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Authors: Faye Kellerman
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girls?”
“I bet it’s high.”
“Skyscraper high. We’ve got all these state-mandated testing-program requirements.
Our
main problem is getting the students to show up and put in the hours to graduate. Academics?” She stuck out her tongue. “What’s
that?”
“I went to public school.”
She threw me a sour expression that screamed:
Look where it got you!
“All I want to do is talk to them, Ms. Taylor.”
“They’re scattered, Officer Decker.” She was regarding me with contempt. Or maybe that was contempt at life in general. “We
don’t run a school for wayward teen girls who can’t say no.” Under her breath: “Although sometimes it feels that way.”
“Don’t these girls have special classes?”
Her laugh was mirthless. “They have an entire major. It’s called Household Arts, although you don’t have to be pregnant to
declare it as your area of study.” She rolled her eyes. “Diaper changing 101.” A sigh. “It’s not that bad. And I suppose it’s
a lot more relevant to the girls than Shakespeare.”
“I would think
Romeo and Juliet
would be very relevant to a teenage girl. Relevant as well as romantic.”
“Your assumptions are predicated on their being able to read.”
I stopped being adversarial and resorted to pleading. “Ms. Taylor, the mother dropped her infant in a Dumpster like garbage.
Maybe if we can
impress
upon these girls that there’s no reason to
ever
hurt their babies, that there are ways to give up infants that are legal and anonymous, then maybe we can save a life in
the future.”
“You don’t think we
tell
them?”
“Of course you do. But there’s nothing like a real-life case to illustrate it. You know, kinda bring it home anecdotally.”
She twisted her mouth and glared at me. Then, abruptly, her face softened and I knew she relented. “We offer a fourth-period
prenatal class for pregnant girls who are excused from regular gym. I suppose hearing it from an officer won’t hurt.” She
eyed me with suspicion. “It would have helped if you had come in your uniform.”
“I’m doing this on my own time. If it’s a big success, I’ll go through official channels next time.”
“All right. Let’s go. Don’t get your hopes up. And don’t believe everything they tell you. These ladies are notoriously good
bull-shitters.”
There were twenty-three girls, none of them married, and in most cases, the boyfriends were peripheral. Most were from broken
homes, and none had any money. What kind of future did these girls have? How were they going to support their children and
themselves without becoming a statistic on the slippery slope downward?
I tried to speak to them without condescension, lecturing with passion and honesty. But after the first couple of minutes,
I had lost 90 percent of the attention in the room. Their restless eyes went to the wall clock and skipped around space. They
regarded their long, polished nails; a couple of them refreshed their mouths with generous lipstick applications; several
girls pulled out copies of
Teen
magazine and thumbed through the pages as I spoke. So I concentrated on those who still deigned to make eye contact with
me.
I started off with the laws concerning infant abandonment. If the child is dropped off in front of a police station or at
a hospital, the mother will not be prosecuted if she has given birth within twenty-four hours. And even if the child is abandoned,
the mother can still escape prosecution if she makes herself known within seventy-two hours. There was no reason
ever
to discard an infant.
When I brought up last night’s case, I detected a whiff of interest from some of the girls. Just a whiff, though. Mostly,
the girls continued to shuffle their feet, clear their throats, and watch the clock. Ten minutes before class was up, I asked
if anyone knew of a desperate pregnant girl who might be the mother. I told them that the mother needed psychological
“I bet it’s high.”
“Skyscraper high. We’ve got all these state-mandated testing-program requirements.
Our
main problem is getting the students to show up and put in the hours to graduate. Academics?” She stuck out her tongue. “What’s
that?”
“I went to public school.”
She threw me a sour expression that screamed:
Look where it got you!
“All I want to do is talk to them, Ms. Taylor.”
“They’re scattered, Officer Decker.” She was regarding me with contempt. Or maybe that was contempt at life in general. “We
don’t run a school for wayward teen girls who can’t say no.” Under her breath: “Although sometimes it feels that way.”
“Don’t these girls have special classes?”
Her laugh was mirthless. “They have an entire major. It’s called Household Arts, although you don’t have to be pregnant to
declare it as your area of study.” She rolled her eyes. “Diaper changing 101.” A sigh. “It’s not that bad. And I suppose it’s
a lot more relevant to the girls than Shakespeare.”
“I would think
Romeo and Juliet
would be very relevant to a teenage girl. Relevant as well as romantic.”
“Your assumptions are predicated on their being able to read.”
I stopped being adversarial and resorted to pleading. “Ms. Taylor, the mother dropped her infant in a Dumpster like garbage.
Maybe if we can
impress
upon these girls that there’s no reason to
ever
hurt their babies, that there are ways to give up infants that are legal and anonymous, then maybe we can save a life in
the future.”
“You don’t think we
tell
them?”
“Of course you do. But there’s nothing like a real-life case to illustrate it. You know, kinda bring it home anecdotally.”
She twisted her mouth and glared at me. Then, abruptly, her face softened and I knew she relented. “We offer a fourth-period
prenatal class for pregnant girls who are excused from regular gym. I suppose hearing it from an officer won’t hurt.” She
eyed me with suspicion. “It would have helped if you had come in your uniform.”
“I’m doing this on my own time. If it’s a big success, I’ll go through official channels next time.”
“All right. Let’s go. Don’t get your hopes up. And don’t believe everything they tell you. These ladies are notoriously good
bull-shitters.”
There were twenty-three girls, none of them married, and in most cases, the boyfriends were peripheral. Most were from broken
homes, and none had any money. What kind of future did these girls have? How were they going to support their children and
themselves without becoming a statistic on the slippery slope downward?
I tried to speak to them without condescension, lecturing with passion and honesty. But after the first couple of minutes,
I had lost 90 percent of the attention in the room. Their restless eyes went to the wall clock and skipped around space. They
regarded their long, polished nails; a couple of them refreshed their mouths with generous lipstick applications; several
girls pulled out copies of
Teen
magazine and thumbed through the pages as I spoke. So I concentrated on those who still deigned to make eye contact with
me.
I started off with the laws concerning infant abandonment. If the child is dropped off in front of a police station or at
a hospital, the mother will not be prosecuted if she has given birth within twenty-four hours. And even if the child is abandoned,
the mother can still escape prosecution if she makes herself known within seventy-two hours. There was no reason
ever
to discard an infant.
When I brought up last night’s case, I detected a whiff of interest from some of the girls. Just a whiff, though. Mostly,
the girls continued to shuffle their feet, clear their throats, and watch the clock. Ten minutes before class was up, I asked
if anyone knew of a desperate pregnant girl who might be the mother. I told them that the mother needed psychological
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