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Authors: Sue Stauffacher
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continued, scanning the assignment, “we have to keep it with us at all times for two weeks.”
“You gotta be kidding me. I got cousins that don’t get this kind of treatment.”
“It’s supposed to teach us how hard it is to be a parent so we…you know…think twice,” I answered her in a low voice.
Sarah Kervick processed what I said for just a moment before making a sour face.
“I feel the very same way about you,” I informed her, taking one from a stack of oversized paper lunch bags being handed around.
“You need to think of this as a real baby,” Miss Mathews read from her notebook, “so draw a face on the bag and slip the flour inside it. Remember to keep it with you at all times. No, you may not set it down to jiggle the handle on your locker. If you wouldn’t do it to a real infant, then you can’t do it to your flour baby.
“You’ll have to have one of your parents review your log at the end of the day and give your baby a ‘well check.’ They have to initial each daily log. I’ve got the forms here.”
Sarah Kervick was tapping her pencil on the top of the desk in a most annoying manner.
“Why don’t you think up a name?” I suggested, handing her the “birth certificate.” “I’ll handle the face.”
Her hand shot up.
“Yes, Sarah?”
“What if you know you’re not gonna have any kids? Ever. Do you still have to do it?”
“But you can’t know that, Sarah. You’re too young.”
Sarah folded her arms and sunk down in her seat so that her nose was level with the writing surface. “If I said I’m not gonna have any,” she muttered, “I’m not gonna have any.”
“Well, if it helps, I believe you,” I told her. Sarah Kervick belonged with a gym bag, not a diaper bag.
“Franklin, I mean it.” Sarah sat up and grabbed my shoulder and shook it. It hurt! “I’m supposed to take this sack of flour home and tell my dad it’s a
baby
? And have him check on it? He’ll laugh me right out of the trailer!”
“Sarah, what is the matter?” I asked, trying not to cringe from the pain of her tightening grip. She let go and sat back down at her desk. As I watched her tap manically on her desktop, it occurred to me that something really was very wrong with her circuitry. Normally, she would just shrug her shoulders and do a haphazard job of the assignment. Why was she taking things so seriously all of a sudden?
I tried again. “Sarah?”
“Not now,” she whispered, grabbing the handout I passed to her and turning as far away from me as her desk would allow.
I tried to focus on the assignment and compose a reasonable facsimile of a human baby onto a paper bag with my #2 pencil. All this emotional upheaval with Sarah Kervick was drawing attention away from the real tragedy that had occurred in Room 401B that morning. Glynnis Powell was carrying another man’s sack of flour. Yes, the object of my affection was working out feeding schedules with a boy whose only claim to fame was making fart noises with his armpits.
Between sketching baby eyebrows, I stole glances at Glynnis as she took a straight edge from her pencil case and began to make a chart. Carefully, she placed the metal edge on her paper, biting her lip in concentration.
Sarah Kervick was absorbed in her shoes. I glanced over at the “birth certificate” she was supposed to be filling out. Only one item was complete. Next to Baby’s First Name, Sarah had written “Keds.” She sat there, her head in her hands, staring at her own handwriting.
She was upset. Some sort of response was called for on my part. What would William have done if this were “Go Go”? I put my hand on Sarah’s forearm.
“Are you okay?”
Sarah pressed the heels of both her hands into her eyes. When she looked up at me, they were wet with tears.
“I haven’t seen my dad for the last two nights.”
She followed this up by declaring through gritted teeth,
“And if you
ever
tell anyone what I just told you, I’ll tie
“You gotta be kidding me. I got cousins that don’t get this kind of treatment.”
“It’s supposed to teach us how hard it is to be a parent so we…you know…think twice,” I answered her in a low voice.
Sarah Kervick processed what I said for just a moment before making a sour face.
“I feel the very same way about you,” I informed her, taking one from a stack of oversized paper lunch bags being handed around.
“You need to think of this as a real baby,” Miss Mathews read from her notebook, “so draw a face on the bag and slip the flour inside it. Remember to keep it with you at all times. No, you may not set it down to jiggle the handle on your locker. If you wouldn’t do it to a real infant, then you can’t do it to your flour baby.
“You’ll have to have one of your parents review your log at the end of the day and give your baby a ‘well check.’ They have to initial each daily log. I’ve got the forms here.”
Sarah Kervick was tapping her pencil on the top of the desk in a most annoying manner.
“Why don’t you think up a name?” I suggested, handing her the “birth certificate.” “I’ll handle the face.”
Her hand shot up.
“Yes, Sarah?”
“What if you know you’re not gonna have any kids? Ever. Do you still have to do it?”
“But you can’t know that, Sarah. You’re too young.”
Sarah folded her arms and sunk down in her seat so that her nose was level with the writing surface. “If I said I’m not gonna have any,” she muttered, “I’m not gonna have any.”
“Well, if it helps, I believe you,” I told her. Sarah Kervick belonged with a gym bag, not a diaper bag.
“Franklin, I mean it.” Sarah sat up and grabbed my shoulder and shook it. It hurt! “I’m supposed to take this sack of flour home and tell my dad it’s a
baby
? And have him check on it? He’ll laugh me right out of the trailer!”
“Sarah, what is the matter?” I asked, trying not to cringe from the pain of her tightening grip. She let go and sat back down at her desk. As I watched her tap manically on her desktop, it occurred to me that something really was very wrong with her circuitry. Normally, she would just shrug her shoulders and do a haphazard job of the assignment. Why was she taking things so seriously all of a sudden?
I tried again. “Sarah?”
“Not now,” she whispered, grabbing the handout I passed to her and turning as far away from me as her desk would allow.
I tried to focus on the assignment and compose a reasonable facsimile of a human baby onto a paper bag with my #2 pencil. All this emotional upheaval with Sarah Kervick was drawing attention away from the real tragedy that had occurred in Room 401B that morning. Glynnis Powell was carrying another man’s sack of flour. Yes, the object of my affection was working out feeding schedules with a boy whose only claim to fame was making fart noises with his armpits.
Between sketching baby eyebrows, I stole glances at Glynnis as she took a straight edge from her pencil case and began to make a chart. Carefully, she placed the metal edge on her paper, biting her lip in concentration.
Sarah Kervick was absorbed in her shoes. I glanced over at the “birth certificate” she was supposed to be filling out. Only one item was complete. Next to Baby’s First Name, Sarah had written “Keds.” She sat there, her head in her hands, staring at her own handwriting.
She was upset. Some sort of response was called for on my part. What would William have done if this were “Go Go”? I put my hand on Sarah’s forearm.
“Are you okay?”
Sarah pressed the heels of both her hands into her eyes. When she looked up at me, they were wet with tears.
“I haven’t seen my dad for the last two nights.”
She followed this up by declaring through gritted teeth,
“And if you
ever
tell anyone what I just told you, I’ll tie
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