My High School Student *Chose* Prison

I was teaching English at a local high school years ago when I grew worried about a ninth grade student (let’s call him Billy). Billy regularly got suspended (was on the verge of expulsion), appeared to be in a gang (from what I could tell), and never once came to class with pencil, paper, or any other supplies (I supplied those for him each day he attended — sometimes you have to pick your battles). It troubled me that seemed to have no interest in school or his own future, as evidenced by chronic absenteeism. Since the typical ninth grader is about 14 years old, I was especially concerned.

However, whenever Billy did show up for class, he was soft-spoken and genuinely kind to me. I noticed that he called me “Ma’am,” didn’t mind it when I teased him to lose the thug face and smile for a change, and laughed behind his hand at my corny jokes, in spite of himself. These things, and more, gave me hope that Billy was not a lost cause (who is, really?).

One day when he was absent, I’d had enough. So, I sat on the edge of my desk with my arms crossed and faced my class, staring intently into each of their faces, moving from one student to another. Moments earlier, I had implored them for any information they could give me regarding Billy’s whereabouts, but had received silence in return. My piercing gaze made them so uncomfortable that they shifted in their seats. Some glanced questioningly at one another, involved in some unspoken debate about whether or not telling me would be snitching.

Before long, the class realized that I meant business, and so it happened that I learned the young man in question was, at that very moment, sitting in a broken lawn chair in the woods across the street with a bunch of ne’er-do-wells who had either dropped out of or were now too old for high school. I told the kids that I loved them for telling me, and they acknowledged that they knew I only wanted the best for Billy. I love those kids!

During my planning period, fresh knowledge in hand, I slipped into my car and drove across the street to a vacant church parking lot that was adjacent to the wooded area where my class had directed me. After I climbed out, I slammed the door far too hard in what I now see was an act of bravado, a show-of-force, if you will. I can laugh a little at myself now, after the fact, but at the time, I truly did have to psych myself up — woods seem ominous, even in the daylight!

In any case, I marched into the woods, more than determined. Soon, I found myself tripping over brush and getting smacked in the face with branches (did I mention I was certain that I saw a snake no fewer than 50 times?). “No matter!” I shouted to my brain, using the most convincing inner-voice that I could muster. Resolved, I ignored the perceived peril and focused, instead, on repeatedly (and to be honest, quite desperately) calling out Billy’s name.

After about five minutes, I came upon him and his companions, sitting in broken lawn chairs (as promised), smoking cigarettes. He and the rest of the group either sat forward or stood up quickly, moving their heads sharply from side-to-side as they peered furiously through the trees, trying to figure out who in the Sam Hill was coming up on them, and who it was who dared to brazenly call out Billy’s name!

I’ll never forget the look of disbelief on my student’s face or his subsequent verbal response. When it became clear to Billy that it was his high school English teacher tromping through the woods searching for him, he called out in a quavering, high-pitched voice (more to the universe than to me): “Mrs. Fox??”

I almost laughed out loud for both of us. But I didn’t. He had to know how serious this was, how serious I was. I could hear him telling his companions under his breath (I can’t bear to call them his friends) that everything was okay, I was cool, and leave me to him.

As Billy walked toward me, pulling up his sagging pants with one hand while nervously flicking a newly-lit cigarette with the other, my student slowly shook his head at me. When he was close enough to whisper, Billy growled in a low, serious voice filled with genuine concern, “Mrs. Fox, you shouldn’t be out here. It’s dangerous!”

Indignant, I replied that, so long as he was a student in that school over there, I was going to do anything and everything within my power to get him to show up every single day, especially to my class. I think I said something like, “You can skip every other class you have, if the teachers will let you, but you, young man, are not allowed to skip my class. You need to understand that. I will always come for you and find you. That’s just the way I am. I’m stubborn that way.”

I suppose that I channeled my inner Liam Neeson.

Well, Billy was exasperated, to be sure. More to get rid of me, I think, he agreed to put out the cigarette and accompany me back to the high school. I sounded like an annoying, lecturing parent for the short ride across the road, back to the school. I remember that he sat silently during the trip, chin cupped in his right hand as he watched whatever scene happened to appear outside the passenger window. But I later came to believe that Billy was simply engrossed in his own thoughts — and those thoughts somehow made him pensive and sad.

After I parked the car, we sat for a split second without moving or talking. We each had our own reasons for this. For my part, my gut was beginning to churn a bit as I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten a school policy that I wasn’t supposed to leave campus without signing out. I was kicking myself, but quickly decided that what will be, will be. I could accept the consequences, if there were any to accept. I looked at Billy. He was worth any fallout that could come from the screw-up I’d made.

