and stop pestering Allison. … Sorry.” She turned back to India with a smile.
“Going off where by herself?”
“I’ve found her all by herself in the corner of the playground, just sitting quietly in the grass. Sometimes she stares out the window, and I can tell she’s far away.”
“Is that so unusual for a child?” India recalled many a time she herself had been caught staring out a classroom window, many a recess when she might have opted for solitude rather than a game of kickball.
“No, of course not. And first-graders have short attention spans. But sometimes it’s more than just daydreaming. I guess you’d have to see her face. I think that inside, she is a scared and lonely little girl. Let me show you a drawing she did the first week of school.”
Miss Millet went back into the classroom and stopped to speak to several children on her way to her desk, where she opened a drawer and removed a folder. Returning to the doorway, she passed the folder, open to the white construction paper that lay inside, into India’s hands.
“I told the children to draw a picture of themselves,” Miss Millet explained.
“And this is how Corri sees herself?” India’s heart nearly broke at the image, the small drawing of the child, all drawn in grays and blacks, at the very center of the paper. She had drawn nothing else.
“Here are some of the other children’s drawings.” Miss Millet opened a second folder and extracted several sheets of paper. Wordlessly, India looked through them. WhereasCorri’s drawing held a single figure done in somber tones, the other children had drawn whole families and had dressed them in bright colors. Some had dogs or cats. Many had siblings. All had at least one parent depicted. All but Corri.
“I see,” India said softly.
“I will tell you she’s been different the past two days since you’ve been here.”
“How so?”
“She’s played more with the other children at recess. She’s clearly more focused—just watch her for a minute.” Miss Millet gestured with her head for India to observe the child, who was working diligently at her desk in the front of the third row. “I put her up front so that I could keep an eye on her. I have to reel her back so frequently. But this week she’s been fine. She made a big announcement this morning, by the way. I wanted to mention it to you because I think it is very significant.”
“What was that?”
“Corri has been refusing to use a last name. She’s registered as Corrine Devlin, which is how your brother registered her last year. But when she returned to school last month, she refused to use a last name. When I talked to her about it, she said she didn’t know how to make a capital D or a capital S , and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how to make either letter.”
“D for ’Devlin,’ S for ‘Steele,’ her mother’s name.”
“So I understand.” Miss Millet smiled and turned back to the classroom. “Corri, would you come here please and show us what you are working on?”
Corri beamed and bounced from her seat, a tiny munch-kin in a blackwatch plaid jumper and a short-sleeved navy turtleneck shirt.
“It’s my numbers, see? One, two, three… I’m still working on the four,” she explained earnestly.
At the top of the paper, in childish scrawl, was printed her name. Corri D.
India’s throat tightened. “You’re doing a great job. Those are handsome numbers, Corri.”
“You may go back to your seat now.” Miss Millet patted Corri on the back.
“Looks like she’s decided who she is.” India cleared her throat of the obstructing lump.
“She tells me you’ll be leaving in a few days,” the teacher said pointedly.
“I have to get back to Paloma. I work for the district attorney’s office, and I’ll be starting a new trial the week after next.”
“No chance of taking some time off?”
“Not right now, I’m afraid. The trial that I’m assigned to is an especially important
“Going off where by herself?”
“I’ve found her all by herself in the corner of the playground, just sitting quietly in the grass. Sometimes she stares out the window, and I can tell she’s far away.”
“Is that so unusual for a child?” India recalled many a time she herself had been caught staring out a classroom window, many a recess when she might have opted for solitude rather than a game of kickball.
“No, of course not. And first-graders have short attention spans. But sometimes it’s more than just daydreaming. I guess you’d have to see her face. I think that inside, she is a scared and lonely little girl. Let me show you a drawing she did the first week of school.”
Miss Millet went back into the classroom and stopped to speak to several children on her way to her desk, where she opened a drawer and removed a folder. Returning to the doorway, she passed the folder, open to the white construction paper that lay inside, into India’s hands.
“I told the children to draw a picture of themselves,” Miss Millet explained.
“And this is how Corri sees herself?” India’s heart nearly broke at the image, the small drawing of the child, all drawn in grays and blacks, at the very center of the paper. She had drawn nothing else.
“Here are some of the other children’s drawings.” Miss Millet opened a second folder and extracted several sheets of paper. Wordlessly, India looked through them. WhereasCorri’s drawing held a single figure done in somber tones, the other children had drawn whole families and had dressed them in bright colors. Some had dogs or cats. Many had siblings. All had at least one parent depicted. All but Corri.
“I see,” India said softly.
“I will tell you she’s been different the past two days since you’ve been here.”
“How so?”
“She’s played more with the other children at recess. She’s clearly more focused—just watch her for a minute.” Miss Millet gestured with her head for India to observe the child, who was working diligently at her desk in the front of the third row. “I put her up front so that I could keep an eye on her. I have to reel her back so frequently. But this week she’s been fine. She made a big announcement this morning, by the way. I wanted to mention it to you because I think it is very significant.”
“What was that?”
“Corri has been refusing to use a last name. She’s registered as Corrine Devlin, which is how your brother registered her last year. But when she returned to school last month, she refused to use a last name. When I talked to her about it, she said she didn’t know how to make a capital D or a capital S , and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how to make either letter.”
“D for ’Devlin,’ S for ‘Steele,’ her mother’s name.”
“So I understand.” Miss Millet smiled and turned back to the classroom. “Corri, would you come here please and show us what you are working on?”
Corri beamed and bounced from her seat, a tiny munch-kin in a blackwatch plaid jumper and a short-sleeved navy turtleneck shirt.
“It’s my numbers, see? One, two, three… I’m still working on the four,” she explained earnestly.
At the top of the paper, in childish scrawl, was printed her name. Corri D.
India’s throat tightened. “You’re doing a great job. Those are handsome numbers, Corri.”
“You may go back to your seat now.” Miss Millet patted Corri on the back.
“Looks like she’s decided who she is.” India cleared her throat of the obstructing lump.
“She tells me you’ll be leaving in a few days,” the teacher said pointedly.
“I have to get back to Paloma. I work for the district attorney’s office, and I’ll be starting a new trial the week after next.”
“No chance of taking some time off?”
“Not right now, I’m afraid. The trial that I’m assigned to is an especially important
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