Chapter Two - The World of Special Ed

The term "special ed school" dredged up all my prejudices, like ghouls, to confront me. When I thought "special ed" or, more precisely, "Asperger's", I imagined institutional buildings reeking of ammonia and urine, cramped, airless classrooms of children withdrawn into their inner fantasy worlds, boys prowling dim corridors muttering to themselves as they glanced downwards or at the wall to avoid eye contact, skirting away if anyone neared. How, I wondered, would such a place help my daughter integrate better in the "real world"? Wouldn't she be better off exposed to the boisterous enthusiasm of "normal-functioning" children rather than surrounded by children all more socially-impaired than herself? After all, if she was basically functioning in general ed, wasn't it a big leap then to expose her to children with severe emotional problems, some perhaps who exhibited violent behavior? While we knew our little pipsqueak of a girl, with all her distraction issues, could be a handful to teach, she had never been--in school, anyway--even remotely aggressive.

The year before, I had abandoned the alternative school search partly because the very idea of special ed made me weepy. Making my way down the list of schools the special ed consultant had given me, more than once I had had to hang up peremptorily before my voice gave way to tears. I could not bring myself to explain that my daughter was "emotionally fragile," as the education lawyer had coached ("Don't say Asperger's."). The list was scribbled over with reasons why each school was not appropriate for Sasha. This one was for the learning disabled, this one for bright kids with learning disabilities like dyslexia but no social or behavior issues. One school was solely for children with Asperger's (which engendered the nightmarish picture I described above). There were schools for the emotionally disturbed, for the language-impaired, a residential school in Connecticut. This one was rumored to have a kooky director. That one, too. Next to each school name, I'd marked an emphatic "X".

Now, a year later and May--late in the game for touring and applying to schools, much less private special ed ones--I pulled out my scribbled-over list, blinked away my nightmarish imaginings and steeled my voice as I dialed the numbers.

Only two schools ended up being viable options. One, which we had almost sent Sasha to the previous year, was a private preparatory academy in Bay Ridge, twenty minutes drive from our house. Actually general ed but with very small classes and a philosophy of "nurturing" and being open to intelligent children with "learning differences," the school fed Sid's and my hope (desire) that Sasha was really, at heart, a general ed kid. However, there was a major drawback. When I asked the assistant educational director about occupational therapy, she responded, "What's that?" The school had no support services. This meant that Sasha's after-school hours would be taken up with occupational therapy, individual therapy and social skills groups, and that I, with Sasha's brother in tow, would be shuttling her from one place to another. We would need a second car, no small financial matter--or aggravational one, given our city’s severe parking regulations. Not to mention the expense of paying for the services out-of-pocket then fighting our health insurance provider for partial reimbursement.

The other possibility, "Hillside", a therapeutic school, provided individual therapy, group therapy, social skills instruction, occupational therapy and speech therapy, and followed a behavior modification program. Teachers were trained not only in their specific disciplines but in special ed as well. Academics were rigorous, with students grouped with others of similar intelligence, and departmentalized classes so each student could be appropriately challenged or supported in each subject. Hillside boasted a rich arts and science curriculum, not to mention physical education or swimming every day. Classes were small, twelve students with a teacher and two assistant teachers, and went through twelfth grade, which meant no angst-ridden transitions to a new middle school or high school. If (when, in Ozzie's and my mind) Sasha was ready to be mainstreamed, Hillside would aid in the process. The place seemed ideal but for one thing: Ozzie and I were still having trouble with the idea of Sasha going to school with problem children.

I forced myself to call. This I managed only by continually telling myself that we were just going to look, that was all. It wouldn't hurt to look.

In the first few minutes of the tour, my image of muttering boys roaming dim hallways was happily shattered. This was a well-run private school, with excellent facilities, intelligent and warm professionals and active, engaged children. No one was having a nervous breakdown, pacing or rocking rhythmically in a corner; no one banging his head against a wall. The kids in Sasha's class would be, without exception, extremely bright with social skills issues. The boy/girl ratio was astonishing: seven boys and five girls! (Another reason I found special ed difficult to contemplate was that, for mysterious reasons, girls in such schools were few and far between. For equally mysterious reasons, this is changing, but when Sasha was diagnosed, only one out of every ten autistics was female. In several schools I researched, if we were lucky, there might be one other girl in the class. We drove home from Hillside feeling, for the first time, encouraged, excited even. We had found a place for Sasha.

