Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Devon
I’m sweating like I’ve been sitting in a steam room for an hour.
I’ve told myself repeatedly that this would be just like Back-to-School Night—that I would say my spiel, get my point across with a smile and some well-placed humor, then get the heck out.
But the truth is, this is nothing like BTSN.
This is nothing less than the most important thing I’ve ever done.
The cafeteria at our middle school is packed with parents and teachers and administrators.
Seven school board members sit at a string of long tables on the stage, my superintendent, Dr. Franklin, amongst them.
Five of them are bent over their cellphones looking particularly bored by the chatter and laughter bouncing off the metal walls of our auditorium.
When Dr. Franklin approaches the microphone, the speakers flanking the stage release an ear-splitting sound that I now believe is done on purpose to shut people up.
It works. The crowd shuffles and slides into their seats and Dr. Franklin pushes his glasses up higher on his nose and begins.
“Hopefully, you all grabbed a copy of the agenda as you came in. Let me first start by thanking you for coming out here tonight in this awful weather.” He pauses and gives the audience a practiced smile.
“You probably noticed that we’re starting with open microphone tonight, so that you folks can get home earlier and get warm. ”
Bullshit. They start with open mic so the parents can miss the political nonsense they pass at the end of the meeting. If they aren’t here to hear it, then they can’t fight it.
“So, let’s take attendance and then open it up to you fine people.”
He begins to call the names of the remaining school board members, who barely look up from their phones in order to stand and give a small wave.
He ends with the president, a middle-aged blonde woman who I recognize immediately when she stands from the president’s seat and looks out at the crowd for the first time.
My pulse races. It’s Mrs. Stoner. And she looks tired.
Defeated. My heart crumples a little for her.
Jessica is doing well in her inpatient treatment, but she’ll be at the facility for weeks to come.
And I’m not a mother, but I can imagine that none of this is easy for her.
The temptation to tuck tail and make a beeline for the double doors is so strong that I have to grip the edge of my seat. Remember who you are doing this for.
“Alright, all present and accounted for. The floor is officially open for concerns, suggestions, and questions,” Dr. Franklin tells us before he turns and heads back to his seat.
I stand—force my feet to move—as I whisper “excuse me” to the people I squeeze by, ignoring their curious and perhaps judgmental looks as I make my way to the podium placed in the middle of the cafeteria floor that faces the board of ed.
I have no notecards—no speech written on paper—just the words burned into my heart.
The words my friends and family helped me find.
I stand behind the podium and send a silent thank you to Tara for the pair of heels I found left in her closet. Even with them, I have to lower the microphone to meet my needs, and it shrieks its protest, as expected. But the room was already silent.
I stare at the black bulb I’m meant to speak into and take a deep breath. It wasn’t so long ago that a microphone turned on me and attacked like a cobra. But if it hadn’t, I’d never have met Jeff. And that’s an alternate universe I’d never want to consider.
“Good evening parents, fellow teachers, administrators, and board members,” I begin, my voice as shaky as my hands. I take a deep breath and look around the room. Find my school guidance counselor, Elizabeth, and focus on her smiling face—take strength from it.
“I’m Devon Gallagher and I’ve been lucky enough to teach eighth grade math in this district for the past ten years.”
As I shift my gaze from Lizzie, I notice more familiar faces—parents of students past and present. Families that have touched my life and sent kind words that I too have touched theirs.
I stand a bit straighter.
“It’s with a heavy heart that I stand here tonight to give my notice of resignation from my position.” My voice does not shake this time.
The room fills with hushed whispers and Dr. Franklin looks around, stands, and makes his way to the microphone.
“Ms. Gallagher first let me thank you for your service to our community these past ten years. I’ve had your name pass my desk on several occasions and always in midst of accolades and gratitude,” he says. He pauses, meeting my gaze. “You do know that a simple letter of resignation would suffice—”
I lift a hand.
“I apologize, Dr. Franklin, but in this case, it would not.”
He lifts his grey eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak again, but then thinks better of it and nods before returning to his seat beside the school board president. She is staring at me with an expression I cannot read—and perhaps don’t want to.
“The reason I’m speaking here tonight is to remind us all of our district’s mission statement: ‘We seek to create an equitable education for all students to ensure that they are fully respected and respect—”
“Ms. Gallagher, I believe we all know our district’s mission statement, as we end each board meeting with it,” says a woman at the end of the table. The brown plaque in front of her reads Mrs. Graham. Not a familiar name.
I shake my head. If only she would listen to those words.
“We all may know the words, Mrs. Graham, but sometimes we need a reminder of what they mean.”
She sits back, lets out a long breath that hits the microphone and makes a deep static. And I continue.
“These words have always been easy for me to live by—to respect every individual no matter what they believe, look like, who they love or identify as—no matter what they battle silently in their minds. And, believe me, they battle. More than any of us could ever imagine. Every student who has passed through my class has felt respected in every possible way, despite the difficulties this district has presented in making that happen.”
