The Case of the Red-Handed Rhesus (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) (32 page)

Chandra had toured our house, nodding and barely speaking, and I could easily imagine her finding concerns in the future. She wrote a series of notes on the yellow legal pad she carried around like a shield, when we responded to her clipped questions. But then, when she was leaving, she said, “Don’t hesitate to use my name to open doors for your children. I have good connections, and we all have these kids’ best interests at heart. I have met Sara’s teacher before, and I don’t like your daughter’s situation at all.”

The last part, “I don’t like your daughter’s situation at all,” still chilled me. Everything in Chandra’s demeanor, from the rigid body language to the clipped sentences, set off my warning bells. Was it only the school situation Chandra Evans disliked?

Apparently, Lance only heard the words. He had used her name.

“Lovely,” I grumped. “Why couldn’t we reschedule?”

“Because Sara is morose about this. We need it
behind
her, and the next time they could come up with for us to meet was after she’s supposed to go back to school.”

“You’re right. It’s better done and over. We need to
tell
Chandra we used her name at some point.”

“I already did.” Lance piloted the minivan beyond the bus line and its flow of disembarking students. He parked us in the visitor’s slots on the school’s other side. “I believe that’s her pulling in behind us.”

Dear Nora:

Please settle a disagreement for me. My husband wants to jab a meat thermometer into the Christmas turkey. He
knows
there’s already one in there. The button pops up when the meat is done! I hate the unsightly presentation of a piece of metal when my perfect bird comes out of the oven!

Vexed

Dear Vexed:

Good Lord!Why don’t you serve up some Cream of Botulism Soup and be done with it! You ought to know those plastic thermometers can be unreliable. And it isn’t like your guests
see
the bird straight out of the oven anyway. Use the thermometer. I’m enclosing the number for poison control in case you ignore me.

Nora

“I’m glad you had the sense to involve me,” Chandra informed us as we walked toward the building, “even if it was at the last minute.” She had spared only a glance for our rumpled jeans. She had yet to meet me with my hair done, and I rarely wore makeup anyway. “So many foster and adopting families forget the importance of a social worker. They view us as the enemy.”

How was I supposed to tell her we weren’t sure which side of the ally/enemy line she stood on? “I suppose a little more notice would be nice next time,” I said instead.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

Somehow, our tête-à-tête had grown to include the school counselor, Norma Anderssen, as well. It was like we were playing a game of one-upmanship, each side throwing in a new authority to balance out the last. Lance had added me when he learned Mrs. Grim was inviting the principal. Then the principal added the guidance counselor when we dragged in Chandra at the last second. “If anybody calls ‘red rover’ or ‘cheese stands alone,’ I’m out of here.”

“Hm?” Chandra looked back and cocked an eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

In Principal Mark Jacoby’s office, Mrs. Grim (I could only think of her in Sara’s terms) set forth our daughter’s offenses. In addition to the cupcake incident, she had a laundry list of complaints ranging from an unwillingness to sit quietly in her seat to refusing to play with others at recess. “She’s so
stubborn.
When she’s on the playground, she sits off by herself and makes rock piles.”

I had watched Sara organize rocks like William organized his trucks, and it brought her obvious pleasure. “What’s wrong with that?”

“She isn’t
interacting.
She can hardly expect to have friends if she won’t play with anyone.” Mrs. Grim’s expression and tone suggested this should have been obvious. “And it embarrasses her.”

“How?”

“Last year, she filled her jeans so completely with pebbles her pocket ripped out, and she had stones running down her leg all day.”

“That was
kindergarten
!” Lance protested.

The principal agreed. “I think it’s probably sufficient to discuss the present academic year.”

“She still does it! I’ve told her half a hundred times to stop picking up shiny things, but she won’t stop. She’ll collect anything from jewelry that’s fallen apart to speckled plastic, and she gets as grimy as you can imagine without even playing. If she got so dirty from something reasonable like a game of tag, I might understand, but picking up junk? And then she has to touch
everything
, whether her hands are clean or not.”