Of course, we were blessedly naïve about the rigors and politics of private special ed admissions, far more competitive than even prestigious Manhattan preparatory schools. For every seat in such a school, there can be 400+ equally needy applicants. We assumed that because Sasha was intelligent, high-functioning, part-Asian and a girl, she had a keen advantage. More jaded now, I believe the one critical factor in her gaining admission was having the right lawyer. In any case, the following day, Hillside's director called: Sasha was in. The acceptance, often the most difficult hurdle on the route to special ed, was, in our case, the easiest.

To fund or not to fund--that is the Board of Ed's question
We had the acceptance, now we needed funding. Our education laws give each student the right to a free, appropriate education. If the parent(s) proves the student's needs are not being met in a general ed environment, then the state must pay for special ed. Hillside, like the other special ed schools on my list, was a publicly-funded private school. The state paid for each child determined to need such a placement. Having a 12:1:2 student-teacher-assistant teacher ratio and all those support services, as you may imagine, comes at a dear price: twenty-five thousand dollars, plus four thousand more for transportation, per year (considered a bargain by local standards). As you may imagine, the Board of Ed doesn't hand out such checks blithely. We needed to prove Hillside was the most appropriate setting for Sasha.

"Who's going to write letters?" our lawyer asked. The psychiatrist, the therapist and the neuropsychologist all supported our petition. But what about Sasha's teacher? Ms. Eaton, I explained, was adamantly opposed to Sasha moving to special ed. No good, the lawyer said. The school's support was crucial.

"Tell her how worried you are," the lawyer urged me, "how much stress Sasha's under, how terrible things are at home. Cry. Beg her to help your daughter. Whatever it takes."
At pick-up that day, I asked Ms. Eaton when I might meet with her.

"I'm busy--maybe next week," she said guardedly.

Already, she knew. Hours before, the lawyer had faxed the Committee on Special Ed (CSE) a request to review Sasha's case. Word travels fast. "It's urgent," I told Ms. Eaton.

"I'll get back to you," she ended the conversation.

That night, I stayed up till 4 a.m. drafting her a letter. I expressed our love for the school and how we'd miss it, how much we believed in public education. I strongly iterated what a wonderful teacher Ms. Eaton was, that she had helped Sasha immensely but that now, if she was to thrive, she needed a program with more emotional and social support. I brought up Sasha's anxiety, her nightmares, her after-school tantrums and difficulty with homework, her lack of friends. Perhaps the most painful issue of all was that of medication. We hated that our eight year old was taking three medications--for anxiety, for attention and for sleep--in order for her to function in school. We hoped that in the proper environment, she could be weaned off medication. After reading such a heartfelt outpouring, Ms. Eaton, if she wanted what was best for Sasha, would surely support our petition for funding.

The next morning, by luck, the school's literary gazette, which I had helped produce, arrived from the printer's, ready for distribution to the students. I used this as an excuse to visit Sasha's class. Hands shaking, I delivered my letter to Ms. Eaton. She told me to come back in a few minutes, after she'd had time to read it. I busied myself delivering literary gazettes to other classes. When I returned to Ms. Eaton's room, she said, "If I talk to you now, I'll start crying." In front of the class, we both started to tear up. I asked her to please call me. For all intensive purposes, that was the end of my relationship with Ms. Eaton.

She did not call. I left messages on her voicemail at school and at her home. Neither did I hear from her over the weekend. I started to wonder what her tears had meant. Had she agreed with my letter or been angered by it?

Though the teacher had always brought the class outside for pick-up, for the next several days, the assistant teacher brought the children out. Ms. Eaton, she claimed, was busy. I did not understand. I had always had a good relationship with Ms. Eaton. Why she would now avoid me, and on so important an issue, even if she had a difference of opinion about Sasha's needs? Months later, I learned that the school had used the same tactics, having someone take over the teacher's pick-up duties, with another parent who was trying to obtain funding for her child with AS. In any case, who was I to speak to, if not Sasha's teacher?

A friend of mine, farther along in the process of applying for funding (at a different school) for her son with Pervasive Developmental Disorder (PDD), had some ideas. Her child's teacher had insisted her son was doing fine; it was the specialists (the art, music and gym teachers, etc.) who gave her a clearer picture of her son's difficulties. She recommended I speak to everyone who worked with Sasha. Since the lawyer had told me it was essential to gain the school's support, I decided to try, but I had never contacted any such people before. Whenever problems arose, Ms. Eaton, with a bear-like protection of our daughter, insisted she would handle the situation herself.

