Kitabı oku: «Ghost Girl: The true story of a child in desperate peril – and a teacher who saved her», sayfa 2
Chapter Two
That first morning was hell. No use pretending otherwise. Jeremiah was a nightmare. Every time my back was turned, he bolted out the door. He never went far, usually didn’t even leave the building, but since he knew the building, whereas I didn’t, he had no trouble eluding me. If I left him to his own devices and refused to chase him, he dashed up and down the corridors, banging on the other classroom doors. On one occasion, he got into the office and messed up all the internal mail. On another, he pulled off toilet paper and blocked all the toilets in both the boys’ and the girls’ rest rooms. And one time when I did chase after him, he got back into the classroom when I was out looking for him and locked me out. This was all before 11:30.
In contrast, Philip huddled in his chair and whimpered, cringing away from me every time I approached. When I tried to encourage him to join in the singing or listen to a story, he clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and rocked the chair frantically back and forth.
Reuben was in a frenzy most of the time. Up, out of his chair, he sailed around the room, deftly touching the wall with his fingertips as he moved and all the while making a soft, whirring sound. Then he’d stop, momentarily mesmerized by a dangling pull on the roller blind or some other odd object, but before I could corral him and try to reorient him, he would shoot off again. And toilet trained he may have been, but twice he whipped down his pants and peed into the trash can beside the bookshelf.
In the middle of all this was Jadie, carrying on as if she were in a completely normal classroom. Without being instructed to do so, she ferreted out her workbooks for math and reading, sat down and completed a few pages, returned them to be corrected, found a spelling sheet on the shelf, did that, handed it into the basket on the teacher’s desk, then sought out a cassette, put it into the recorder, and slipped the earphones on. Occasionally, she would glance in my direction as I struggled with the boys, but otherwise she seemed impervious to my presence.
I felt immense relief when the lunch bell rang. Jeremiah, whom I’d just recaptured, heard it, too, and was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him. The second-grade teacher, whose room was next door to mine, was already out in the hallway lining up her children when I bolted by after Jeremiah. She smiled warmly and put her hand out. “I’ll catch him on the way down,” she said.
“Thanks,” I replied in a heartfelt tone.
I must have looked as overwhelmed as I was feeling, because she smiled again in the same warm, sympathetic way. “Want me to take your others with mine? I’m going down to the lunchroom anyway.”
“That’d be really great.”
Going back into the classroom, I was dismayed to discover that now Jadie, too, had disappeared. I returned to the hall with Philip and Reuben.
“Oh, she goes home for lunch. She lives just across the street, so she doesn’t eat here,” the teacher replied when I explained that I’d lost another one. She abruptly extended her hand. “By the way, I’m Lucy McLaren. Welcome aboard.”
I hung out my tongue in an expression of exhaustion. “I usually do better than this. Even on first days. But they’ve got the advantage at the moment. They know the ropes and I don’t.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing all right. You’ve already lasted longer than a couple of the substitutes. There was one that left after about half an hour.” And she laughed.
Back in the empty classroom, I threw myself down into one of the small chairs with the idea of catching my breath a moment before going down for the grand entrance into the teachers’ lounge, an experience almost on a par with facing a new class. Five minutes’ relaxation, I thought, and then I’d get my lunch and go down.
Abruptly, a scuffling rattle came from the cloakroom. Relaxed almost to a point of sleepiness in the silent classroom, I was badly startled by the noise. Jerking upright in the chair, I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.
Jadie appeared in the cloakroom doorway.
“You’re still here? I thought you’d gone home for lunch.”
Because of her hunched posture, Jadie had to tilt her head back at a difficult angle and peer through her eyebrows to see me, but look at me she did, her gaze steady and intent.
I, too, studied her. Her hair was very dark, almost black, as were her brows and lashes. Her eyes, in contrast, were a clear, pure blue. With her scruffy homemade clothes and tangled mass of hair, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but there was a knowing, almost come-hither kind of expression in her eyes that lent her a certain beauty.
“You want to know something?” I asked.
No response. No step nearer, no blink, not even a breath that I could see.
“Come over here.” I patted the chair next to mine at the table.
Laboriously, she hobbled across the classroom. Her eyes remained on me but her expression was unreadable. She didn’t sit down.
