The Independent’s schoolteacher diarist meets up with a favorite student who’s been expelled, and they head over to Barnes & Noble.
Jan. 25, 2006
Every year in September or October, my mother starts asking me what I want for Christmas. She likes to get her shopping done early. At that point, it’s the start of a new school year, so Christmas is way down low on my list of priorities. When I was in high school, I used to pore through magazines circling the sweaters and pants I liked and left them sitting open on the kitchen table for her to see as she walked by in the morning getting ready for work. I knew where she hid my presents, too, so at nights when I was alone in the house, I would unwrap them to see what she’d picked out for me (or, rather, what I’d picked out for myself that she chose to purchase). To this day, I have no idea why I ruined my own surprises; all I know is that once I started unwrapping them, I couldn’t stop. One year, my mom found out that I had peeked at all of my presents because I’d foolishly left a hole in one of the wrapped presents. She was heartbroken. So the next year, she hid all of my presents at my soon-to-be stepfather’s house, 40 miles away, so there would be no possibility of my peeking.
When I left home for college, I didn’t have a chance to leave magazines out on the kitchen table, so I would casually mention the things I wanted over the phone. But because she didn’t get the same magazines I got at school, I eventually just started asking for gift certificates.
I guess my love of gift certificates started out early. For my 16th birthday, my mom gave me a ribbon necklace. You know the kind of ribbon — “that thin plastic stuff that they sell at Walgreens around Christmas, the kind with red, green, and white wrapped around a single spool. It’s the kind you can take scissors to and make curls. Off of this ribbon, my mother had hung seven or eight envelopes of various sizes, along with scratch-off lottery tickets (“scratchies” in my family’s tongue). In each of the envelopes was a gift certificate to one of my favorite stores. We were sitting at a restaurant on Church Street in Burlington in the early evening in mid-April, before going to a concert. My birthday wasn’t until the 22nd, but we were celebrating early because my mom was planning to go on a cruise with my step-father during my birthday week. (I think the number of gift cards was directly proportional to how guilty she was feeling about leaving, since for years we’d talked about how special the Sweet 16 is. I was a little sour, too, but my mom was giving me lots of attention, so I got over it. She even surprised me in my Latin class the day before she left by bringing in enough decorated cupcakes for everyone.)
I raved over the ribbon necklace. There were cards for all the stores I loved on Church Street — “music, clothing, art supplies. The cards, when stacked together in my hand, felt thick with possibility and options and potential energy. I didn’t spend them right away — “that’s not my style. I like to see them sitting there for a long time — “months, even — “waiting for the right time. I like to forget about them and then be surprised again. “Oh yeah! I forgot about these!” It’s a luxurious, privileged feeling.
Over the years, the stores I like have changed, though bookstores have remained constant. When I graduated high school, college, and grad school, my stepfather has always given me gift cards for books. Boyfriends’ parents, my mom, students, colleagues, teachers have given me bookstore gift cards. They’re the best. As a teacher, I now have an even stronger appreciation for bookstore gift cards because I know how expensive books are and I’ve spent so much money on books for my students and my classroom. So this year, when I unwrapped a $50 gift card to Barnes & Noble from my mom, I freaked out. “Yea!!!! Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!” Dennis, too, got a gift card for books, and it’s currently burning a hole in his wallet. All we do is read, think about, and browse books, waiting to find the perfect ones to use our gift cards on.
I guess this is all leading to this: I saw Brinn last Sunday, and I used my gift card to buy her books while she’s expelled. It’s not big news, but it’s my way into writing about seeing her for the first time since she was escorted out of my classroom in handcuffs. And I guess, as much as I wanted to save that card for later, I wanted so badly to see her. We talked on the phone on Friday and I told her flat out that I missed her.
“I miss you, too, Ms. Coggio.”
So we hung out on Sunday. I picked her up at her house, met her little brothers, and then said we were going to Barnes & Noble.
“Miss. I don’t want no books.”
“Then what are you going to do with all of your time?”
“Nothing. Work. Sleep.” And then she paused. “But I’m bored, Miss.”
“Perfect! So you’ll read and not be bored!”
“Miss. No way. Let’s just go eat.”
I have to admit I was upset. I had planned to get her a book or two so she could keep herself occupied productively. I’d let her get whatever she wanted, even some of those “sex books,” as she called them — “the cheap romances that teens tear through at a rate faster than I can imagine. (When we had talked on the phone, she said she wanted to get the sex books and I’d thought she said “textbooks,” and I said, “Brinn, textbooks? I’m never going to buy you a textbook. Get something good.” She laughed. “No, Miss! SEX books!” My reply to that was the same as before.)
As I was about to turn the car down the street toward the restaurant, she blurted out, “Just go to the bookstore, Miss — ¬¶.But I’m not going to get a book.” And I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling so hard.
At the North Haven Barnes & Noble, I abandoned her immediately so she could find her own space and books. I knew she’d come away with something once we got that far. So for about 20 minutes, I wandered around giving her distance and wondering what she was doing. When I made my way to the journal section, she met up with me with two books in her hand. One was a “sex book” and the other was a hardcover novel that I asked to look at. It was about two kids whose mother dies and who are forced to be left alone.
“Let me know how this is,” I told her. “I’d like to read it when you’re done.” She took the book back and then I saw her put the “sex book” back. I heard her mutter, “I don’t need this.”