It was then that an incident that had occurred five months earlier, resurfaced:
Around Thanksgiving, the school had called to inform me that Sasha had been kicked out of P.E. and sent to the principal's office. The next day, on my way to the gym to investigate the matter, I was intercepted by Ms. Eaton. She explained that Sasha had insulted the P.E. teachers by telling them that, because of her Asperger's Syndrome, she didn't need to take P.E. She also informed me that Sasha never wore sneakers on gym days and hadn't participated all year. She sat on the bench or wandered around the perimeter of the gym, often whistling or making other disruptive noises. I told Ms. Eaton I'd speak to the gym teachers, but she convinced me it would be best if she handled the matter herself. Thereafter, we sent Sasha to school in sneakers on gym days and, hearing nothing to the contrary, assumed that the matter was resolved.
Fast forward to late April, only a few days before I gave Ms. Eaton my urgent letter. Sasha came home choking with tears. During P.E., feeling cold, she went to retrieve her coat from the hall, and when she returned, both P.E. teachers yelled at her, "Get out! We don't want you here!" and sent her to the guidance counsellor. The next day I found one of the teachers in the gym. She told me that Sasha had not participated in gym all year, that she continually disrupted the class and that she didn't respond when called. Further, she added, Sasha used her Asperger's as an excuse. She recommended Sasha take Adapted Physical Education (APE), taught in groups of three or four, for students who couldn't handle the stimulation of a large gym class.

Next I went to the Guidance Counselor, since the P.E. teachers had sent Sasha to her. She was sympathetic, and owned that back in November when Sasha had first said she had Asperger's, the teachers should have investigated further, seen if Sasha had an IEP (Individualized Education Program, for students receiving services). When I questioned the school's appropriateness for Sasha, the Guidance Counselor cautioned me that Ms. Eaton and the CT disagreed with me but allowed that she didn't know Sasha well enough to comment herself, but she could see that she was "barely holding herself together when the gym teachers yelled at her." She acknowledged that while kids who act out are more obvious problems, Sasha's tendency to withdraw could also be of concern. She also admitted that the school didn't yet know much about AS, but if I could recommend any tapes or books on the subject she'd be happy to look at them. I should understand, though, that progress takes time. As for getting Sasha APE, I needed a note from the pediatrician specifying Sasha's need for a small gym class. As with anything else in public education, this was but a step in the process. Next came evaluations, recommendations, approvals. In the meantime, I had a daughter who curled up in a ball if I so much as mentioned gym. I arranged for Sasha to have her OT sessions during gym time until APE could be arranged, which probably wouldn't be until the next fall.

The gym incident highlighted some of the problems for a special needs child in a general ed environment. A second grade teacher might reasonably assume students will reliably report to their parents the weekly schedule and the materials required. For a child with organizational and communication issues, this assumption lacks understanding of the child's impairments, as well as the parents' need for information. While, admittedly, it should have occurred to me to inquire earlier, I had been ignorant of Sasha's need for sneakers and even what day she had gym. I certainly had no idea that she had not participated all year.

Further, Sasha was deemed insolent for using her AS as an excuse and, by extension, her parents were at fault for allowing her to use such an excuse (In our defense, we always--perhaps even too insistently--encourage her to participate despite her discomfort.). Now, as someone who, day in and day out, deals with Sasha's unnerving intelligence coupled with her emotional immaturity, disregard for rules, impulsivity, volubility, sensitivity to loud noises, particularly yelling (other than her own), I can fully understand why a teacher's buttons might get pushed when an eight-year-old, who has been wandering about whistling and ignoring him while he is trying to run a class, cites some obscure disorder that many adults have never even heard of. But at the same time, AS is a legitimate excuse. The noise and fast pace of the gym class overwhelm Sasha yet she is unable to express this appropriately to the teachers.

A few days later, still unsuccessful in reaching Ms. Eaton, I again visited the Guidance Counselor. I told her that Sasha had been accepted to a therapeutic school and that we were seeking funding. She invited me to go ahead and ask the specialists for letters. I had wanted Ms. Eaton's blessing, but the Guidance Counselor's would have to do.