“You know what I did before I came here?”
No response.
“I worked in a special clinic up in the city and you know what? I worked with boys and girls just like you, who had a hard time talking.”
Jadie’s eyes searched my face.
“Isn’t that amazing, that first I was there and now I’m here with you? Boys and girls just like you. It was my own special job, helping them.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Did you know there were others like you? Who found it impossible to talk at school?”
A long pause and then very, very faintly, she shook her head.
I sat back and smiled. “There are. Not very many, which is why it’s a bit of a coincidence, your being in this class, but I’ve known a lot of them. And it was my own special job, helping them be able to talk again.”
The pupils of Jadie’s eyes dilated, and for the first time she let slip the expressionless mask. A look of incredulity crossed her features.
Lowering my head like an ostrich in need of chiropractic help, I stuck my neck out and peered upward into her face to see her fully. I smiled. “You don’t quite believe me, do you? Did you think you were all alone in feeling like you do? Did you think nobody knew about these things?”
No response.
“It’s scary, isn’t it, being all alone, not being able to tell anyone how you feel.”
Again, the very faint nod.
Again, I smiled. “Aren’t we lucky that you and I are going to be together? I’ve helped all those other children. Now I’m here to help you.”
Her eyes grew watery, and for a brief moment, I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. Instead, she clutched her unbuttoned coat closed, turned tail, and ran, shutting the classroom door firmly behind her.
Over the lunch hour I set up the painting easel and mixed several pots of tempera paints. Within minutes of getting back into the classroom, Jeremiah discovered the paints and busied himself stirring the colors together. I separated him and the paints and then went off to catch Reuben, only to come back moments later and find Jeremiah painting lunchboxes. This distressed Philip immensely, as his Superman lunchbox was now a pale shade of mud brown; so I sent Jeremiah back to the sink with the lunchbox to wash it before the paint dried. The potential for mess created by combining Jeremiah, a sinkful of water, and a paint-covered lunchbox was not something I had fully appreciated until that moment, and by two o’clock I was making the acquaintance of Mr. O’Banyon, the janitor, and his mop bucket. Compared to the morning, however, this was an improvement.
After three weeks of substitutes, it was only fair to expect the children to be disrupted and disruptive. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy coming in midyear and trying to recreate order. I’d appreciated that fact when I accepted the job. Jadie, Philip, and Jeremiah, however, seemed to take one more new face in their stride. Reuben couldn’t. Nothing I did all day long managed to orient him to any meaningful activity. Most of the time he was up, dashing in broad circles around the classroom. When finally persuaded to sit down, he constantly rocked and flicked his eyelashes with his fingers.
Philip made an effort to join in during the afternoon. He liked the easel and paints and enthusiastically slopped bright blobs of color over piece after piece of paper. “Red?” I’d say encouragingly. “Orange?” This made him grunt something back in reply, although goodness knows what.
“That’s baby painting,” Jeremiah said, as he passed the easel. “Man, boog, that’s not even a picture. Want me to show you how to paint something real?” He snatched the paintbrush out of Philip’s hand. Picking up the container of black paint, he dipped the brush in and began to draw a long, black line over Philip’s blodges of color. Indignant at this interference, Philip howled.
“Jeremiah,” I cried, abandoning Reuben to halt what I feared would turn into real trouble. “That’s Philip’s painting. Now give him back his brush. You’ve already had your turn.”
“Jesus, lady, I’m just going to help the little booger. Look at this, it ain’t even a picture. And you sure ain’t teaching him how to do it right.”
Philip had begun to dance in frustration, trying to grasp the brush from Jeremiah’s hand. Jeremiah, both bigger and more agile, kept it just out of reach. Black paint dripped everywhere.
“Give it back,” I demanded.
“Want me to teach you how to make Mr. T?” Jeremiah offered suddenly. “You ought to like that. He’s a black guy, just like you, only he’s a big booger. You gonna be a big booger someday? Yeah? I bet you are.” He put his free arm around Philip’s shoulder in buddy-buddy fashion. “But you know something I can never figure out about you black people?” Jeremiah continued, as Philip, charmed by his attention, wrapped an arm around Jeremiah’s waist. “I can never figure out how come the blackness just sort of wears off your hands. How come that happens? Look much better to me, man, if you was black all over.” And with unexpected swiftness, he began painting Philip’s palm black and then continued right on up his shirt sleeve.
