Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
POLLY
“Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.
Sarah J. Maas, Kingdom of Ash
E ven though it was ninety degrees outside, it was freezing in the high school’s main conference room that Friday. The room looked sleek and modern with a SMART Board at the front. I rubbed my hands together for warmth. Brad Goldenstein would be here any minute. I’d met with Rose yesterday and practiced what I wanted to say with Jace last night. I felt ready. I could do this. I’d spent a lifetime talking to intimidating men who wanted to use me as a pawn.
I was practically a professional.
Though, I regretted my outfit choice. Not because it wasn’t fabulous—I’d worn a lavender blouse that matched the fading tips of my hair, linen pants, and peep toe wedges that I had bought but never yet worn. I felt fresh and light and . . . freezing. My only regret is that I didn’t pair my outfit with a jacket. I inched closer to Rose to huddle for warmth. We’d tried to change the thermostat but apparently it was programmed to a certain temperature.
“Guess this is what they mean by hell freezin’ over,” Rose whispered, making me chortle just before the door opened and two men walked in.
The taller of the two men with deep-set eyes and a kind smile wore a green polo shirt with the school logo on it. He must be Mr. Sievers, the guidance counselor I’d talked to and heard so much about from Rose.
The other man was shorter and a little older, I’d place him around mid-fifties, with unnaturally black hair. He wore a white golf shirt and black slacks. This had to be Brad Goldenstein.
Rose gestured between us. “Reggie, Mr. Goldenstein, welcome. This here’s Dr. Polly Alberton, the new school district medical director.”
The man in the white polo tsked as Rose. “Future medical director, you mean. It still has to be approved by the school board.”
“Indeed. How do you do?” I abruptly held out my hand to the man, wanting to shield Rose as much as possible. His stare was assessing as he grasped my hand. I tried not to shudder; his hand was cold and clammy.
“Brad Goldenstein. President of the school board. I own a manufacturing company called Goldensteel. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Unfortunately, not.”
“Wait, did you say your last name was Alberton?” He looked dubious, like he was just learning my last name right now even though he’d sent me an email which had my last name as part of the address.
I nodded and tried to extricate my hand from his sweaty grip.
“Any relationship to Judge Alberton?”
I sighed inwardly. “Yes, he’s my father.”
Instantly brightening, Mr. Goldenstein smiled disingenuously, then covered our shaking hands with his other one. It was equally cold and clammy.
“In that case, please call me Brad. And if you ever want a tour of the Goldensteel, I’d be happy to oblige. Your father has been there before. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
I suppressed another shudder. I’d met these kinds of people before. The ones that liked to suckle at the power teat.
There would be no suckling at this power teat for Mr. Goldensweatyhands.
Happily, Brad dropped my hand when the man in the green polo next to him extended his own toward me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Alberton. I’m Mr. Sievers, but please call me Reggie. Everybody here does. If someone yelled out Mr. Sievers, I’d probably start looking for my grandaddy.” I smiled, instantly liking him, his soft twang and smile putting me at ease.
I glanced at Rose as Reggie spoke and did a double take. Her cheeks were pink as she stared with heart eyes at “Call me Reggie” Sievers.
“Thank you, Reggie. I look forward to working with you.”
“Should we sit?” Rose asked, gesturing to the conference table.
I took my place next to Rose, thankful when Reggie sat across from me. I wanted to stay as far away from Brad as possible.
“Mr. Sievers and I wanted to be here for this meetin’ because, as y’all know, our school district received the Mill Grant last year. With Dr. Dixon retirin’, I’ve been workin’ with Dr. Alberton here, and I can already tell that with her experience as a pediatrician, she’ll be able to help us so we can use the grant money to its best advantage. You were so proactive, Mr. Goldenstein, to want to meet with Dr. Alberton here, and I couldn’t agree more. I thought it’d be a great opportunity so we could all go through the new grant proposal together.”
Reggie was nodding encouragingly to Rose and Brad continued to look smarmily suspicious. That’s the direct opposite of magically delicious, in case you were wondering.
“Thank you, Rose,” I said, then faced Reggie and Brad. “First, let me say, I’m very excited about this opportunity. I reviewed the grant proposal as well as how many students currently have an IEP or 504 plan. Hiring special education advocates would be of great assistance to the students, as the special education staff are not currently able to manage the volume of students effectively. I’ve also been working on expanding the referral pool of specialty providers so the district can help accommodate and expedite medical evaluation times.”
Rose held out a folder to Brad. “We have an updated proposal here. If you’d like, we can email it to the members of the school board before the meetin’ next week.”
Brad sighed loudly as he flipped through the pages. I glanced to Rose who gave me a discrete thumbs up so I continued on.
“A few of the issues we wanted to address today, were some things the district can do better to identify the needs of the students within the district. First, we have examples of surveys we could send to every family to evaluate how many students will be requesting accommodation. That way, we can better estimate the volume of need to determine how many advocates should be hired.”
“What kind of survey questions are you proposing?” Reggie asked.
“Well,” Rose answered eagerly, “the survey questions would help get a rough percentage of students that may need accommodations for the next school year, who are already gettin’ services outside of school, or help figure out if they just want more information about the programs.”
Brad scoffed. “You think parents are willing to give this information to the school? I can’t imagine they want this publicized.”
My irritation spiked at his derisive tone—particularly because it was aimed at Rose, who was sunshine in human form. Still, I plastered a neutral expression on my face. “It’s an anonymous survey. In addition, we wanted to send out an informational email to lay out, step by step, how an IEP and 504 plan are created. One of the biggest barriers to receiving accommodations is from a fundamental misunderstanding about how the process works. Ultimately, I’m hoping to expand it to a monthly email that could include information about mental health screening, learning disability diagnosis and prevalence, the difference between an IEP and 504 plan, et cetera.”