I spoke to the gym teacher, the math games teacher, the art teacher, the art studio teacher, the music teacher, the school nurse and the assistant teacher. Person after person told me that Sasha would not participate, would not accept the choices given her, was unable to go along with group activities or interact with other children, that she wandered around searching for "treasures" on the floor, that she was inappropriate and would not accept instruction. I heard my child referred to as "manipulative", "insolent", "disrespectful", and (again) that she used her Asperger's "as an excuse" not to do things. Two teachers said that a special ed school was better "because mainstream teachers don't have specific training in all special ed needs." The math games teacher said that "having an aide in the class can sometimes help"--here she focussed directly at me--"but you have to watch that the person is there for your child and not helping the whole class." Immediately my mind flashed on the CT leading the reading group. She added, "I know Ms. Eaton says Sasha's bright in math and all but...she is not at the level she should be."
Some teachers found Sasha charming, some found her a nuisance. Every single one noted problems Ms. Eaton had never informed me of. Everyone agreed that a therapeutic school, specifically Summit, was a good idea. Everyone, that is, except Ms. Eaton and the C.T., and possibly the O.T. Everyone else had agreed to write letters, but these three people were key.
My head buzzing with all the simultaneously hurtful and validating descriptions of my child, I returned to the Guidance Counselor. I asked if she remembered our conversation the week before when she'd said that the school didn't yet know anything about Asperger's. Yes, she said, again apologetic. "Would you be willing to write a letter to that effect?" She straightened up and narrowed her eyes. No, she couldn't see writing such a letter; this wasn't anything people didn't already know. In any case, she reiterated, Ms. Eaton believed that Sasha didn't have any problems. I severely regretted my boldness. I had gone too far and lost the Guidance Counselor's sympathy.

I left more phone messages for Ms. Eaton. She finally returned a message at three o'clock on the nose (when I was picking Sasha up from school), that I could meet with her and the principal. Since the principal was to be there, our lawyer told us to bring Sasha's therapist as well. Now I tried to reach (unsuccessfully) both the teacher and principal. A couple of weeks later, the principal left a message at 3:02 p.m., when, of course, I was at pick-up.

Memorial Day weekend approached. I informed Ms. Eaton that Sasha would be out that Thursday and Friday as we were going away for the long weekend. When we returned, an automated message on our machine stated that our child had been absent two or more days that week, that it was very important for children to attend school regularly, and that we should see the school guidance counselor. When I asked Ms. Eaton why we had received such a message, she said she didn't know anything about it; she'd been out Thursday and Friday herself. I was willing to dismiss this as an honest oversight.

But I was starting to understand that I was persona non grata in the school. When I saw Sasha's teachers in the halls, they ducked around corners, or rushed past saying they couldn't talk. I assumed this was because they hadn't yet written the letters I'd requested. When I finally confronted them directly, each teacher told me that the principal had expressly told them not to write any letters regarding Sasha. Two people did write letters, the nurse and the arts studio teacher. Either the administration had neglected to warn them, or they had written the letters anyway, out of good conscience, risking reprimand.

The Best in Public Education

At this point, I should add that Sasha's school has the best reputation in our neighborhood, and even in the city as a whole is seen as the best in public schools--progressive, upper middle class, multi-cultural, with a prized principal, award-winning "Bank Street" teachers and a high-powered PTA. There are special programs like music, art studio, science, computers, a literary gazette and an arts calendar. There are clothing drives, food drives, penny harvests, bake sales, wrapping paper sales, carnivals, crafts fairs, school-wide skating parties. There is "Meet the Author" and "Meet the Scientist", when parents in those professions speak to classes. Some families choose this school over private school (not just because of cost). People use false addresses to get in. We ourselves rented an apartment in the catchment area so Sasha could go there. I was an avid volunteer. I organized the book room, typeset the literary gazette, helped at book fairs, baked cookies for bake sales. I donated time. I donated money. I escorted on class trips. I participated in the school's monthly "Parents as Reading Partners." Wherever I go in my neighborhood, I recognize other school parents, staff, children. It was a community not only for my daughter but for me, my husband, and even my son, who accompanied us every day to drop-off and pick-up and made joyful use of the school's playground.