Philip howled again. I separated the two boys, sending Jeremiah off to the “quiet chair” I’d placed just outside the cloakroom door and explaining he needed to sit there until he could keep his act together.
Jeremiah was not enthusiastic about this imposition on his freedom and got up immediately, shouting and swearing, I physically replaced him and was then obliged to stand over him for the fifteen minutes or so it took him to settle down. Even then, he muttered crossly under his breath, “Man, lady, you’re gonna regret this.”
Jadie might as well have been a ghost. No one spoke to her, looked at her, or even acknowledged her presence in the room. And this attitude was mutual. Jadie went about her business with absorption, but she gave no indication that there was anyone else in the room besides herself.
When it was Jadie’s turn at the easel, she painted an elaborate picture of a white house with a blue roof. Beside it grew a lollipop-shaped tree and in front was a peculiarly shaped figure, rather like a bell with legs coming from it. It had yellow hair flowing down the sides, so I took it to be a person, probably a girl. The painting was small, covering only the bottom third of the paper. She made a strip of blue sky at the top and added a shining sun. This left the middle largely blank.
“I like that,” I said, when she’d stepped back to view it. “You’ve used a lot of colors. Who’s this?” I pointed to the figure.
“Man, lady, don’t you take no hint?” Jeremiah shouted. “She don’t talk. You been told that already. So don’t go hassling folks about what’s wrong with them. How’d you like it, if people kept getting at you for being so dumb? You can’t help that, can you?”
“Thank you for your thoughts, Jeremiah, but I’m talking to Jadie just now.”
At that moment the recess bell rang. Jeremiah shot out the door and Philip scampered after him, leaving me with Reuben and Jadie. I realized I should have been hustling out the door after them, either to catch Jeremiah and bring him back for a more appropriate exit or at least to supervise his departure, but I didn’t. I stood a moment longer to see if anyone would reappear in the doorway or if any horrible noises would signal disaster. When nothing happened, I glanced over at Reuben, self-stimulating happily in the far corner, and then back to Jadie. Pointing directly to the figure on the painting, I asked again, “Who’s this person?”
Silence.
“Who’s this?”
Still silence.
I knew I had to work quickly now to keep the silence from growing potent. My research had yielded a highly successful method of treating the most salient symptom of the elective mutism syndrome—the refusal to speak—and it was both simple and efficient. All that was needed was for someone unknown to the child to come in, set up expectations immediately that the child would speak, and then provide an unavoidable opportunity to do so. Consequently, as a new teacher, I was in an ideal position to get Jadie to speak, but I had to do so right away before we’d established a relationship that included her silence. I also knew that to provide the “unavoidable opportunity,” I had to be persistent, clinging like a terrier to my question, and not let the inevitable wall of silence deter me.
“Who’s in this picture?” Silence. “Tell me what figure we have here.” Silence. “What person is this?”
Still silence. I could see her muscles tense. Her hands began to tremble.
“Who’s this?” I asked again, intensifying my voice abruptly, not making it sound angry, not even louder, just intense. And unavoidable. I tapped the picture smartly with the eraser end of the pencil I was holding.
“A girl,” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“A girl,” she murmured in a hoarse half whisper.
“I see. What’s her name?”
Silence.
“What do you call her?”
“Tashee.” Still the hoarse whisper.
“Tashee? That’s an interesting name. Is she a friend of yours?”
Jadie nodded.
“What’s Tashee doing in this picture?”
“Standing in front of her grandma’s house.”
“Oh, so this is her grandma’s house. It’s pretty, all blue and white like that. Especially the door. You’ve made a beautiful door. And how old is Tashee?”
“Six.”
“Same age as you, then?”
“No, I’m eight. I was seven, but I just had my birthday at Christmastime.”
“I see. Do you and Tashee play together sometimes?”
“No.”
“Have you been to her grandma’s house with her?”
A pause. Jadie regarded the picture. “I don’t know her grandma. She just talked about her sometimes.”
“Oh.”
Jadie touched the figure on the paper with one finger and some of the yellow paint smeared. Lifting her finger, she examined it. “I should have made her hair black.”
“Tashee doesn’t have yellow hair?”