Dr. Franklin shifts his weight and his metal chair makes a screeching sound on the stage. I stare right at him.
“Five years ago, I was told not to discuss mental health in my classroom. Against all of my better judgement and every National Mental Health Organization’s expert advice, I was quieted about a subject that should be discussed openly and often.
I was told it is not my area of expertise. I was told to ‘stay in my lane.’
“After several months of confusion, silence, and frustrated tears, I decided to make mental health my lane. I went back to school, received a master’s in adolescent psychology, all so I could uphold this district’s mission statement.
And despite our contracted tuition reimbursement program for teachers’ continuing education, I was denied.
‘Irrelevant subject continuity.’ Irrelevant?
Is there anything more relevant in this world than your children’s mental health?
” I meet the gazes of the parents I recognize.
A low murmur breaks out across the auditorium and I see Dr. Franklin go to stand up.
But just then, the auditorium doors open, and there is Sydney with that smile.
She steps to the side and holds the door, ushering in dozens of current and past students, some older than I’d care to admit.
I can feel my eyes fill up at the sight of them as they make their way down the center aisle to stand behind me. My people.
“I didn’t quit then. I couldn’t. I needed to be here for them—” I wave my arm toward the group behind me. Goodness, there must be fifty of them. Syd did her job well. I motion to her to make her way up onto the stage.
“Sydney, one of my former students, and now a lifetime part of my family is going to show you a poster.”
Syd makes her way up the steps onto the stage, gives a little head nod to each of the board members, then turns and unrolls my crisis hotline poster.
“Many of you have seen this before. Maybe you even have one where you work, but for those who don’t know, it’s a piece of paper that has saved many lives.
Some lives that happen to be in this room today.
This poster has been hanging in my room for many years.
This year, I was asked to take it down by someone who has promised to uphold this district’s mission statement.
I refused, and months later, along with my power to help children the best way I know how, it disappeared from my room. ”
The murmurs erupt into full blown chatter and Dr. Franklin moves swiftly to stand beside Sydney on the stage.
“Surely you aren’t accusing an administrator of stealing your posters, Ms. Gallagher,” he says.
I shake my head.
“I’m not. I’m not here to make accusations. I’m here to advocate for my students—to remind you that, despite your beliefs, they have the right to feel safe and respected. To get help when they need it.”
I turn to the young adults behind me and nod.
One by one, they approach the wall of the auditorium and hang up the signs and posters they made.
The gentle clicking of their magnets connecting with the wall sounds like someone banging away on a typewriter.
Some of them are exact replicas of the ones stolen from my room and some are more personal.
Statements of who they are—who they love—what they face every day.
When the last magnet clicks into place, and the final student turns and meets my gaze, I let the tears fall silently as I take them in.
Then I nod, turn to the microphone, and say, “Thank you for these ten amazing years. I wish all of your children the best.”
I turn, walk down the center aisle between the metal seats, eyeing the black cord that runs along the path.
But this time I make it without humiliation, my focus so singular that I barely hear the sound of murmured thank yous and growing applause as I push through the auditorium door.
I just want to get out without incident—get home to my mother to celebrate the call I received from Dr. Basantis—to even out the adrenaline now pumping through my system with a nice cold beer.
But I hear my name being called as I step out into the miserable wet chill and I stop wrestling with my jacket and slow my pace.
“Please, Ms. Gallagher. I need—”
I stop, swallow down a freezing gulp of wind, and turn to find Mrs. Stoner staring at me—her face red from the chase. Or from anger.
“Ms. Gallagher. We need to talk.”
I shut my eyes, ready to be berated for my role in her daughter’s treatment.
She needs someone to blame, and here I am, wet and cold and ripe for the picking.
But no angry words hit me. I open one eye to see where they could have hit instead to find Jessica Stoner’s mother trying hard to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher. There’s no—I should have—I didn’t know.
” She lets out a low sound, a mix between a sob and a whimper and her pain shakes me so hard I feel it in my teeth.
“That’s wrong. I knew. I knew something was going on.
I was too scared to act. Jessica had always been so bright.
So together. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know where to turn. And now—”
Her words are cut off by her hands covering her face as another howl of icy wind slices through the parking lot between us.
“I understand, Mrs. Stoner.” And as I look at her fall apart before me, thinking of my own mother, I do. I’m not a mom, but I can feel the guilt radiating off of her like it’s heat. “There’s no handbook for this. No training for being a mom.”
She slides her hands off her face and lets out a breath.
“You saved her life,” she whispers, she puts both hands out in front of her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I take her hands and squeeze, then put everything I have into what I tell her.
“None of this is your fault. It’s no one’s fault. Jessica will be ok.”
She holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity. Then she nods, thanks me again, and makes her way back through the doors that I passed through for 185 days of every year for the last decade of my life.