Page 66 of The Lies Always Told

I let students pick what area they want to use before I join them. Bella often prefers the floor, and this time is no different. She takes her Vans off before walking over to the foam rug to lie down, her face up at the ceiling, her eyes closed. I sit on the bean bag closer to her, take another sip of my coffee, and ask what I usually do before starting, “Am I listening, or am I advising today?” I want them to know I’m here to doboth, but sometimes, we need someone to just listen without interrupting. That’s my job too.

“Both. Let me talk, and if I ask questions, you can answer, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“I’m happy for my parents. They’ve been wanting a baby forever, but my mom has struggled to get pregnant and has lost some babies too. It destroys her every time, and I don’t blame her. That is sad, you know? My dad is her rock. He’s always there supporting her, making sure she’s okay, but after she goes to sleep, he goes to the living room and prays or cries. Sometimes both. They want this baby so bad, but what if she doesn’t make it? I’m scared for them more than I’m happy for them. I don’t want to lose them, and I feel like that’s what will happen if she doesn’t make it.” She lets out a breath. This sweet eleven-year-old girl is full of kindness and compassion, full of love for her parents, with so much weight on her shoulders.

“What ifwhodoesn’t make it?”

“The baby. I have a feeling the baby is a girl, so I call her a she. My mom refuses to call her anything but the baby. My dad doesn’t even acknowledge her. I mean, he does rub my mom’s belly, but it’s so different this time. I think he’s scared too.”

“It is scary, and you have the right to feel scared too. Your feelings are valid, and you can be both scared and happy. It’s totally okay if, right now, you’re mostly just scared. Have you talked to them about this?”

She shakes her head no, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Do you want to talk to them about this?”

Bella lets out a breath and stays silent. Her hands scratch the rug before she opens her eyes and looks at me. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be another burden.”

“Oh, honey, you’re not a burden. You’re their kid, andthey want you just as much as they want that baby. I promise you that.”

“They have other things to worry about, and I don’t want them to worry about me too.”

“Sorry to break it to you, kid, but they worry about you. They do. Most parents do, all the time. Butyourparents particularly love you and worry about you all the time.”

“So you think I should talk to them?”

“I think you’re their kid, and if you want to chat with them about this, you should. I think you will feel a lot better after you do. And if you don’t, my door is always open.”

“Promise?” I want to say promise back, but that word now reminds me of Gus, every time. I don’t like it. I actually hate that a simple word can bring out so many emotions, mostly anger, and I can’t let my emotions overtake me right now. Right now, I’m here for her. I’m her safe space, so I better pull myself together.

“I promise. Even if I’m not personally here, someone will be here. Someone always wants to listen, I promise.”

“Okay. Thank you, Ms. Thompson.”

“Just doing my job, kiddo. Now, go ahead and go to class. I have a coffee to finish.”

“And another kiddo to listen to,” she says, finishing the phrase that has become my slogan here. I do more than listen to kids, but it’s my favorite part of the job, so I had to let them know.

I hop up to open the door for her, but before she steps out, she gives me a hug. A tight hug reminds me why I wanted to do this job in the first place. “Thank you,” she whispers before marching to class.

I flip the sign on my door that says ‘Ready to listen’ so if anyone needs me, they can just knock and come inside. It’s the beginning of the day, so the chances of someone needing me are slim, but you never know. I wish I could just leave the door open, but that’s not safe anymore in schools, and it’s sad. Itbreaks my heart, knowing our schools are resembling jails more than the haven they’re supposed to be. Outside time has been minimized, and the windows that once were seen as a beautiful opportunity to connect with the real world are now a potential threat in the case of an intruder being at school.

I wish there was a way to fix it all, and I’m sure there is, but there’s so much out of my control. All I can do is my part. I can show up here every day and be here for them. I can listen, try to help, and offer advice when needed. I can reach out to others who can help when I can’t, and I can also use my voice and my privilege for those who can’t.

A light knock on the door startles me and brings me back from my thoughts. There are a few students who stop by to say hello in between classes and some at the end of each day.

I made a corner called Food For Thought. Students can stop by at any time to grab a snack. The caveat? They have to leave me a note. Usually, it’s anonymous, but they can write their name too. I check it twice a day, in the morning and before I go home. I open one every day and read it. Some of them have been really funny, and others have been gut-wrenching. Some ask for specific foods, and others ask for prayers. Some ask for a sign. I need to find a system to reply, but I’m afraid they’ll stop leaving me notes if I seek them out, and that defeats the purpose.

I open the door to find Cody. Cody is one of the eighth graders who everyone talks about. He’s charismatic, the school charmer. Apparently, he’ll have a bright future with football one day, but he’s also good in class, breaking all the stereotypes that jocks don’t study. The outgoing kid who seems to get along with everyone. The social butterfly, as the teachers say. Nobody talks much about his family, just that he has an older brother at the high school who is also a football prodigy. Everyone talks about his football career, but nobody talks about how he’s kind. I always see him opening doors for others or helping Jayla, a classmate who has an assistivedevice, carry her books to class every day. No one ever points out that he always carries extra supplies to share with teammates, or that he stays after practice to help clean up. No one ever said he loves sci-fi novels or that he listens to pop music loudly on his headphones, or that, despite his confidence, he still comes in every day to grab food and leave notes. It took me four days to notice all those things, and now, four weeks later, I know he values our conversations. He trusts me enough to ask for advice when he needs it, even if he doesn’t share a lot of deep and personal stuff.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?” I ask, smiling at him.

“Hi, can I grab a snack?” he asks, not looking at me. That’s weird. He always, always looks at me with a big smile.

“Of course, go ahead.” I move from the door, letting him pass. He walks by with his shoulders slightly slumped, as if the weight of something pulls him down. His hands, loosely hanging by his sides, don’t swing as he takes every step. His gaze stays on the floor ahead, never quite lifting. This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even say anything. One of my number one rules is not to ask if someone is okay. We’re supposed to use assertive language to make sure there’s no room for gray areas, so we know exactly our student’s state of mind. I try something else.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He shakes his head until he gets to the Food for Thought corner. I turn around to give him privacy, as I’ve promised every student I will, and keep myself busy packing my things.

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