Jadie shook her head. “No. Her hair was black, like Jeremiah’s. Black and straight. I think maybe she was an Indian, but I don’t know for sure.”
“I see.” Then I smiled at her. “I like this picture a lot. Maybe we can put it on the back counter to dry. Then I think maybe we’d better get outside to join the others, don’t you?”
Jadie bent to put the lids back on the paints. I glanced over to see what Reuben was up to. Curled in a fetal position among the cushions, he lay, eyes closed, and gently stroked the skin alongside his temples. “Reuben? Reub, come on. Time to go outside.”
Chapter Three
“You didn’t? Holy cow. Holy Toledo. Glen? Glen, did you hear this? She’s been here six hours and she’s got Jadie Ekdahl talking. You hired Wonder Woman.”
Mortally embarrassed, I ducked my head to hide my blazing cheeks. “Just coincidence, really … This was my research specialty …”
The speaker was Alice Havers, fiftyish maybe, small, trim, neatly turned out. She taught kindergarten and had coped with Jadie through two years of school. “So how’d you do it? What’s the secret? What do we do now?”
Lifting my head, I glanced around at the others in the teachers’ lounge. They were all there, from Mr. Tinbergen to Mr. O’Banyon, and they were all watching me. I smiled sheepishly and looked back at my hands. What would be best, I explained mostly to my fingernails, would be to treat Jadie as if she’d always spoken. No big fuss. No lavish praise. I explained how a lot of these children, in my experience, seemed to stay silent more from fear of the amount of attention they’d provoke when they started to talk again than anything else, and so it took a lot of work to gain the courage to try. And others seemed to feel they’d been defeated and somehow lost face by being persuaded to talk again. So it was very important to minimize the attention. After all, it wasn’t the act of speaking that should get the attention, it’s what people said that was important.
There, I thought, I’d said it. Given my lecture. Not even managed to make friends yet; in fact, I didn’t even know everyone’s name, and I’d already made a brilliant impression—Wonder Woman and wiseacre. It was too much for a first day. At the first available moment, I smiled politely, grabbed my coffee cup, and retreated to my room.
About twenty minutes later, Lucy McLaren appeared. “How’re you settling in?”
I rolled my eyes. “I felt like a real dolt down there in the lounge. I wasn’t trying to show off with Jadie, but that’s what it came off sounding like.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Lucy said and smiled. “Alice is top class. She wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s just that she’s had Jadie for two years, so she knows what Jadie’s like.”
“The whole secret is in being an outsider—an unknown quantity to the child. That and not cosseting the child. You instinctively want to be gentle and supportive with these kids, and that’s generally how the kid gets control. In most cases, you’ll find the elective mute is a master of manipulation.”
Lucy sat down on the tabletop across from my chair. “Yes, I can believe that. Poor June. She was the teacher here before. It was nothing but one big power struggle between her and Jadie. And June tried everything. In the beginning she was really nice, really warm, thinking Jadie was just needing confidence and once she felt secure, she’d speak. Of course she never did. So then June tried star charts, saying Jadie could earn all these privileges, if only she’d say answers to things. Then June got Jadie’s parents to make a tape recording of Jadie at home and tried to prove to Jadie that she knew she could talk. She tried being underhanded, doing things like making Jadie run so that she’d make noise by panting. And this one time …” Lucy paused. “Poor June, she was so thoroughly fed up. This one afternoon, she just said, no, Jadie couldn’t go home until she’d said good-bye and that was that. So there they sat. And gosh, what an ordeal. Jadie did nothing. Just sat there. Picked her nose and that was about it. Poor June was right up the wall, trying to wait her out, but she couldn’t manage it. Five-thirty came and she had to let Jadie go. June had to give in.”
I nodded. “They’re not kids to get into a power struggle with, because they’ve usually had a lot more practice at it than you have. That’s why being a stranger helps, I think. The groundwork for the power struggle hasn’t been laid yet, and if you’re canny and a bit of an actor, you’ve got a chance of making them think the game’s up …” My words trailed off and we fell silent. I lifted my head and looked out across the room to the back window and from there to the playground beyond, white with snow.
