“Miss Mack, I’ve got a terrible headache,”
said the boy in my office doorway.
Hmm. Maybe, maybe not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Always in the back of my head…
The worst case scenario actually happened a few years back.
I knew that Gary was flimflamming me on a daily basis.
Knew it.
Every day, every day,
“Miss Mack, my back is killing me,” he’d say,
And I did not believe him
because he was so healthy looking,
because he was a discipline office poster child,
because I was harried and hurried
and my sympathy bone worn down by too many boys
using me as a way to legally cut class way too often.
Yes, I’d give Gary the parentally approved Tylenol
and send him back to class,
but I (cringe to remember) did it grudgingly.
I could have been way more sympathetic
and was
later
when his parents finally took the boy to the doctor
where he was diagnosed with the worst word you ever want not to hear.
Massive shudder.
Gary fought a war you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy
and lost a lot of battles
but, thank whatever you put your faith in,
he won the war
and lived to get sent to the Discipline office quite a few more times
where, I will admit, we cut the kid a hell of a lot of slack.
He really wasn’t a bad kid, just a pain in the ass,
and, well, the boy-sized mischief he routinely got into was nothing
compared to the man-sized horror he he’d lived through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Miss Mack, I’ve got a terrible headache,” said the boy in my office doorway.
Hmm. Maybe, maybe not.
I’ve seen Jeffrey in my office way too often not to suspect a bit of chicanery.
This kid looks healthy to me
and I’d really like to boot him out with a mild scolding,
but I can’t.
How can I really tell whether he’s suffering from actual dolor de cabeza
or simply a mild case of CES (Classroom Escape Syndrome)?
So I have to give him the Tylenol.
That doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun though.
“What?” I say, just to make him repeat it
(because I really don’t believe him,
almost
almost completely don’t).
His hand to his brow, he states it again.
“I’ve got an awful head-ache.
Can I have some Tylenol?”
“Oh baby, that’s awful,
but, you know, I think it’s all in your head.”
I say it with a completely straight face.
His eyes get wide and innocent, in a way that just convinces me,
he’s fibbing and he just can’t believe I’m calling him on it.
“No, really. My head’s throbbing.”
And I play along, shaking my head in belief.
“I know, it’s completely in your head.”
“Miss Mack, you gotta believe me.
Really, I got a headache!”
He says it way louder than a headache sufferer would.
I smile, reach for the industrial-size pill bottle,
pop the top and hand him two.
“And it is completely in your head.”
Realization spreads across his face
in a smile his parents paid thousands of dollars to perfect.
Headache feigning forgotten for a moment, he laughs.
“Hey! I got it.
My headache is all in my head.
Ha! That’s a really good one.”
I hand him a cup for the water fountain
and a pass.
“Get to class, Jeffrey. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
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