Lost at School by Ross W. Greene Page B

Joey’s mother, so, against her better judgment, she continued the dialogue. “What is it you think Joey’s going home to every day?”
    “From what I’ve heard, that lady’s got a nasty temper,” said Mr. Armstrong. “Looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Woods. “She’s in a tough spot. Divorced, full-time job, two kids, one difficult. I’m not sure I’d handle all that with an even temper.”
    “Well, a lot of us didn’t have it so easy ourselves,” said Mr. Armstrong. Here we go again, thought Mrs. Woods. “You can’t make excuses for these people,” Mr. Armstrong continued. “Bleeding hearts and pity parties don’t cut it where I come from.”
    Mrs. Woods was now regretting heading down this path. “No, I suppose not.”
    “He wouldn’t have pulled that garbage with me,” said Mr. Armstrong. “I’ll tell you what I would’ve done with him.”
    Mrs. Franco laughed. “We know what you would’ve done with him.”
    “I don’t think it’s funny,” said Mr. Armstrong. “If they’re going to throw these kids at us and expect us to fix everything their families have screwed up, we shouldn’t have our hands tied when they go nuts on us. You think a five-day suspension’s going to fix what’s broken about that kid?”
    “No, actually, I don’t,” said Mrs. Woods.
    “Well, me either,” said Mr. Armstrong. “That’s one messed-up boy. That kid shouldn’t even be in this school. He should be done for the year.”
    “And how would that make anything any better when he shows up again next year?” asked Mrs. Franco.
    “Look, in the real world—not this school, obviously, but the real world—there’s a price to be paid for acting that way,” said Mr. Armstrong. “In the real world they put kids like Joey away.”
    “Away where?” asked Mrs. Franco.
    “Wherever they put messed-up kids so they don’t screw up the learning of the other kids,” said Mr. Armstrong, packing up his belongings. “We’re not running a mental institution here.”
    Mrs. Woods was delighted to see Mr. Armstrong preparing to leave. “Jerry, I just want to enjoy my lunch, if that’s OK. I appreciate your concern.”
    “No problem,” said Mr. Armstrong, moving toward the door. “Let’s not think about it until he kills somebody.”
    Mrs. Franco watched Mr. Armstrong leave the lounge. “Talk about broken records,” she said under her breath. “So how was the meeting?”
    “Interesting,” said Mrs. Woods. “Betty Galvin and the new school psychologist got into it a little.”
    “Really! Over what?”
    “Well, first of all, the psychologist, Dr. Bridgman—I don’t know if you’ve met him yet—was late to the meeting,” said Mrs. Woods.
    “Whoo boy!” said Mrs. Franco, fully appreciating the seriousness of this offense. “He’ll learn.”
    “Didn’t seem to faze him,” said Mrs. Woods. “But he gave us his theory about why Joey blew up, and I don’t think Betty was buying it at all.”
    “What’s his theory?” said Mrs. Franco.
    “Well, I don’t know that I could do justice to what he was saying, but it made sense to me at the time,” said Mrs. Woods. “He’s coming by this afternoon after school to talk about Joey. He’d like you to sit in, since you have Joey for some classes, too. Can you do it?”
    “Sure,” said Mrs. Franco. “I could use a new theory.”
    Dr. Bridgman arrived fifteen minutes late for his meeting with Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Franco, who were seated at a table in Mrs. Woods’ classroom. “Sorry I’m late,” he puffed. “This still a good time?”
    The two teachers looked up from their conversation. “Um, sure,” said Mrs. Woods.
    Mrs. Franco stuck out her hand. “I’m Denise Franco. You must be Dr. Bridgman.”
    “Carl’s fine,” said Dr. Bridgman.
    “OK, Carl, I understand you have some new theories about our friend Joey.”
    “I didn’t think I could do justice to what you said in the