As I spoke, Brad’s passive expression deepened into a frown. “You’d have to get those contents approved by the school board,” he said, eyes sharpening on me.
“Absolutely.” I nodded, staring right back at him. “The last thing we’re proposing is partnering with local health clinics. Access to care is a big problem, and with the grant funding, we propose partnering with area providers. Not only will that help connect families to reputable providers, but we could also offer a stipend to help pay for the provider fees.”
Brad cleared his throat loudly. “This sounds like a wasteful use of the grant dollars to me. Why would we pay outside doctors, lining their already rich pockets?”
I glanced at Rose, who was likely thinking the same thing.
Bless. His. Heart.
“And how many kids are we really talking about here?” Brad continued. “We only have a couple thousand students.”
Rose jumped in then. “Over the last decade, we’ve seen a significant rise in the number of students requestin’ accommodations for mental health concerns like anxiety, ADHD, autism, and depression—just to name a few of ’em. Why, in our district alone about forty percent of the plans last year were for kids with mental health conditions, which was—” Rose flipped through the pages in front of her, looking for the number.
“Seventy-five students,” Reggie added softly, smiling at Rose encouragingly.
Rose flushed scarlet and stammered, “Right, seventy-five kids. And that number’s only gettin’ bigger.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Seventy-five kids? The entire football and basketball teams are at least twice that size. You’re wanting to spend the entire grant on seventy-five kids instead of all the other normal ones?”
I physically rocked back into my seat. Did he just classify kids into normal and abnormal?
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“We are much better off using my own proposal. Bettering our sports fields prevent injury, and better yet, expanding the sports programs to include everyone, the normal kids and the kids who have physical disabilities. Heck, it could help the depressed kids, too. They’re free to join a sport. After all, exercise makes those things that make you feel happy . . . what are they called?” Brad made a rolling hand gesture, appearing to be searching for the word.
“Endorphins?” I ventured.
“Yeah, that’s right. If you ask me what those kids need, it’s playing a sport. That’ll help them more than any school program or doctor ever could.”
Enraged, I wanted to stand up and shout, “ Please define those kids !” Instead, I dug deep and forced an amiable expression on my face.
“Mr. Goldenstein, may I ask you a personal question?”
Brad crossed his arms and nodded.
“Do you have any health conditions?”
He scoffed. “I’m the picture of health.”
I’m sure.
“Nothing? No asthma, allergies, high blood pressure?” I kept my face neutral.
“I take a pill for blood pressure,” Brad said loftily.
“Ok. So, when you were in your doctor’s office and they diagnosed you with said high blood pressure, instead of offering you a medication or talking about lifestyle changes, like exercise and diet, did the doctor look at you and tell you to just, get over it?”
Brad jerked back. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s right, that’s not what you’re proposing. So, then, your doctor must have told you to join a sports team?”
Brad’s face turned a very satisfying color of pink as I held my hands together under the tablet to keep them from trembling.
“Look, if you want to make me the bad guy, go ahead. But there’s a big difference between something you have no control over versus something that’s all in your head.”
It’s like the years I’d had with my father were mere practice to face this blowhole. I metaphorically pushed my sleeves up: it was time for school.
“Certainly, you are aware that learning disabilities, ADHD, depression, anxiety, and autism spectrum disorders are all recognized diagnosable disorders, much like high blood pressure. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Brad rose from his seat, trying to exert the authority he thought he had over me by standing. “You can talk down to me all you want. But high blood pressure is a lot different than some kid who’s sad their girlfriend broke up with them.”
And now, I had him.
“You’re right. But I’m not talking about the emotion of “sadness”. I’m talking about quantifiable, diagnosable, well-accepted mental health diagnoses, that happen to be protected disabilities under the state law of Tennessee. Did you know that a major depressive episode afflicts fifteen percent of teenagers across the country? It’s not something a child can just wake up and ‘get over’ by joining a sports team. Mental health conditions are not character flaws. You can’t will them away, that’s not within the student’s control.”
I’d like to say I sounded calm. But that’d be a lie.
“What is within their control, is getting help through counseling, medication, and lifestyle management like exercise and a regular sleep routine and school accommodations. Those are evidence-based therapies that kids don’t get either because they have parents like you who write off their medical problems like they’re a character flaw or because they have no financial means of obtaining such treatment.”
Brad sneered, “I don’t know who you think you are?—”
With trembling legs, I stood. The she-dragon inside of me had awoken in a fury from a long hibernation—likely from having smelled the scent of frailty from the smallest man who ever lived from the other side of the table—and she was ready for breakfast. She wasn’t going to take this from him.
And neither was I.
“I’m Dr. Polly Alberton, we met a few minutes ago, in case you’re having memory concerns. Low testosterone can do that to a man.”
I said that last part aloud; I literally couldn’t help myself.
“And if you continue to attach labels like abnormal to students with mental health problems, you are perpetuating the stigmatization of these disorders, exacerbating the problems these children face. I am sorry that this meeting happened this way, but I am afraid if this is your position, there is nothing left to say here, except that I will see you at the school board meeting next week.”
After giving me another glare, Brad stormed out of the conference room.
Liberation twisted with nausea in my gut as I wiped my palms up and down my trembling thighs. I’d never felt better standing up to that sniveling turd of a man. I felt like climbing to the top of the school and belting out “We are the Champions” at the top of my voice.
Beside me, Rose looked awestruck. Reggie, thankfully, was smiling wide.
A Cheshire grin spread over my face. “I think I made a friend.”