Homeless (Krysta Speaks)

Immersed in a stack of quizzes I should have finished grading the night before

I do not hear her enter

Soundlessly, as she always does,

The girl with mousy brown hair has not come for help with science

Though she could use it.

As pale in this apparition, two days before Christmas break

As she was the first day of class

Head bowed slightly,

Her sunken brown eyes look up from deep sockets

Melancholy, yet hopeful

She should be outside with her classmates

She knows the bell has not yet rung.

These appearances are not infrequent.

The first came in early September

Between two of her other classes

She stepped in

Stood at my desk, wordless

Smiling timidly

And placed a single devil dog on my grade book

Still in its package, its twin missing.

Grining, apparently satisfied,

She disappeared into the hallway

As silently as she had come

Unsure whether this was a gift or found object

I dared not eat it

It sat there for hours, unclaimed.

At the end of the day I sought her out

Asked whether she wanted it back

Foolish.

Her sunken eyes melted from confused to hurt

“You don’t want it?”

I apologized for the misunderstanding

Thanked her

Brought it back to my desk

Let it sit.

Eyed it Skeptically.

I didn’t want it.

Locking my door on the way out I tossed it in the custodian’s barrel

Afraid she would see it if I put it in my own.

In the weeks that followed

The sporadic apparitions repeated themselves

Seldom in the morning

Most days she arrived halway through her first class

Each time, silent

A presentation of food

Grape Fruit Roll-up

Open bag of Sun Chips

Half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich

I had brought my lunch already.

I learned to be gracious

Masked my confusion as best I could

Made guesses as to motive:

Needing a father figure?

Childhood crush was doubtful given her handsome gym teacher.

Each time, I hid them in a drawer

Disposed of them discretely after leaving

Thought little more of it until it happened again weeks later.

Each time, she smiled, pleased, and slipped away.

In class she was quiet.

I treated her kindly

But without special distinction,

Became accustomed to her slipping in late to morning classes.

It was months before I heard her name mentioned in the same sentence

As “homeless.”

The lady from the state

Running our workshop

Called the families “in transition”

More palatable to her clients, she explained.

She droned on

Legal implications

Free lunch program

“Could be the only meals they get all day.”

Was the last thing I heard

I had turned my nose up at her offerings

Tried to return them

Pictured her face, bony and pale

Pencil-thin limbs

Mousy hair I had taken for genetics

Nurture, not nature, had given her these.

Possibly her only meal.

She had given me half.

Peanut butter and Jelly, to her, was not worthless

I wondered, did she eat on weekends?

As each day she wondered whose couch she would call home

And which bus route would take her there

I had thrown away treasure.

How do you take that back?

I vowed to make amends

Respond differently next time

Filled my desk drawer with snacks to offer in return

Granola bars, peanut butter crackers, bags of candy.

On this morning,

Two days before Christmas break

I look up to meet her gaze.

A pleasant-faced spectre.

“Mister C…?” she whispers

My hand leaping for the snack drawer,

What ever she offers,
This time I will reciprocate.

This time I am ready.

I glance at the clock, for her benefit.

She blushes, knowing the bell has not yet sounded.

Her hands behind her back,

I await their motion:

The offering of a half-buttered bagel or a baggie of saltines

She does not move.

“Mister C, what do you want for Christmas?”

A graduate degree in education has not prepared me

For this.

I try to hold my jaw firm

Crat a response that would give her satisfaction

I am unprepared.

A cereal bar will do no good here.

I stifle a moan,

Fight the urge to embrace her,

Will my eyelids to stand firm

I can not tell her my answer

Can not say, “My child,

I want you to have your own bedroom,

I want the cheeks on your face to be rosy and plump

And your refrigerator to be full of oprions

I want to never hear ladies from the state spare your mother’s feelings by calling you ‘in transition.’”

I search frantically for something to say that is encouraging,

That doesn’t imply she should give me anything

But validates her willingness to do so.

And again, I fail her

Muttering something about wishing my students for one day would all remember to bring in their assignment books.

She smiles politely

The way I wish I had

Spares me the scorn of her disappointment at my answer.

I glance down at my quizzes,

Knowing she is more important in this moment than their urgency.

I glance too long.  “Okay…”

In that moment she has turned away

Her ghostly palor vanishing into the hallway

The bell rings, covering her footsteps.

I wonder if Santa will find her tree this year.

I wonder if she has one.