nancy said. “LD kids get them. They’re district-mandated, maybe even state-mandated. The district makes us create them.” She reached for her coffee cup.

“You say that like you don’t think much of them. Do they work?”

“Sometimes they work,” Nancy said. “I like them just fine. They’re not easy to create or to execute. And, truth be told, I think a lot of the consultants who run these tests overdo it. Not every kid who struggles has a learning disability. Some kids just need more time or need to work harder.”

Peyton cleared her throat.

Before she could speak, Nancy Lawrence said, “Tommy’s teachers are meeting later today. I think the testing has been completed, but I’m not sure. We all want Tommy to get what he needs.”

Peyton stood. She felt flushed.

“Are you okay, Ms. Cote? I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m sure this is disappointing for you.”

“It’s not my child who I’m disappointed in, Ms. Lawrence. Please be clear on that.”

“I feel like you’re upset.”

“I’m sorry if my child is an inconvenience for you,” Peyton said and walked out of the room.

She started down the hallway, rounded the corner, and saw Tommy at his locker. His back was to his mother. But Peyton saw a boy much taller than Tommy standing near him, speaking. The tall boy grinned, but his expression wasn’t joyful—he wore a sly, cruel smirk. Peyton had seen the adult version of that smirk—on coyotes who promised Mexicans an escape into the US only to take the life savings from the desperate and leave families in the treacherous conditions of the West Texas desert.

Her palms felt damp, and she stopped walking. The tall boy was pointing at Tommy now, laughing. He pushed Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy rocked backward. Another buzzer sounded, and the taller boy turned and walked away.

Tommy leaned forward, his shoulders sagging in relief. He stared into his locker for several moments before gathering his books.

She stepped back so he wouldn’t see her.

But when he turned around, books in hand, she saw that he was crying.

Peyton needed coffee and time to clear her head. She left Garrett and drove ten minutes south to Tim Hortons in Reeds, parked, and went inside.

It was a pleasant June morning, but she didn’t get iced coffee. She took hers black and went to a booth near the window.

It had been bad enough when Tommy came home upset (embarrassed) three times after being pulled from class to be tested. But now it was apparent that Tommy was just a number to his teacher, who, Peyton thought, didn’t believe in the concept of learning disabilities. Nancy Lawrence assumed that if Tommy was failing he simply wasn’t working hard enough.

But something else about the conversation bothered Peyton, something she’d inferred: Nancy Lawrence viewed some kids as simply “slow.” And that enraged Peyton.

Her son was struggling. And what if Tommy was in fact diagnosed with a learning disability? She’d known agents whose children—usually boys, in fact—were deemed to have Attention Deficit Disorder. The stigma was of behavioral issues. She didn’t want that for Tommy. Didn’t want him pigeonholed at age ten. Yet there was no denying that Tommy needed help. He was struggling academically, and it was spilling over into other areas; his confidence was taking hits, and now it looked like he was being bullied.

She, too, needed help. Needed to talk to someone who knew about the educational system, about learning disabilities, about what she could and should do for her son.

She was glad she would see Pete Dye that night. Dye taught US History at the high school, coached girls’ basketball, and tended bar some nights to help make his mortgage payment. He could offer an overview of the district and maybe tell her if having Tommy tested for a learning disability made sense. They’d grown up together, but hadn’t started dating until six months ago.

She thought about Tommy’s ten-year-old life and compared it—as she often did—to her own at that age. Her parents hadn’t had much, but they’d had each other. And her life hadn’t been nearly as complicated as Tommy’s. No crushing academic failures. No bullies. No fathers who took little interest in her.

From her vantage point, she could see the Aroostook Centre Mall. The mall might have been a far cry from what had been available in Texas, but it did have a JC Penney, a Staples, a Kmart, and several smaller retailers. And not wanting to rely solely on the Internet, the Aroostook Centre Mall was more than sufficient for her shopping needs. Given her career choice and ensuing daily uniform, fashion had long given way to practicality. Besides, the last time she wore heels, when she’d gone to dinner with Pete, she’d slipped and nearly fallen.