"What the hell were you thinking, Harry? What is wrong with you?" Steven
paced his office behind Harry as he sat in a padded chair in front of
Steven's desk. It was funny just how he seemed to be in the 'prinipal's
office' more now that he was a teacher.
Harry didn't respond. His head was ringing and screamed for more painkillers along with the newly developing bruise on his face. He sort of hoped the kid had shattered a knuckle. Maybe then he would learn something.
"You just don't ask a kid to punch you," Steven said in a calmer voice and walked behind his desk.
"Look.. I don't need a lecture," He finally said, still not looking into Steven's eyes but rather staring straight ahead out a window.
"Obviously you do if you're provoking physical violence in your class," Steven replied and stopped pacing. Harry stared straight ahead with blank eyes suddenly feeling tired again. Steven stared at him waiting for some sort of response, then when he got none, stood behind his desk and leaned down on his hands obstructing Harry's straight ahead view.
"Do you have some sort of problem I should know about?" he asked and within seconds, Harry's eyes diverted to his.
"No," he answered with his stone serious face. Steven paused.
"Then there's no excuse for your behavior. I already warned you yesterday. Do you want to be transfered, is that it?"
"No," Harry answered again.
He could hardly concentrate on what Harper was blabbing on about, but couldn't, and wouldn't, show any weakness. Steven sighed and straightened up.
"I better not see you in here tomorrow," he concluded and Harry took that as the line to leave and he did just that, not saying one word to Harper, or any of his co-workers that happened to 'overhear' what had happened.
He left the office and re-entered the hallway where kids swarmed. It was the lunch hour again, and the noise of rowdy teenagers was enough to drive him insane. But he made sure to keep his stone serious face on as he weaved through the kids.
Harry was unsure why he had been so hostile the last couple of days. It wasn't like him to get angry and frustrated at his kids. He loved what he did - teach, but the fact that none of them cared about their future or - anything, made his headache worse.
Before he could think anymore, he spotted Ashley sitting near a window, as she gazed out of it, her glasses now off. Something was clutched in her hand.
Curious, Harry weaved through the few remaining students and made his way over to where she sat. Noticing he was coming over to her, she frantically tried to shove whatever she was holding into her bag as she tried to stand up quickly to walk away. Harry reached her before she could even get the zippers open.
"Hi Ashley.." he trailed off and looked from her hand to her eyes. She had been crying. He could tell by how red rimmed they were and still filled with so much sorrow. She didn't respond to his greeting but froze in putting her 'mysterious' object in her bag.
"What's in your hand?" he asked casually hoping she would just show him. A sharp pain shot through his head and he fought the urge to rub his forehead.
"Nothing," she said ever so quiet and looked down, probably feeling bad, or scared that she had finally been cornered.
Nothing? Harry had invented the word 'nothing', and he always knew that nothing was always 'something'. But he had not given Ronnie the benfit of the doubt with that one.
"Ashley, show me what's in your hand," he tried again, now with a warmer voice. He was surprised when she showed him, but was even more surprised at what it was.
An exactor knife. She had a knife. Harry didn't know what to say. Instead of going crazy as he knew Scott surely would have, he said quietly, "Can I talk to you in my classroom please?" She nodded slowly, finally shoved the knife into her bag and stood up from her spot on the floor, her head down as if she was ashamed or maybe embarrassed.
They made their way down to The Dungeon and Harry shut the door behind them. Ashley stood a few feet into the class, her bag clutched on her right shoulder. Harry walked in front of her.
"Now you want to tell me why you're carrying that around?" he asked in a calm voice. But he knew already. And she looked on, staring at a place on the floor. Hadn't he just been in the same position only a few minutes ago?
Without saying anything, he took hr left arm that lay limply at her side, and pushed her sweater up - to reveal mostly red cuts, scars, and purple bruises. A small gasp escaped his lips. Her head seemed to drop somemore. But he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to ask her if she did any of that to herself, and once she said no, she would leave.
"Who hits you Ashley?" he asked still looking at the bruises on her arm. Some recent, some faded. She didn't seem to answer for several minutes as she looked on.
"My dad," she finally said, even quieter than the first word she had mumbled aloud. Anger began to boil again, and this time he did rub his forehead with his left hand - not like it helped. So that was it. Her father got a few hits on her for God knows why, and she cut herself.
"He says I'm worthless," she surprised him by speaking once more, her voice more watery then the first 2 words. She still hadn't looked up at him though.
"Ashley.. you need to find help. You have to get out of that environment.." He told her hoping she would be brave enough to speak up to someone else. But to his suspicions, she yanked her arm out of Harry's hold and pulled her sweater back down to her wrists.
"No!" she exclaimed and this time looked at him in the eye. They tried to look angry, but had not succeeded. She was scared. He could sense the fear and isolation with her.
"Ashley, what he does to you is wrong.. what you do to yourself is wrong.. you can get help.." He said sotly, having full intention of being the one who would find her the help.
"You don't understand! Nobody does! I don't want help! I just want to die!" she yelled now, the pain evident in her eyes, and before Harry could say anything in response, she had thrown the door open and was running down the hall, bag still clutched to her shoulder.