We stood by the journals for a long time, trying to find a journal that would be best for her. I’d given her, a long time ago, a notebook to write in and a bright blue pen. In the bookstore, she told me that she wanted something special to write in. So we eventually found a nice, hardcover, Indian-print-inspired lined notebook for her. I could tell she was pleased. As Brinn continued looking at journals, I found a package of assorted blank note cards — “those square cards with bright colors and cool quotes on them — “and showed them to her. The cards came in a hard blue box with a magnetic top, the kind of box a girl like Brinn would be able to keep important little things in. The box top was identical to one of the cards in the assortment: “May the sun shine always on your shoulders,” it read. “And may the rain wash away your worries.” It went on, but my eyes rested on that second line. Brinn’s did, too.
“Why do these cards always have to be so emotional, Miss? That line gets to me.”
“Well, would you like to get these cards and split them up?”
“Yeah, Miss.”
So we bought the lot. I went to the register and we put down the book, the journal, and the note cards. I took out my prized gift card to pay for everything but it still wasn’t enough. In a flash of complete selfishness, I thought I’d rather save the gift card for myself and instead pay for Brinn’s things with my own money. And, even though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I’d wished she’d chosen a paperback so it wouldn’t be so expensive.
After dinner, I brought her back home so we could split the cards up. She wanted to show me her room, too. It was a wreck — “just like mine was when I was her age. The cat, Mookie, followed us upstairs and down the hallway. Pictures and awards slathered her walls, clothes were tossed on every horizontal space and some vertical, her blankets strewn around the bed as if she couldn’t lie still when she slept. Brinn pointed to a big, comfy round chair in the corner. A couple of pictures were taped to the wall next to the chair. One picture was part of an obituary. The other was of two people with smiling faces, one woman and one younger girl. It was Brinn and her mom.
Brinn had carved out a little sanctuary for herself, like I had done after my father’s death. I, too, had a big comfy chair in my room, a chair that used to be in my parents’ bedroom. It was an old, ratty chair — “thin, sun-bleached fabric, uneven legs, a well-worn spot in the seat where the padding was smushed down in the shape of a bowl. I used to wrap myself in blankets in that chair, listening to music, reading, or writing. (I don’t know what ever happened to that chair. Maybe we gave it away?)
“This is where I write, Miss. I’m still working on the wall.”
I suddenly felt stupid. I felt ashamed of myself that for an instant earlier that night I had felt selfish about a stupid gift card. It wasn’t mine to begin with, I thought. It wasn’t real anyway. This right now — “standing here in my student’s room as she’s showing me her place of solace, as she’s making it a point to tell me that she’s trying to heal herself through writing — “this is what’s real. This is what matters. I would give up all the gift cards in the world to make sure she could continue to heal. And the thing is, she trusts me with knowing these special things about her. No gift card could buy that.
When we split up the note cards downstairs, I gave her the box, too. I wondered if she would actually send the cards out, or if she would save them for herself, like I would. The blue card was the most special, probably to both of us; I knew I would have to save that to give to a special person, and I’d probably frame one to hang up at home or at school. Its message was a wish for healing — ¬¶the only person I could imagine giving the blue card to was Brinn.
“So you’ll call me if you need me, right?” I asked as I walked out the door toward my car.
“Yeah, Miss.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, Miss.” Without saying “thank you,” Brinn gave me a hug. “You’re short, Miss.”
And then just yesterday, she called me in a state of panic. She was worried about school, crying and sobbing on the phone, in such a helpless depression that I gathered my things and anything I could bring her — “assignments, books, prep materials for the CAPT—“and rushed to her house. On my way over, I got lost. I knew where her house was; I’d been there 100 times. But I couldn’t find it. I was stuck in my head, worried about how fragile she was. My first thought was that she’d hurt herself. I drove up and down Dixwell Avenue looking for her house, driving on all the side streets I thought were near her house. I couldn’t find it.
When I saw her house, I parked my car and ran out and up the stairs to her apartment door. She unlocked it and I walked in. She had been sitting in the dark, all alone, no music, window shades closed.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked. “Give me a hug.” I grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her close. “Don’t do that again. Don’t scare me like that. I’m here now, so let’s talk.”
For the 30 minutes I was there, I filled her in on assignments she could do; we talked about how her head hurts, and what’s going on in the home school program she’s in during expulsion. We read the notes her teachers had written to her. And then I asked her about the book we got at Barnes & Noble.
“It’s good,” she said.
“And how’s the writing?”
“It’s really good.”
“And how’s the note cards?”
“They’re gone. I sent them all out already.”
“You did?” I wondered why I was so surprised. They’re note cards. They’re supposed to be sent out. “Who did you send them to?”
“I sent one to my brother.” I knew she was talking about her brother in jail.
“Which one did you give him? The blue card?”
“Yeah. And I sent another blue one to my father.” I raised my eyebrows at that one, because I knew Brinn did not have a good relationship with her father — ¬¶at all.
“And the last blue one I wrote to my mother. All the good people got the blue card.”
I was reminded of the times I wrote to my dad after he died. I buried one letter with some of his ashes and a picture of us on the hammock. A few years later, I dug it up so I could read the letter again and see the picture. Even though I’d wrapped the picture and letter in a plastic sandwich bag, the ground water had seeped into the canister had washed some of the colors in the picture away and curled the paper up. The letter, too, was stiff with dirt and dried water and I could barely make out the words I’d written. I hoped Brinn would be able to read her words again that she’d written to her mom. I hoped she felt comfort writing to her mom. I just hoped she felt comfort.
By the time I left Brinn, her sister had come over with her two kids, the cat was nearby, and a friend had called her on the phone. She stood up to walk me out, and she gave me another hug and smiled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. And when I got to my car, I looked up to her window. The lights were still on.