Sara’s most grievous offense, however, was what Ms. Grim called her “smart mouth.” “She gives me sass nearly every day. She asked permission to go to the girls’ room the other day. She was gone so long I sent Shelly Anne to go find her. Do you know what Sara said when I asked why she hadn’t come back?”

“What?” I felt like the straight man being set up for a particularly bad comedy routine. I wanted to take this vituperative woman by the shoulders and shout, “She’s autistic! She’s barely
seven
!” Instead, I tucked my hands under my thighs so no one could see me clenching my fists.

“She said, ‘I didn’t know what to do when I got done, because you only gave me permission to go
to
the bathroom, not to come back.’ And don’t you know three other kids have tried it since then.”

“But she probably
meant
it!” My nails dug into upholstery, as if that could root me to the spot.

“She’s never needed permission to come back from the bathroom before.”

“How does she ask? What does she say? No, I’ll tell you, because she raises her hand to ask permission at home instead of following her body’s instincts and using the bathroom
without
permission. She says, ‘Can I go potty and be right back after I’m done?’ She’s crafted that sentence, honed it, so she covers everything, the going, the coming, the using of the toilet. I bet the only reason she doesn’t ask to flush is because there are big reminder signs in those first-grade stalls!” I had hovered over one of those child-sized squatty potties on the Day of the Cupcake.

“Stop,” said Chandra. “This conversation isn’t productive.”

But Mrs. Grim couldn’t stop. “She only gets recess one day in three, and she tells me at least once a week how boring my lessons are.”

This time, Lance interrupted her tirade. “Why haven’t we been told any of this?” The child we knew at home was only similar to this one. Outspoken and opinionated, yes, but not anything close to what I would call defiant. We knew about Sara’s inability to sit still or be quiet. These, along with the running in the halls, were the reasons given when Ms. Grim or the principal called us. I had guessed, but not been told, she struggled to socialize with the other children. But until she called her classmate a “floop-de-dooping dummyhead,” we had not known she argued outright.

Before Ms. Grim could either answer or continue, Norma-the-guidance-counselor jumped into the ensuing silence. “Our speech therapist has suggested a social skills group on several occasions.”

“Great,” I told her. “Where do we sign up?”

“Speech therapy isn’t in her IEP,” Mrs. Grim complained.

“Yes, it is,” I said. Was she missing her time with the speech therapist, then?

“I believe Dr. Rue is correct, but if it isn’t, we’ll schedule an emergency IEP meeting and amend it,” said Chandra. Had she just used my title on purpose?

Norma shook her head. “It’s not a service the school offers. Our speech and occupational therapists travel between the three
non-charter
elementary schools in this county all week long. You’d have to arrange to participate in one privately.”

“Why does the school have to have a therapist to teach something? Couldn’t you bring in a good teacher or someone from the community who knows how to get kids to be nice to each other?” I asked.

“Who? What kind of certifications would this person have? How would we fund the program?” Norma’s eyes showed nothing of her emotions, so I couldn’t gauge if she was being sincere or sarcastic. “Our resources are strained to capacity already, and I don’t hear any qualified volunteers stepping forward.”

I thought of Natalie but said nothing. The woman was overwhelmed.

With the atmosphere slightly less venomous, Chandra returned her attention to the real purpose, managing Sara’s “unruly,” to use Mrs. Grim’s term, behavior. “Dr. Rue, Dr. Lakeland,” she
was
drawing deliberate attention to the degrees, “I hear you saying you have received inadequate communication from the school regarding your daughter’s behavior.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” said Lance.

“Ms. Anderssen, have
you
been informed of Sara’s behavior?”

“I . . . well, some. I was aware of the social problems, but this is the first time I’ve heard . . . some of the more specific concerns about her interaction with her teacher.” Norma looked everywhere
but
at Principal Jacoby.

“And what I hear
you
saying, Mrs. Grisby, is you are unable to manage the behavior of a child with special needs.”

“No, that’s not what I . . .”

Chandra ignored her. “I have taken the time to read Sara’s file. Her former foster mother was extremely detailed. She documented some ten efforts on her part to have Sara transferred to another class both during the last school year and before this one began. All of them were either rejected or ignored.” She stared an unspoken question at the principal.

