The Girl in the Third Row

She sat in the middle of the third row back.

I was visiting the class for an observation assignment. A substitute teacher was filling in that day and half the class was turned around in their seats chatting with friends, the other half slouched low in their chairs, staring down at forbidden cell phones in their laps. They weren’t fooling me. It’s not hard to notice the flickering glow from the screens reflecting off their oily adolescent faces. 

The noise level in the room was annoying, so I hunkered in my seat, arms folded across my chest, to watch the show. I wouldn’t get any work done anyway. It would be the equivalent of trying to study for a foreign language test sitting in the middle of the New York Stock Exchange trading floor. 

Someone threw a pink beveled eraser my way. It bounced off my knee and tumbled to the floor. I kicked it under my chair.

I couldn’t blame the sub, who sat at a desk in the back of the room shuffling through random papers, looking appropriately busy. The guy made less than ninety bucks a day to deal with over a hundred and fifty hyperenergetic eighth-graders for eight hours. Personally, I risked my life being bounced along with this crowd trying to make it to my next class. I settled deeper into the unyielding plastic chair. Thirty-six minutes left until the bell set us all free.

That’s when I noticed her.

She sat quietly: an oddity in the chaos that surrounded her. Her eyes fixed on the desk in front of her—an empty desk. Not a book or a gum wrapper or even a delinquent’s name etched into its particleboard surface. What was she looking at? I wondered.

Her fixed stare was trance-like…vacant. Several strands of brown hair draped lazily over one eye, her hands cupped together in her lap. The boy to her right slapped another guy’s rear as he slid past him. A huddle of students nearby erupted in laughter as a half-hearted “Settle down!” came from the sub still parked at the back. The girl glanced up and shook her head, looking unimpressed. Her gaze dropped back to the desk.

She must be tired, I thought…or about to throw up. Thirteen and fourteen-year-olds don’t ignore an opportunity to goof off unless something’s wrong. She must have sensed my stare because her eyes flicked to mine before shifting to the Declaration of Independence poster above my head. In that brief passing, I saw a sheen of moisture in her eyes.

That was the only distress signal I needed.

There’s an unspoken rule understood by the adults that roam the halls of a middle school campus: Never embarrass a student if you can help it. It would be kin to throwing them into the middle of a crowded shopping mall–naked. Unforgivable…

I slid a piece of notebook paper out of the satchel at my feet. Drawing it onto my lap, I hastily folded it in half. Then I stood up. 

Dodging a basketball that had rolled into the center aisle, I pressed through a maze of desks and over gangly legs to reach her. Dangling the paper in front of her, I said loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Can you run this to the office secretary for me?” and tucked the folded page into her outstretched hand. Maneuvering my way back to my seat, I didn’t wait for an answer.

She looked at the folded paper—her face a mask of curiosity. Thankfully, she didn’t open it because, well…it was obviously blank. Slowly, she stood and made her way to the front. Glancing my way once more, she fluttered out the door. The sub didn’t notice—not that he was watching anyway. (Don’t get me wrong, most subs are great.)

I wasted no time.

Throwing my satchel over my shoulder, I slipped out behind her. 

“Hey!” I called, catching up. Reaching over, I plucked the paper out of her hand. “Never mind that,” I said, jamming it down into my sweater pocket.

“I actually wanted to check on you,” I said. “Are you OK?” Was it just me or did she look like she was about to bolt? I thought.

Her wariness was palpable. “Yeah… I’m fine. Why?”

I led her over to a sheltered wall by the library—more privacy there. If she wasn’t freaked out before, she certainly had to be now. I calculated that we had about twelve minutes before the bell brought swarms of bodies down on us. I had to talk fast.

“I thought you looked kinda down in class,” I told her. “I can tell something is bothering you. Want to talk?”

It was the “looking-down” thing she did that gave it away. 

I waited.

“Um, yeah, well, it’s been a tough week,” she started, then paused. I thought that was the end of it, but she went on. “My parents split up three weeks ago.” Her eyes fixed on the soccer field behind me. “So…now I spend weekends at my dad’s apartment.” A deep sigh. “It’s just, I don’t know… weird.” Her gaze dropped to the concrete between our feet, the loose strands of brown hair now forming a curtain over her face.

“My stuff is all over the place. I can’t remember what to bring when I go to my dad’s. I’m always forgetting clothes or my backpack and things for school on Monday. I don’t know…” Her words trailed off, but I filled in the blanks. 

I started doubting myself, almost wishing that I’d stayed in the noisy classroom. Suddenly, this was way over my head. 

OK…breathe, I lectured myself. Did I learn about this in any professional development workshops? I raced through the memory catalog in my mind. Nope. No pings bounced back. Well, I concluded, I AM a mother. Let’s draw on that experience.

Her arms were cinched tight around her waist. Reaching out to touch her sleeve, I whispered, “I’m sorry, hon. It’s hard when things fall apart and we don’t know what to do, especially when we have no control over them. You probably feel pretty confused right now.” I tilted my head to catch her eyes under the wall of hair. “Have you told your parents how you feel?” 

How am I doing here? I agonized. Was that the right thing to say?

We talked for a few more minutes before she remembered that she needed to grab her backpack from the room before her next class. I encouraged her to talk to the school counselor and told her I was here if she just needed to vent. I avoid hugging middle-schoolers (another unwritten rule around here) but gave her hand a quick squeeze before she jogged off. 

Nothing was solved that day. I didn’t rescue her from the stormy waters she was forced to tread. But I got the sense that we both felt better after that little talk.

The regular teacher returned the next day and the pandemonium settled to more comfortable decibels. A few cell phones were confiscated as a reminder of the rules, but most everyone settled back into a comfortable routine. 

Even for my new friend in the third row. 

OK, “friend” might be reading into it a bit much…

She didn’t acknowledge me openly—this was middle school, after all—but she’d smile when I caught her eye and we’d give a little wave when I saw her between classes. 

I didn’t give her name but mentioned the situation to the school counselor as we walked to a staff meeting the following week. She didn’t share any names either, but her knowing smile gave me all I needed to connect the dots.

“I think we’re on the same page,” she said, turning to me. “I’m confident that she will be all right. I’m glad you noticed she was struggling and reached out to her.”

Me too, I thought as we continued to our meeting. These kids aren’t just rowdies who hide Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in their hoodie pockets and think we don’t notice the telltale orange stains on their fingers. They face hard experiences and struggle with real issues that even many adults don’t know how to deal with. 

Searching for an empty seat at the already-packed staff meeting, I almost hummed a happy tune. But I stopped myself. You don’t sing or hum at a middle school staff meeting. I’m sure that’s another one of those unspoken rules. 

Related blog post: “The Invincibility of Our Youth”

(This story is fictitious and the characters do not represent real people.)