#38. My school (a very out-side-the-box place) has an “inter-grade service” requirement. (In fact, this school is so cool it surprises me that they even use grade-level designations.) Oliver and I team up.
Oliver walks home with the twins and me today. Fall baseball practice was canceled and the two of us need help. We’re having milk and warm brownies in the breakfast nook. Mimi is elbow-deep in the sink, scouring brownie pans.
While I break off the crusty edge pieces, I do a come-over wave to Mimi. Mimi, I’ll dry later. I pat the empty space near me in the nook. Come sit. We need mature guidance.
Mature guidance? She chuckles.
(Then I realize Mimi might be thinking “uh oh, more on explicit lyrics?” She shouldn’t be insecure about handling these grown-up issues with me. Read her comment to blog entry #37; it’s SO wise.)
She fits the last pan on the drying rack and sinks down next to me. What’s up, Isabel?
I tell her about the buddy program. Oliver and I are assigned to this little boy. I look to see if Oliver wants to pitch in, but he and the twins are wolfing down their second brownies. (They don’t “edge-munch.”) We don’t know if it’s going to work out.
While still chewing, Oliver speaks. (Brownie goo is smeared on his front incisor and canine tooth.) We think our teachers must have matched Isabel and me deliberately with this little fellow. This sort of pairing is done like this. (Of course he’s read a Pinterest article called “Buddy Programs: Pitfalls and Procedures.”) The guys who like race cars get little guys who like race cars. The girls who always wear frilly dresses have little girls who have frilly dresses.
Balderdash, I think.
So Isabel and I share this one kid, Arturo. We’re the only ones who share.
Is it because they had one too many older kids to be mentors? Mimi asks. Because Isabel registered after they figured out numbers, or something like that?
I answer Mimi. That’s what we thought until we met Arturo.
Mimi! Oliver gulps his milk, swishes it a bit, and swipes his mouth with his kerchief. (The brownie goo is gone.) Mimi, I think it’s because the teacher knew it would take two smart, exceptional, resourceful, self-starter types.
I smirk, but Mimi nods. Oliver is serious. Really, he shakes his head. This assignment is difficult!
Why is that? Mimi asks.
He won’t talk, Mimi, I say.
Won’t talk or can’t talk? Mimi asks.
Won’t, says Oliver. His teacher said he’s an “elective mute.” That means he’s decided not to talk anymore.
So, hmmm, says Mimi. Your little buddy–Arturo, right?–something happened to him? A trauma?
ISABEL SCHEHERAZADE (buddy, sister, friend, student, grand-daughter, talker, blogger. And orphan)
PS. To be continued. Right now, we’re all going to the twins’ soccer game—even Oliver and Zia. We’ve knit ourselves into one family it seems. I like it: Brother Oliver. We all call Miss Mary “Zia” now too. At the game, Sam and Clyde will make us happy. They race around like swarming bees, sometimes near the ball, sometimes forgetting the object of the game completely. Dear boys. Since meeting poor Arturo, I look at Clyde and Sam with more indulgence or maybe it’s compassion; I’m glad they didn’t “elect to mute”—not that we can understand what they’re saying very well, but at least they’re trying.
While the soccer kids scrum and roll about, I catch Pop up on Arturo. Does ANYONE have NO problems? I wail.
Pop rubs his chin and shakes his head, Now Isabel, that wouldn’t be very interesting, would it?