“It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. The child is out of control,” Mrs. Grim complained.

“If we transferred one child to a different class because some parent disliked the teacher, we’d have to do it for
every
child,” the principal snapped.

“Mrs. Forrester’s notes point out concerns about classroom management and Mrs. Grisby’s experience with special needs children. She specifically remarks about how her concerns have been consistently ‘blown off’ by your front office. That sounds like a woman trying to get her child an adequate education to me. In my opinion, Sara should be transferred to a different class upon her return from suspension.”

The principal opened his mouth to speak again, but Ms. Anderssen said, “A word?” to him. She jerked her thumb toward the door.

Norma and Mr. Jacoby held a hurried conference in the hall, and when they returned, he said. “Very well. When Sara returns, she will be allowed to join Miss Henderson’s class, contingent upon Miss Henderson’s approval. Should her behavior improve, any academic penalties incurred from the suspension will be expunged from her record.”

Mrs. Grisby stalked out to use the remainder of her planning period, and the rest of us only spoke a little while longer before the meeting ended.

A plump woman in a tan coat whose olive skin and soft accent suggested India or Pakistan bustled up to us before we could depart. “Are you Noel Lakeland?” she asked.

“Rue.” I plastered on a smile I hoped was polite. Even before we’d gotten married, people assumed Lance and I shared a last name. Occasionally, they turned him into a Rue, but mostly, I was dubbed Lakeland. I had been known to splutter “Rue, Rue, Rue, Rue, Rue!” at mail carriers and acquaintances. I tried to keep my tone light for strangers or others who might have an excuse for not knowing better, but my smile concealed smoldering anger.

“Sorry. I ought to get it right. My husband and I don’t have the same last name either, but I still mess it up for everybody else.”

Her answer disarmed me, but I remained wary. “Did you need something?”

“I’m Agrima Bhatia, Mrs. Grisby’s room mother.”
Why does the name sound familiar?
“My daughter, Julie Carver, was the one who helped Sara pass out cupcakes the other day. Can I walk with you?”

“Of course.” Wariness dissolved. Reluctant or not, the Carver daughter had been kind to Sara where others had been cold.

“I’m worried for your daughter,” she said quickly. “Mrs. Grisby is convinced Sara doesn’t want to play with the other children, but I think she does not know how.”

“She has Asperger’s syndrome, you know.”

“That makes sense. And kids can be as bad as the mafia when it comes to loyalties and ostracism.”

“I appreciate your daughter’s help the other day. It’s not easy to be different.”

“She’s a good daughter. Every day, I am proud of her beyond belief.” She stated this in a tone of deep sincerity, not as a braggart might, but as if she had been given an extraordinary and unexpected gift. “She would like very much to hold a playdate. And that is her speaking, not me. I do not control Julie’s friendships.”

I threw my arms around her shoulders. I couldn’t help it. I loved her more with every word. She patted my back and we went on. Once we got outside, she reached her main point. “Here’s the thing,” she went on. “I’ve been extremely worried about Sara coming back to face that lot. Mrs. Grisby doesn’t see what goes on right under her own nose, and she only pays a certain amount of attention to me. Julie and I haven’t heard the children say anything specific, or I’d have put a stop to it, but I’m sure those kids are plotting some kind of revenge. And where Sara got in trouble for creaming John, bad behavior toward her from the others won’t even be noticed.”

“She’s moving to Miss Henderson’s class.”

“Excellent news. This is a huge relief. But it still leaves complicated territory. She needs to stick around the recess monitors for a couple of weeks. Julie and her friends said she can sit with them at lunch.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I . . . honestly, I wouldn’t have expected so much generosity from a total stranger.”

“Julie’s a good daughter. So is Sara. I grew up bullied. I know what it looks like. And Sara, she’s like a bully target, you know? I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

Suddenly, the name clicked. Bhatia. “Wait. I do know you. I thought your first name was Ruby.”

“That was a long time ago. My parents tried to Americanize me so I wouldn’t stick out so badly. But I couldn’t help it. Between my accent, my skin, my clothes, and my culture shock, I might as well have had a target painted on me too.”