Thirty-Seven

Thursday, at 3:30 p.m., Peyton entered Garrett Middle School. She was led to the meeting room and took the only empty chair at the round table. Introductions were made all around: Kelli Link, the Garrett Central Schools director of special education; Dr. Tom Martin, principal; and Nancy Lawrence, Tommy’s fifth-grade teacher.

“Hello, Peyton,” Nancy said, and extended her hand. “I love your blouse.”

“Thank you,” Peyton said, trying to read Nancy’s expression. Was the compliment sincere?

Peyton had returned to the station to change into jeans and a checkered blouse before the meeting. She didn’t want to be in uniform for this sit-down with Nancy Lawrence. This encounter wasn’t work-related. It was about Tommy, about the recommended accommodations for his diagnosis.

When they shook, Nancy’s hand felt damp.

“Thanks for coming in,” Kelli Link said. “I’m sure you’re anxious to discuss the findings of Tommy’s testing.”

“I’ve read the materials several times.” Peyton could feel Nancy looking at her.

“Let me begin by saying what a sweet boy Tommy is,” Link said. “We all really enjoy working with him.”

“Yes,” Nancy said. “We certainly do.”

Peyton watched Nancy closely. Her face was warm, welcoming—the face Peyton had seen at Nancy’s front door, the face she’d seen when Nancy confided in her about her dinner date with the doctor. Since Nancy Lawrence first entered the Simon Pink murder investigation, Peyton had worried: would Nancy take her frustration out on Tommy?

Tommy had said, in so many words, that he was being bullied, but he’d never complained about Nancy. The initial parent-teacher conference had given Peyton a poor impression of Nancy, but perhaps the fifth-grade teacher with a Carrie Underwood poster on her classroom wall had a level of professional integrity Peyton had misjudged. Yes, Nancy had insulted her during an interview. But Peyton didn’t put too much stock in that. She’d been insulted far worse during other interviews, and an interview rarely brought out the interviewee’s best self.

“Tommy has worked very hard, especially this past week,” Nancy said. “I spoke to him privately on the playground one afternoon. I was very impressed by how you’ve handled his diagnosis, Peyton.”

Peyton looked at her. All of twenty-six, yet speaking to Peyton as if much older. Either she was ice-cool or highly professional.

“I told him this is the best thing that could’ve happened,” Peyton said. “I told him that now he’ll get help and school will be fun.”

“That’s wonderful,” Link said. “As you know, it was determined that he has dyslexia.”

“That confuses me,” Peyton said. “He reads well, I think.”

Link nodded. “Yes. He’s certainly at grade level. Dyslexia is an information-processing affliction. Tommy’s reading rate is slow, but his comprehension is strong. Math, though, is challenging.”

Link explained Tommy’s test scores and the consultant’s findings. Then she said, “I’d like to begin working with Tommy next week and carry it into next year.”

Peyton nodded. Her face felt flushed. What did it all mean for his future?

“Can he be cured?” she asked.

“He can overcome it,” Link said. “Many people have learning differences, and some estimates are as high as twenty percent of the population. Albert Einstein had dyslexia. But, no, we can’t ‘cure’ the way one learns or processes. However, we can help him to utilize his strengths and to be more efficient.”

Link sounded like a recording. Peyton didn’t want data; she wanted information as a mom.

“How will you do that?”

“He will leave the classroom for math and work with me one-
on-one.”

“So he’ll be singled out? That’ll be embarrassing for him.”

“Receiving this diagnosis,” Principal Tom Martin said, “is the best thing that could happen to Tommy, as you said. It will allow us to assist him in ways that we could not if he wasn’t diagnosed. He’ll get extra time on tests and even the SATs.”

Nancy was smiling warmly and nodding.

“Sounds like a lot of extra work,” Peyton said, remembering their conversation during the parent-teacher conference.

Nancy looked at Tom Martin and smiled. “That’s my job. And it’s not much really, an extra lesson plan here and there. No big deal.”

Tom Martin smiled approvingly at Nancy.

An IEP, or an independent education plan, had been what Nancy had called it when Peyton had originally met with her. And then, Nancy had made it sound far from being “no big deal.” If she was playing to the crowd, she was hitting all the high notes. After all, Martin was her boss.

“So tell me how this is all executed,” Peyton said. “Will Tommy be doing different work? Extra work?”

“Nancy and I will work together to create some alternate activities for Tommy. Some might be more hands-on. Sometimes, I will simply work with him to be sure he is grasping concepts and is at grade level.”

“Will he be doing many different assignments?”

“It will depend on the topic of the lesson,” Martin said. “He does, after all, have a learning difference.”

“Will the other kids know?”

“He’ll leave the classroom and come to the resource room,” Link said.

Her little boy was heading to the resource room.

“Are you okay with all of this, Ms. Cote?” Martin said.

“My son is being teased at school already.”

“Teased?” Martin said.

“Bullied is probably a more accurate word.”

“There’s quite a big difference,” Martin said. “A student was dismissed for bullying last year.”

“I ask that you watch Tommy’s interactions,” Peyton said.

The room fell quiet, the educators looking at one another.

“What do you need from me at home?” Peyton asked.

Link offered her a folder containing literature on dyslexia, including some articles featuring methods to try when Tommy worked at home.

“And I certainly want you to feel welcome to visit and volunteer,” Link said, “to take part in Tommy’s education anytime you’d like.”

“I might be able to come in for an hour or two a week,” Peyton said.

Nancy had been writing something down but looked up then.

“Thank you for supporting my son,” Peyton said to the room, as the meeting came to a close.

When Link stood, the others followed suit. At the door, Nancy touched Peyton’s elbow. “May I talk to you?” she said quietly.

Peyton followed her into the hallway. Nancy waited until Link and Martin had moved out of earshot.

“Will you be coming to school every week, Peyton?”

“I’ll try. It seems like that might help.”

“I’m not sure about that. But, regardless, I just want you to know that I’m going to be cleared of having anything to do with Freddy’s problems.”

“Okay,” Peyton said.

“Do you believe me?”

“Sure.”

“Then there’s no reason for Dr. Martin to find out that somehow Freddy implicated me.”

“He won’t hear it from me,” Peyton said.

Nancy looked at her for several seconds.

“Nancy, that’s my work; this is my life. When I’m here, I’m here as a mother.”

Nancy’s eyes continued to scrutinize Peyton’s face. Finally, she nodded and moved away, her two-inch heels clicking quietly as she walked.

In her Jeep, Peyton took out her phone and called Stone Gibson.

“I need a favor,” she said.

He listened.

“That’s a big one,” he said. “What do I do if he doesn’t want to come with me?”

“Tell him he can pass on dinner and that I’ll take him to a liquor store,” she said and hung up.