By and large, we had had a good school experience. Sasha had a rough kindergarten year with a teacher "of the Old School," who yelled a lot and put a premium on conformity (not Sasha's strong suit). The principal would not switch teachers (she NEVER, EVER does), but promised to take Sasha's learning style into account in the selection of her first grade teacher. Which she did. The first grade teacher, Ms. Fabio, was a dream: sweet, nurturing, energetic. She "got" Sasha and Sasha returned her love by producing reams of artwork, stories, journals, reading reports. Ms. Fabio kept a special box of books for Sasha and challenged her with extra writing assignments and grammar worksheets, which Sasha loved. From spring break until the next September, Sasha grieved the upcoming loss of her first grade teacher and had daily anxiety attacks about who her new teacher would be. Ozzie and I worried about Sasha's ability to attach to a new teacher. Ms. Fabio suggested that Sasha might do better in a private school. Further discussions about this were in whispers when the class was not around since the principal, upon hearing the teacher's recommendation, severely castigated her, reminding that she worked for the Board of Ed and could not recommend that a child leave public education. But since Sasha loved her school and was doing well there at the time, we decided to keep her where she was and trust the principal to again choose someone as fabulous as Ms. Fabio.

Enter Ms. Eaton.

Her first day of second grade, Sasha came out of school beaming. Ms. Eaton had given everyone presents. Ms. Eaton had ice cream parties every Friday. Ms. Eaton took the class to the movies. What's more, Ms. Eaton lived on our block. We passed her house every day, going to and from school. Sasha no longer loved Ms. Fabio or remembered that she had loved her. She only loved Ms. Eaton.

And Ms. Eaton loved Sasha. She never missed an opportunity to tell me Sasha had written something wonderful, had drawn a beautiful picture, had told the class a story. "She's just like me!" Ms. Eaton would tell me, time and again. "Just like me." Ms. Eaton attended Sasha's birthday party! Another friend of mine, also a teacher at the school, said, "I have never heard of a teacher doing that. Never."

Before Sasha had started second grade, one parent, upon learning who Sasha would have, commented, "Oh yes, Ms. Eaton: the teacher the kids love and the parents hate." Why is that? I wondered. I knew Ms. Eaton from when I had organized the book room in previous years and had been immediately impressed by her energy and her clear devotion to the children. When the class was learning to tell time, Ms. Eaton bought every child a Lego watch--with her own money. She had even adopted one of her former students. When I would compliment Ms. Eaton on her attention to her students, she'd say, "I want them to enjoy second grade. They'll always be able to look back and remember this year. I just want them to have fun."

I especially admired Ms. Eaton's general philosophy of overlooking children's deficits and playing to their strengths. Whenever I raised concerns about Sasha, Ms. Eaton assured me she was doing fine, that she did her work, that everyone in the class loved her and she got along with everyone. I knew Ms. Eaton wasn't the most challenging teacher academically, but since she was nurturing Sasha's friendships this more than balanced things. But worries still nagged me: Sasha seemed to have forgotten math facts that she'd had mastered in first grade, and she was becoming increasingly more resistant to writing. Ms. Eaton assured me Sasha's math and writing skills were fine. I tried to rest easy, knowing that Sasha was bright enough to be able to spend a year concentrating on socialization without getting behind. But in that regard, when I intimated that the C.T. might not be helping Sasha with social or organizational skills, Ms. Eaton reassured me the C.T. was very experienced and dedicated. "You worry too much. Sasha is fine." I hoped she was right. Maybe this would be the year that Sasha was finally showing signs of maturation, that we wouldn't have to dread every school conference. In Sasha's distinguished school career, since age two and a half, and despite Sasha's high intelligence, there had been more stings than praise.

Meeting with the Principal

Our regard for this community, and Ms. Eaton's opinion made it that much harder for Ozzie and I to explore what we suspected, but didn't want to believe, about Sasha. We were more than happy to hear otherwise. It is now early June and Ozzie and I still have not met with Ms. Eaton and the principal. On a Sunday at 9 p.m., the principal calls to say she could meet that Tuesday at noon though she doesn't know if Ms. Eaton is available. That Tuesday being a half-day and having no advance notice to arrange childcare or see if the therapist could attend, I decline the invitation. I remind the principal that I had originally called the meeting with Ms. Eaton so I expected her to attend as well. The next available time the principal can meet is the afternoon of June 20th. This happened to be the day of Sasha's CSE Review (to determine whether or not she would receive funding to attend a private therapeutic school), but the Review is in the morning, so I accept the principal's meeting time. By now it is clear that the meeting will not be to determine how the school can meet Sasha's needs but a diplomatic obligation in which both parties must be careful not to say anything incriminating. I arrange babysitting for my son. My husband gets the day off of work. Sasha's therapist agrees to attend both the CSE Review and the meeting with the principal.