"Dammit.." Harry swore to himself, put his left hand at his waist and looked at the floor, his other hand rubbing his aching head.
Harry didn't respond. His head was ringing and screamed for more painkillers along with the newly developing bruise on his face. He sort of hoped the kid had shattered a knuckle. Maybe then he would learn something.
"You just don't ask a kid to punch you," Steven said in a calmer voice and walked behind his desk.
"Look.. I don't need a lecture," He finally said, still not looking into Steven's eyes but rather staring straight ahead out a window.
"Obviously you do if you're provoking physical violence in your class," Steven replied and stopped pacing. Harry stared straight ahead with blank eyes suddenly feeling tired again. Steven stared at him waiting for some sort of response, then when he got none, stood behind his desk and leaned down on his hands obstructing Harry's straight ahead view.
"Do you have some sort of problem I should know about?" he asked and within seconds, Harry's eyes diverted to his.
"No," he answered with his stone serious face. Steven paused.
"Then there's no excuse for your behavior. I already warned you yesterday. Do you want to be transfered, is that it?"
"No," Harry answered again.
He could hardly concentrate on what Harper was blabbing on about, but couldn't, and wouldn't, show any weakness. Steven sighed and straightened up.
"I better not see you in here tomorrow," he concluded and Harry took that as the line to leave and he did just that, not saying one word to Harper, or any of his co-workers that happened to 'overhear' what had happened.
He left the office and re-entered the hallway where kids swarmed. It was the lunch hour again, and the noise of rowdy teenagers was enough to drive him insane. But he made sure to keep his stone serious face on as he weaved through the kids.
Harry was unsure why he had been so hostile the last couple of days. It wasn't like him to get angry and frustrated at his kids. He loved what he did - teach, but the fact that none of them cared about their future or - anything, made his headache worse.
Before he could think anymore, he spotted Ashley sitting near a window, as she gazed out of it, her glasses now off. Something was clutched in her hand.
Curious, Harry weaved through the few remaining students and made his way over to where she sat. Noticing he was coming over to her, she frantically tried to shove whatever she was holding into her bag as she tried to stand up quickly to walk away. Harry reached her before she could even get the zippers open.
"Hi Ashley.." he trailed off and looked from her hand to her eyes. She had been crying. He could tell by how red rimmed they were and still filled with so much sorrow. She didn't respond to his greeting but froze in putting her 'mysterious' object in her bag.
"What's in your hand?" he asked casually hoping she would just show him. A sharp pain shot through his head and he fought the urge to rub his forehead.
"Nothing," she said ever so quiet and looked down, probably feeling bad, or scared that she had finally been cornered.
Nothing? Harry had invented the word 'nothing', and he always knew that nothing was always 'something'. But he had not given Ronnie the benfit of the doubt with that one.
"Ashley, show me what's in your hand," he tried again, now with a warmer voice. He was surprised when she showed him, but was even more surprised at what it was.
An exactor knife. She had a knife. Harry didn't know what to say. Instead of going crazy as he knew Scott surely would have, he said quietly, "Can I talk to you in my classroom please?" She nodded slowly, finally shoved the knife into her bag and stood up from her spot on the floor, her head down as if she was ashamed or maybe embarrassed.
They made their way down to The Dungeon and Harry shut the door behind them. Ashley stood a few feet into the class, her bag clutched on her right shoulder. Harry walked in front of her.
"Now you want to tell me why you're carrying that around?" he asked in a calm voice. But he knew already. And she looked on, staring at a place on the floor. Hadn't he just been in the same position only a few minutes ago?
Without saying anything, he took hr left arm that lay limply at her side, and pushed her sweater up - to reveal mostly red cuts, scars, and purple bruises. A small gasp escaped his lips. Her head seemed to drop somemore. But he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to ask her if she did any of that to herself, and once she said no, she would leave.
"Who hits you Ashley?" he asked still looking at the bruises on her arm. Some recent, some faded. She didn't seem to answer for several minutes as she looked on.
"My dad," she finally said, even quieter than the first word she had mumbled aloud. Anger began to boil again, and this time he did rub his forehead with his left hand - not like it helped. So that was it. Her father got a few hits on her for God knows why, and she cut herself.
"He says I'm worthless," she surprised him by speaking once more, her voice more watery then the first 2 words. She still hadn't looked up at him though.
"Ashley.. you need to find help. You have to get out of that environment.." He told her hoping she would be brave enough to speak up to someone else. But to his suspicions, she yanked her arm out of Harry's hold and pulled her sweater back down to her wrists.
"No!" she exclaimed and this time looked at him in the eye. They tried to look angry, but had not succeeded. She was scared. He could sense the fear and isolation with her.
"Ashley, what he does to you is wrong.. what you do to yourself is wrong.. you can get help.." He said sotly, having full intention of being the one who would find her the help.
"You don't understand! Nobody does! I don't want help! I just want to die!" she yelled now, the pain evident in her eyes, and before Harry could say anything in response, she had thrown the door open and was running down the hall, bag still clutched to her shoulder.
"Dammit.." Harry swore to himself, put his left hand at his waist and looked at the floor, his other hand rubbing his aching head.