The Student and the Closet (P.2)

The class was aware of my American accent (schools are rumor mills by nature), so like many times before, had their questions ready. These questions revolved around a little about my childhood, if I had ever been to Disneyland, and if I had ever been shot at with a real gun. When the last question was asked, and my answer framed in the positive, all heads leaned forward to hear this story in graphic detail, hoping there would be descriptions of blood somewhere in the tale. To be fair, like these twelve-year-old's, I too grew up on advertising, where shootouts and car chases on TV and films is common fare.

“C'mon Mr. Middleton, tell us what happened, please...”

Rather then go into detail about this childhood experience here. Let's simply say a 22' caliber bullet came too close to the back of my head to ricochet off a trunk of a tree. Though there was no blood involved in the story, the students appeared to enjoy it, reinforcing their cliched' notions of the United States of America.

The student in question is Bradley Wheaten, a throw-back to the '30s Depression and he remained quiet throughout the entire class. The bell rang to end the first day of school, and my new students left happy. As I was gathering up my things, I could hear a scuffle just outside the door. Walking out, it was Bradley and another boy wrestling on the hallway floor. Separating the two, I asked what started it, and an older girl in the crowd spoke up, a witness to the crime.

“Jack called Bradley a pig, telling him he stunk, and to take a bath. Bradley jumped on him and...”

“Okay, thank you, I got it. Come with me, boys.”

I frogged them to the office, to find the principal and the rest of the administration behind closed doors in a meeting. This left me no option but to skip the principal and give both boys detention the following day. I handed them both the “green slip.” and said, “Certainly not a good way to start the year, but I'll see you two tomorrow at 3:30 in my homeroom”. I released the culprits and walked to the teachers' lounge.

Entering I found Mr. Phillips, the schools head gym teacher, and told him about the fight, and Bradley Wheaten.

Phillips' had Bradley's “dossier” at hand, a report from their elementary school about their academic status and other details they'd care to share with us. The boy's academic grades were average, but his home life was a different matter. Of course, he lived with his mother, no father, divorced, with two siblings, both babies. There had been signs of neglect, but nothing that had any cause to follow-up on. This caused me to pause. Because his appearance, in my view, in itself, was enough to begin a formal investigation into his home life. The gym teacher and I decided to keep a close eye on the boy and his behavior.

A week passed, and Bradley came to school every day but never seemed to have washed. Last week, I noticed a smell about him, a mix of body odor and dirt. I found Mr. Phillips, and we came to the same conclusion. (As an aside, in most public schools in Victoria, the students were not required to shower.) I had an idea.

“Rather then bring attention to his personal hygiene, causing the boy to feel guilty, why not really work him in Gym class, and tell him to take a shower, along with a few others, that might help the boy's self-esteem”. Phillip's agreed to the idea, and the plan was to be executed the next school day.

At the end of the day, I entered the teacher's lounge and found Mr. Phillips.

“So tell, how did you go?”

“I made the boys do laps around the court for the whole period. I suggested the shower, and all of them, including Bradley, agreed. So, Bradley is now clean.”

“Well done, Mr. Phillips! One day at a time, right?”

“Right,” he said.

The next school day, Bradley is conspicuously absent. He had never missed a day since the start of the school year. I knew in my gut that something is wrong.

As it turned out, I was right.