Lucy, still on the tabletop, studied her fingernails. I cast a sidelong glance in her direction. She was younger than I was, no more than in her midtwenties, although considerably more formally dressed than was characteristic of our generation. She was pretty in a natural, lively sort of way, although carefully applied makeup gave her more sophistication than beauty. Her dark hair was in a well-cut pageboy. What really caught my eye, however, was the remarkable height of her high heels.
Then I glanced around the room again, surveying the neat organization. “Why did June leave midyear?” I asked. It sounded funny calling her by her first name, when I’d never even met her.
Lucy looked over and her eyes widened. “Didn’t they tell you?”
“Well, I didn’t think I should really ask. I felt it would be sort of nosy.”
“Oh, golly. Did they really not say anything to you?”
“No.”
A grimace. Briefly, she searched my face and then dropped her eyes again to her lap. “June committed suicide.”
“Oh.”
An appalled silence followed. What did one say in reply to something like that? Not having known her personally, I found myself filled with morbid curiosity and wasn’t too pleased at having it.
“What on earth did they tell the children?” I ventured at last.
“We couldn’t really beat around the bush. At least not about the fact she had died. But it was awful, believe me. It was right in the Christmas season, and we were in full swing with parties and plays and all the jingle-bell stuff.” Another grimace. “Let me tell you, it was a downer.”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t know if anybody really knew what happened. She seemed okay. She’d been here about two years, and we all knew her. I’d always thought of her as a friend. She was older and stuff … I mean, we weren’t girlfriends, you know, like you are with people your own age, but …”
Lucy paused and took in a deep breath. Holding it several seconds, she slowly released it. “I guess I did know things weren’t going too well for her. The year had gotten her down. She’d said that a couple of times, but, golly, we all say things like that sometimes. I did feel sorry for her. She’d gotten divorced a few years ago and her kids were gone away to college and she hardly ever saw them. She complained about it sometimes, and I tried to be supportive, you know, listen and stuff, but I just thought it was … well, you know. We all bitch a bit, don’t we? I never thought …” Silence. “I don’t know. Something like this happens close to you and you spend gobs of time mulling it over. It’s made me grow up a lot this year. It’s made me face things I’d sort of ignored before.”
“I’m just glad you’ve told me,” I said. “I could have really put my foot in it.”
“Yeah, we were all feeling sorry for you. They couldn’t get anybody local to take the job. That’s why they were advertising in the big-city newspapers. But you can understand how people around here feel. It’s a small town and …”
“Yes.”
Lucy looked over. “If the kids get a bit wild, don’t worry about it, okay? We all understand. It’s a good school, this one. I mean, I know they look like a bunch of old fogeys down in the lounge.” She chuckled. “Believe me, I was really glad when I met you and saw you were under fifty! But it doesn’t matter. Everyone here’s got good hearts. If the going gets rough, everybody’ll help. Just tell us, okay?”
I smiled and nodded. “Okay.”
Work followed me home that night. As I drove to Falls River, where I was staying in a motel until my apartment in Pecking was available, all I could think about was the school. The news about June Harriman had unsettled me more than I cared to admit, and I kept wondering what it must have been like to stand in that classroom, facing those children and feeling so desperate. When I’d arrived in the morning, all I’d been able to think about was how lucky I’d been to land this job. The small number of children, the beautifully appointed classroom, the bountiful supplies, the supportive principal, and friendly staff had made it seem as close to an ideal teaching position as I’d thus far encountered in my career. Now, abruptly, it felt tainted.
Appreciating more the turmoil the children had been through in the previous month, I decided it would be best to establish clear rules and a definite routine that would leave no doubt about my behavior. Normally, I liked a bit of spontaneity in my day and could tolerate a fair amount of chaos in the process; however, I knew now this was neither the time nor the place to be unpredictable.
I also decided it would be better to make the classroom mine immediately. My first inclination had been to leave things as they were until we’d had a chance to adjust to one another; however, after second thought, it seemed preferable to change everything at once and give more of a sense of starting anew. So on Tuesday afternoon after school, I turned the room upside down. I shifted the bookshelves around, moved all the tables together to form one huge one, pulled down the bulletin board displays. I brought in some large floor pillows and a red carpet remnant to form a specific area for morning discussion and reading. The movable shelves and cupboards I used to divide the room into several smaller areas, making one for art activities, one for construction materials and Lego, one for natural history and science activities, and one for dressing up and housekeeping. Last of all, on my way back to the motel in Falls River that night, I stopped and plundered a pet shop, buying us a flop-eared bunny, three green finches, and a pair of hamsters with a cage that resembled the Paris Métro system.
