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B ob and I are stand- ing in Charlie’s empty classroom, on time, hands in our coat pockets, waiting for Ms. Gavin. Every bone in my body doesn’t want to be here. However long this meeting lasts, I’ll probably be late for work and can already foresee chasing the rest of the day and never catching it. I’ve got a miserable cold, and I forgot to down a shot of DayQuil before we rushed out the door. And I really don’t want to hear whatever it is Ms. Gavin is going to tell us.
with attached chairs that I remember from my elementary school days, this room has four, low round tables with five chairs arranged around each, like little dining tables. Ideal for socializing, I’d say, not for learning. But my nice long list of things that the inept and unqualified Ms. Gavin is doing wrong ends with that single, lame observation.
“He also doesn’t participate well in activities that re- quire taking turns. The other kids tend to shy away from playing games with him because he won’t follow the rules. He’s impulsive.” Now my heart is breaking.
phetamine, isn’t it? We’re going to drug our seven-year- old son so he doesn’t fall behind in school. The thought flushes the blood out of my brain, as if my circulation won’t support the idea, and my head and fingers go numb. Ms. Gavin keeps talking, but she sounds muffled and far away. I don’t want this problem or its solution.