3 Berry
Berry
When my phone starts blaring in the middle of the staff meeting, nobody seems surprised to see me snatch it from the conference
table and hustle out to the hallway.
“Hello?”
The caller ID shows the main number from the high school. I’m hoping it’s only the nurse calling about another minor issue
and not a teacher or administrator. I can hardly believe the number of times I’ve had to defend my son to higher-ups at that
school, to explain to them that everyone would fare better if the school would just make a greater effort to respect Leo’s
particular needs. He’s not trying to make trouble. I brace for whatever might be coming.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Becker. It’s Brian Chung.”
Yup. Here we go again. I don’t take the opportunity to remind the principal that my last name is Selinger. As much as I’d
love to share a last name with my two sons, the name Berry is ridiculous enough on its own, though I prefer it over my full
name, Bernice. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I glance heavenward, as I do every time I have an internal dialogue with either of my dearly departed parents. Berry Becker would be even worse, so I’ve stuck with my maiden name.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Chung?” I ask, trying my damnedest to put a little sugar in my tone.
“We’ve had an incident with Leo.”
“Oh?” I learned long ago never to say too much. You’ve got to take time to digest, to reflect. And you certainly never want
to give people anything they can use against your kid. I hold my breath and wait for the principal to start telling me, yet
again, how difficult it is for them to have Leo, and all his sensitivities, in their perfect little school.
“Leo didn’t do anything wrong, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Well, this is a first.
“Another student, a junior, asked him to be her date to the junior prom.”
“Oh!” I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear that. Prom! It’s all I can do not to squeal. My thoughts flash to tuxedos and boutonnieres.
Do kids still do all of that? Harrison wore sneakers with his tux six years ago, but at least I talked him into a bow tie.
I’d assumed Leo wouldn’t ever go to a prom. I’m giddy! I mean, it’s no surprise that a girl, even an older one, would take
interest in a face like Leo’s. For all the criticism the kid takes, everyone agrees he’s a looker.
“Unfortunately,” Chung continues, bringing me down from my high, “Leo thought it was a trick, that he was being mocked. He
got very upset and went straight to Mike Cromwell’s office, but Mike’s up on the roof, doing something with the gutters. Leo
insisted on waiting for him to finish, but Mike’s still out there, and Leo’s missed his bus home at this point. We’re going
to need you to come get him.”
Oh, for the love of God.
It’s been only two weeks since Opal officially retired. She also informed the rest of the staff that I’d be temporarily stepping
into her role until a permanent replacement is hired. This is the first staff meeting since that announcement, so I can’t
just up and leave. It was one thing as assistant principal—we made it work. But acting as principal is a whole new ball of
wax, full of obligations I can’t pawn off at a moment’s notice simply because of Leo’s insistence on speaking to Mike Cromwell.
Mike is the facilities manager of Southreach Senior High School, and even though he’s pushing forty, he’s Leo’s only other
friend at school besides Sebastian. When Leo started high school the year before, he spent so much time watching Mike and
his guys do work around the property that Mike took an interest in him. They talk shop from time to time, trading tips about
wires and batteries and who knows what. And now, when Leo has a bad day at school, Mike Cromwell is the man he goes to see.
You wouldn’t expect the same guy who oversees building operations to be the safe haven for a teenager who struggles with autism,
but there you have it, folks. People surprise us. When you have a child like Leo, you find kindness in places where you least
expect it.
“I’ll call my husband,” I say before ending the call and immediately dialing Phil.
“Please tell me you’re almost home,” I say as soon as he picks up.
“Nope, still out in Simsbury.” His words are clipped like he wants to hang up, like he only answered to make sure this isn’t
an emergency.
Nikki Watts, one of our fifth-grade teachers, pokes her head out of the conference room. She’s looking to see if I’m coming back to the meeting. I hold up a finger to indicate I’ll be one more minute. She nods as if it’s no big deal, but my head starts to pound.
“Shit.” The expletive slips before I can catch myself. Phil hates when I curse, but old habits die hard.
“What is it? Do you need me?” he asks, his voice suddenly gentler, more like how it used to be. Before his mom died, we still
communicated like people who took comfort in each other’s existence.
Once I’ve explained the situation, he clams up again. “Just ask Harrison. He’ll do it.”
“No, Phil!” I nearly screech. “We’re not going to just ask Harrison. We can’t keep relying on him like this. He’s got a job, remember? He can’t just walk out anytime his autistic brother needs
a hand. He’s already helping us out more than he should.” Poor Harrison has spent most of his life accommodating his brother’s
special needs, never complaining about how much attention Leo got when they were younger (and still gets, frankly). For their
whole lives, endless responsibility has fallen on Harrison as his kid brother’s keeper. It’s long past time for us to set
Harrison free. Yet here we are again.
I scurry even farther from the conference room until I reach the end of the hallway. The wall beside me is decorated with
self-portraits the fourth graders painted. Those pictures need to be taken down and returned to the children before summer,
and I keep meaning to email Jean, the art teacher, about it. Just one more task that’s gotten away from me.
“I’m calling Yvonne.”
Phil balks at the mention of my sister. We both know how this will go.
Yvonne will gladly figure out how to get to Leo, just as she does every time we ask her for help.
When she picks him up, she’ll pepper him with questions the whole ride home.
Leo has always enjoyed her company, her no-bullshit approach to life, and he’ll be fine riding with her.
But later, once he’s settled at home and everyone is back from work, she’ll call to tell us all the new information Leo revealed to her, all the ways we should be parenting differently.
As usual, she’ll use today’s incident as another example of why I should have been tougher on Leo from the beginning—as if pushing the kid into situations he wasn’t ready for, or ignoring his howls of agony when we encouraged him to try uncomfortable things, would have helped him grow into a more well-adjusted person who’d understand when a girl is flirting with him.
“You’re going to regret that,” Phil says.
I picture Leo huddled in Mike Cromwell’s office, and my heart hurts. Nobody really gets it, what it’s like to be the mom of
a child with autism—the frustration and guilt that eat away at you, the isolation you can feel from friends, colleagues, even
your spouse.
“You know what, Phil?” I spit back through the phone, thinking about how much he’s retreated into himself over these past
ten months, telling me repeatedly that he’s handling his emotions about his mom his way, but mostly just shutting me out. “At least she’s there for him. And for me.”
I end the call without waiting for him to respond. Leo has to be my first priority.