The weeks that followed were challenging, to say the least. I was very strict and very consistent about what I expected, pulling everyone—but most especially Jeremiah—up short every single time a rule was infringed. By the same token, I tried to make sure there was plenty of fun, too. We did a lot of singing, a lot of art projects, a lot of cooking, and a lot of building of fairly unrecognizable bird-houses and boats. Each morning, I tried to take the children outside for a period separate from recess. Usually, it went under the guise of science—studying seasonal changes or the weather or whatever—but it was mainly a chance for the children to let off steam, to run and scream a little without disturbing the other classes, a spell of good fun to charm the reluctant ones into behaving and reward the cooperative ones. No doubt it would come as a nasty surprise when the time arrived to spend more of the day reading and writing than we were doing at this point, but I didn’t feel we were in any way wasting time or resources in those early weeks. The need to make us a group, to provide collective memories that included me rather than June Harriman, to resurrect the school year from the ashes of what had gone before, all seemed more necessary goals than the completion of a certain number of workbooks. And it was my good fortune to have a principal who agreed.
“Hey, how you doing?”
I didn’t know the woman at the door. She was good-looking in a hearty, worldly sort of way, with big boobs and big hips but a waspish little waist, all appearing slightly disproportionate since she couldn’t have been over five feet tall. Her thick brown hair was tied back with a red scarf into a ponytail.
“All right,” I said and smiled uncertainly.
“Glen tells me you’ve settled in pretty good. Says you’ve cut Jeremiah down to size.”
What was going through my mind as I studied her was that she would have made an archetypal country-western singer. She had about her that powerful aura of hardbitten wisdom, the kind evidenced by women named Lurleen or Loretta, whose men married them at fifteen and then ran off with the waitress from the diner.
“In fact,” she said, “Glen tells me you’ve even managed to get Jadie Ekdahl talking.” Pulling out one of the child-sized chairs, she sat down.
Intensely uncomfortable, I wondered if I should mention that I didn’t know her. Did I? Had I forgotten her face? This was not an unknown happening for me, and I racked my brain to remember who was at my interview.
My predicament suddenly became clear to her, and she gave a broad smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Arkie. Arkie Peterson. The school psychologist.”
The name I recognized immediately, because it appeared as a signature on almost every paper in the children’s files.
“So you’ve got to tell me all about it,” she said, her tone zesty. “All about what you did with Jade. Did Glen tell you that I’d tried with her? Two blessed years, almost. I was coming in here every Thursday, trying to get that kid to talk. So, precisely now, what did you do?”
The affinity between us was instant. Talking with Arkie was like picking up a long-forgotten friendship, and before I realized it, we had whiled away the better part of an hour discussing our mutual interests in psychology, education, and disturbed children.
Arkie had been down all the usual routes with Jadie’s mutism. She’d first encountered Jadie just past her fifth birthday, when it was picked up during a prekindergarten screening program. “I just wanted to gain her confidence,” Arkie said. “Here was this little, wee mite of a thing under all that hair. She looked so scared and vulnerable when I came that first day. I took her down to the nurse’s office, where I usually work when I’m here, and I said to her, ‘Honey, we’re going to be friends. We’re going to come in here and do things together and have a real good time. And it doesn’t matter if you can’t manage talking right away, because we’ll be friends anyhow.’ And I just assumed once she got to know me, once she felt secure enough to trust me, she’d begin talking. I thought she’d want to talk to me. But she didn’t. We played all these shitty little games Thursday after Thursday, ’til I wanted to brain the child.”
From there, Arkie’s relationship with Jadie had deteriorated into the same sort of power struggle June Harriman had experienced later. Indeed, it was Arkie’s frustration that led to Jadie’s placement in this class. “I still don’t know if it was the right move,” she said. “I mean, she’s always done all right academically. She’s a bright enough kid. I think her IQ scores have always been one twelve, one sixteen, somewhere in there, and she’s functioning about there in her schoolwork. So was this the right move? If the mutism was not interfering with her learning, should she get stuck in a special class?”
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