We step inside, and the woman who runs it greets Paige.
“What do you love?” she asks.
“Colors,” Paige says. “Lots and lots of colors.”
And so she takes us to the side entrance where there are fairy gardens and a large selection of painted river rocks. We go home with a large case of paints and paintbrushes. Soon, there are more rocks inside the house than outside. She covers them in black railroads and red parking meters, blue treasure chests and an orange jail, complete with a “just visiting” section.
The problem is her schoolwork.
Whenever I bring it up, she shuts down completely. Stops what she’s doing, folds her little arms across her chest, and refuses to speak to me. For hours.
Unfortunately, it’s very effective. No amount of arguing, pleading, or commanding changes her behavior. I can’t even get her to look at the printed pages.
I have no means of forcing her to do the work, no way of disciplining her—not to mention, I’m not sure punishment would be the correct action to take for a grieving child.
Searching online I find that the problem is common for children who have undergone such trauma in their lives. It has nothing to do with her ability to understand the work. In fact, all signs point to the fact that she has an above average intelligence. She got As in kindergarten and can already read full sentences. She’s curious, industrious, and smart, but she’s going to flunk the first grade if something doesn’t change. And fast.
After giving a sleepy Paige a kiss on the forehead, I go to his study.
I knock, and Mr. Rochester looks up from his papers. A lamp throws his face into hard relief, making him look severe. Or maybe that’s just him.
“Come in,” he says, and I step into the room. I’m glad we aren’t in the narrow hallway again. I can still feel the echo of his touch under my chin and down my arms.
That was a strange night. It must have been some culmination of our fear for Paige. Or maybe it was because of the scratches on my hands which have begun to heal in uneven scabs.
It’s not something that will ever happen again, basically.
I’m carrying some of Paige’s unfinished schoolwork. He nods toward one of the armchairs in front of his desk, and I sit down. With the large slab of wood between us, this feels much more like an interview than the night with the kitten.
“The good news is that I’m getting along great with Paige. She’s even started wearing pants and a hoodie when we go outside to collect rocks. But with schoolwork, we really aren’t getting very far. She completely shuts down if I even mention it.”
He leans back in his chair. His eyes reflect the lamp, the room, even me—they share nothing of what he’s thinking. Of course, I can assume it isn’t good. “It’s part of your job to make sure she does her schoolwork, is it not?”
“Yes,” I say, swallowing hard.
I’m sitting here with a stack proving my failure right now. Half an inch thick of worksheets and maps and graphs empty of a six-year-old’s scribbles.
I just don’t know what to do. This wasn’t covered in the first aid training the Bassett Agency paid for me to take. I never had to do virtual learning with my foster siblings. Even in their most angry phases, I only had to get them onto the bus. It was the school’s issue from that point on.
I’ve become the bus driver, teacher, and principal all at once.
My voice is wavery as I attempt a defense. “I don’t know if this could have been avoided. Maybe it’s part of her grieving process, but I would like to point out that there are months of incomplete work. This wasn’t something new that happened when I arrived.”
He gives me a sardonic glance. “Yes, it turns out she did not quite appreciate my teaching style. All the students who took my seminar at Yale surely agree with her. That’s why I hired you. To teach her in a way that works for her.”
“I don’t think this is an issue of teaching style. She refuses to even talk about school.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You put the work in front of her, and she does it.”
I shake my head helplessly. “She doesn’t.”
“Are you asking for my permission to beat her? Permission granted, I think. A few hard straps of leather, and she’d change her tune.”
I can’t tell whether he’s joking or not. “That’s not funny.”
A ghost of a smile. “I didn’t think so at the time either. Effective, though.”
“I’m not going to spank her.” And you shouldn’t either, I add silently. The last thing that grieving child needs from her only remaining family member is physical pain.
“Maybe you’ll take a ruler to the backs of her fingers. I imagine that’ll work just as well. And it will have the side benefit of giving me something nice to look at. You wearing a prim skirt and heels, a bun in your hair, wielding a ruler would be a sight to see.”