Then, I watched him shyly take out his gold teeth-cover (what do people call those things?), and lean a bit toward me to put it into his front pants’ pocket. As he did so, Billy shot me a quick smile (his lips were pressed tightly together — it was a smile with no teeth showing, but a smile, nonetheless), big and wide and thankful. I could see that. My eyes filled with tears. We got out and walked toward the front office without a word.

Once there, my hand shook slightly as I signed in Billy as “Late to School.” The receptionist working the front desk squinted her eyes and brow while her head bounced from the sign-in roster to my face, and then back again. She was confused. It was the middle of the day, I wasn’t his parent, yet here I was — signing him in. Of that much, she was certain. I imagine the poor lady was trying to determine if some mean prank was being played on her. Gratefully, she said nothing. In fact, no one ever asked me about whether or not I had signed out that day, or why I had signed in a student instead of his guardian.

I’d like to say that this story had a happy ending. And for a while, it did.

For a brief period, Billy showed up to class every single day. Other teachers marveled how he was marked absent in the system for all other classes except mine. Just how could that be? Hearing the contemplation, I remember that I had to look away quickly to hide my happy grin.

But life isn’t a movie. So, it wasn’t long before kindhearted Billy began skipping my class once again. Still, I hounded him. I stayed on him. I wouldn’t let up. I even drove to his home to try to have a parent conference (no one ever answered the door). I mailed letters and left notes.

Then, it was weeks later. That same class came and went, and the student that I’d coaxed from the woods had not attended for many days. The rest of the students had a habit of watching my face whenever I called out Billy’s name for the roll, my eyes always coming to rest on his empty chair (sometimes eyes that were filled with tears). They thought Billy was extra special to me, and they were interested in that idea and what it might mean. But they were wrong.

This young man was as special to me as every single one of them. He simply was what he was. And I am what I am. The class was too inexperienced and immature to realize that, as a seasoned teacher and mature human being, I continually adjusted my responses and approaches to each student based upon a myriad of complex factors, such as individual needs, growing insight, subsequent contemplation, changing strategy, etc. No, Billy was as special to me as every other kid for whom I have ever had the pleasure of teaching — which is to say that all of my students will forever be my surrogate children!

Anyhow, there, again, was his empty seat. Later that day, I decided to head down to the teachers’ lounge to check my inbox. I used my peripheral vision (trying to kill two birds with one stone by reviewing some student papers and walking at the same time), when suddenly there he was — walking toward me as confidently as if he owned the joint! When our eyes found each other, I watched Billy’s expression change from one of recognition to surprise to despair in a matter of a second. He turned to run, so I yelled out to him, “Don’t you dare run from me!” He stopped mid-stride.

When he turned back around, we suffered through an awkward (very awkward) moment of silence. Then, my chronically absent student raised his shoulders while he sucked in a huge breath, and, for the second time since I’d known him, I watched his eyes become sad.

Billy’s arms stretched out long, sideways from his body, and he shook his hands nonstop in mid-air. He jumped in place using baby-jumps, and he reminded me of a basketball player standing at the free-throw line at the end of a tied-up game.

It was then when I realized that Billy was weighing whether or not he should speak to me the words that he felt he must say. The words that I will never, ever forget. The words that will haunt me for all of eternity. The most devastating words that any student has ever said to me.

Looking both ways (like he was crossing a busy street), Billy motioned for me to follow him to a corner in the hall as if we were spies. Speaking quietly under his breath, this precious boy-man gently tried not to break my heart (he used the best upbeat door-to-door salesman voice that he could muster).

“Mrs. Fox, I need you to stop worrying about me. I need you to stop caring about me. You see, Mrs. Fox, I know that I’m going to prison. I’m okay with that. You gotta listen to me. I’m okay with that. And you have to be okay with that. I’ll do good in there!” I saw that Billy was smiling at me (with beautiful white teeth, even), as a show of support for his argument and, perhaps, to leave me with a gift that he knew I had longed for and would cherish:

Finally…a real smile.

Without meaning to, I began what I call a silent sob — no sound or facial movements (just buckets of tears that drip off the end of the face) — and I became aware that the cinder block wall was the only thing holding me upright. When Billy put his hand on my shoulder, his voice was gentler than it had ever been.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Fox. You did good. But you gotta let me go.”

Billy’s image was a blur as I watched him saunter away, being careful not to look back. My surrogate child…forever, my surrogate child.

I know. I’m a weeper.

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