On June 18, two days before the CSE Review and the long-awaited meeting with Ms. Phillips, I had what you might call a bad day. In the morning, I learn that the CSE review was cancelled because Ms. Eaton could not attend. Though it had been scheduled for weeks, and all parties notified in writing, Ms. Eaton suddenly notified CSE that she would not be able to attend since the second grade picnic was on that day. When I spoke to Ms. Eaton, I said that I understood she wouldn't be able to attend the CSE Review, but I wanted to make sure she would be at the afternoon meeting with the principal. She had been unaware of the meeting, she said, but in any case, the second grade picnic was an all-day event (I hadn't received notice of this) and she was organizing it. The meeting was out of the question.

Then, fifteen minutes before I had go pick up Sasha, the school nurse called. That morning the P.E. teacher noted suspicious bruises on Sasha's arms and legs. I would need to get a doctor's note within three days. I thought this was a joke. But I got off the phone from the nurse and immediately contacted the hemotologist I had taken Sasha to the previous year precisely because of easy bruising and frequent nosebleeds, and because several members of my family have a clotting factor deficiency. I picked up Sasha from school and brought her directly to her pediatrician. He had her undress and examined her head to toe, back to front, while I stood there numb with horror. The doctor determined that the bruising on Sasha's shins was consistent with normal child's play.

Two days later, a day ahead of the deadline, I returned to the nurse with not one, but three doctors' notes. As triple insurance, in addition to the hemotologist and the pediatrician, I also got a note from Sasha's former pediatrician to prove that Ozzie and I had previously been concerned about bruising, nosebleeds, and a possible clotting factor deficiency (Thankfully, Sasha does not suffer from the latter.), and that we had followed up on these concerns. The nurse was apologetic. She confided to me that she had told the principal ahead of time that ours was not a case of abuse. "I know," the principal had said.

The lawyer said not to let the school's request bother me. I never brought it up with either the principal or Ms. Eaton. The matter was quickly resolved and, as far as everyone else was concerned, over. But I hadn't even begun to process it. The emotional effects reverberated and expanded for months afterward. If I followed the incident to one of its possible natural conclusions, I would be overwhelmed by the terrifying fragility of parenthood. My child could be taken away from me. In this case, it was because I tried to get my daughter help that I was now suspect.

Six weeks after my original request for a simple meeting with Ms. Eaton, Ozzie, Sasha's therapist and I finally met, not with Ms. Eaton but with the principal. We were all polite. Ms. Phillips said that Sasha was progressing academically, participated, was a part of things, that her difficulties were mild and that the school could meet her needs. She had an appropriate teacher in mind (she wouldn't say who). The therapist said that Sasha needed intensive socio-emotional training and that without intervention she would be at a higher risk for depression and substance abuse in adolescence. The principal cautioned us that Summit, the school we were planning to send Sasha to, was for "acting out" kids. This was the exact same warning I had received several times from the guidance counsellor. Here were two educators, a principal and a counsellor, both prejudiced against Summit (and therapeutic schools in general) though neither had ever set foot in the school. It is not only parents who have fears to overcome about special ed. In the end, Ms. Phillips said she understood how difficult the decision was for us and she wished us well.

Though I was terse and polite, as our lawyer had schooled me to be, I was angry and hurt that this school that I had held in such high regard, and that my daughter so loved, had not made more of an effort to work with us, that they had in fact blocked our efforts for communication and truth about our daughter.

The next day I saw the guidance counsellor, Ms. Sweeney, who again asked, "Are you sure you want to send Sasha to Summit?"

With tears in my eyes (not an unfrequent event that week), I explained, "I don't want to send my child to a therapeutic school. No parent would."

She responded, "That's not true." Here she looked at me directly. "Some parents are invested in keeping their child sick."

My head felt like an echo chamber. "I guess some people in this school feel that's the case with me," I said.

Ms. Sweeney crisply responded, "I didn't say that."

I walked away in a trance, gears in my brain click-clicking away. How naïve I had been! I had never considered that the counsellor, the principal, Ms. Eaton, and other teachers, had discussed not only Sasha, but me. I was the problem.

To be continued...

Next up: The CSE Review

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