Slice #5- Fragile

The rest of the class is reading silently.

I watch her drawing. Erasing. Redrawing. Pencil shading.

I should say something, but I do not.

She is quiet. The people around her can read.

That is not always true.

She has been so mad at me for the past week.

On Thursday, I called her mom after she talked through the entire silent reading time.

I don't mean whispered to friends.

I mean talked.

Full voice.

To people across the room.

For twenty minutes.

Despite repeated requests to stop.

Finally, I had had it.

I lost it and raised my voice to her.

Her mom told me I should not have embarrassed her.

The next day, when I tried to talk to her,

she plugged her ears,

told me she didn't want anything to do with me,

then walked away.

Today, I was running down stairs to get something out of my basement office

fifteen minutes after the day had begun.

I opened the door and said good morning. She refused to say hello.

And now she is drawing.

I watch and say nothing.

Until reading time is almost over.

Then I lean over and whisper to her,

"Drawings that beautiful should not be on notebook paper.

I will bring you some plain paper tomorrow."

She looks up, surprised.

"Thanks, miss."

That relationship, so fragile.

Restored.

For now, anyway.