Hurt

Hurt
By Suzanne Moberly

“When he started doing drugs, that’s when Derek started to change,” reported Ethan.
“I think it was when his parents divorced,” hypothesized Kara in response.
“Nah. It was the nastiness of his parents’ divorce that really did him,” Crystal interjected, apparently considering herself the reigning authority on Derek’s aberrant behavior.
“He used to be my friend, but who wants to hang out with someone who’s stoned all the time and is constantly in trouble at school?”

It had been a difficult semester with Derek. He was angry at the whole world and I, as a new teacher, had the misfortune of intersecting with his academic progress at the most inopportune moment in time. “He used to be a really nice kid,” is what his classmate Crystal informed me. “He was never the kind of person who would insult a teacher or disrupt a class.”

Bereft is the word I used to describe Derek. A palpable sense of mourning bubbled up through his anger and I found myself developing an affection toward him despite the fact that I kicked him out of my American Studies classroom at least once a week for refusing to stop talking when I was talking, or knocking over another student while still in his chair.

He would make paper airplanes and aim them at various targets around the room.
When I was the target one day, I snatched the missile in mid-flight. He eagerly awaited a reprimand. “This is beautifully constructed, Derek. Good, clean lines, aerodynamically sound. You are a man who knows his building design principles.” As I examined the plane, I observed our Vice-Principal passing by in the hall. “Mr. Forestall! Check this out!” I aimed the plane at his head. It bounced off his shoulder and fell to the floor. The class, including Derek, had a clear view of the hallway through the open door. They fell into a collective silence, catching the scent of a rabbit snared in his own trap.

Mr. Forestall entered the room. “Mrs. Moberly, I may need for you to step down to the office,” the master of discipline good-naturedly chortled as he handed me Derek’s masterpiece.

“Isn’t it beautiful? I was just telling Derek that it is one of the most aerodynamically constructed paper airplanes I’ve ever seen.”

Derek’s freckled cheeks sucked in as he bit his lip. I assumed that he had been kicked out of all of his classes during the last week and that he was probably up for more than after school detention with Mr. Forestall. They were old friends. “I’m glad to see Derek is applying his talents to something productive,” the Vice-Principal said, directing his comment at Derek. “Keep up the good work,” he added as he left the room.

“Did you see that?” exclaimed Josh, also one of Mr. Forestall’s frequent visitors. “He just handed it back and left!”

“He obviously recognizes genuine talent,” I offered with deliberate calculation as Derek watched the class process this incident. I walked over to Derek and handed him back his missile. “I can appreciate you wishing to share your construction talents, but you may do so only before and after class.” Derek cast his baby browns at me and shook his head to the affirmative. “If I remember correctly,” I continued, “we were sharing our poems.” I looked to Derek. “Do you have a poem you would like to share with the class?”

He opened his notebook and produced a crumpled paper towel. “Sorry. I left my notebook in my locker last night, and my Dad doesn’t have any school supplies. I meant to copy it over, but I forgot.”

“The important thing is that you completed the assignment.” I extended my hand indicating that the floor was his. He shifted in his seat, ran his hand back over the stubble of his crew cut, cleared his voice, and loudly read:

“Hurt
by Derek Lapierre

My heart hurts.
I have no mother
No father.
No one gives a shit about me.

I pick-up my brother and sister at my mom’s house
Everyday to give them a ride to school just so
I can see them,
and Mom won’t even give me a few bucks for gas.

I work flippin’ burgers at B.K’s every night until ten
Just to keep my piece of crap truck runnin’.
I buy my own food,
Clothes, and pay for my own insurance.
What else do my parents
Want from me?
I come home to an empty trailer
when I used to live in a nice house.

My head hurts.
I’m supposed to do my schoolwork.
I used to be good at it.
I was even on the Honor Roll
When I was a freshman.
Nobody cared. All caught up in their own shit.

I’m tankin’ in all my classes except for Building Trades,
Although I’m always getting detentions
for missing the bus
out to the building site.
I spend half of every day in Forestall’s office.
I know I’ve fucked-up,
but I don’t know how to get back.
My head hurts.
My heart hurts.”

Derek sat in his back row desk rolling his lips back into his mouth looking down at his hands. His 250 pound 6’ 2” frame was uncomfortably squished into a desk intended for a more diminutive student. He breathed deeply, waiting.

“That was really good, Derek!” interjected Crystal enthusiastically breaking the collective hush of the room.

“Yah,” added Dan. “We’re all screwed over by the crap our parents pull. I know what you mean.”

“I liked the last line about how you f-ed up and can’t get back. I think we all have times when we feel that way. Your poem’s like what Mrs. Moberly says, It speaks to the universality of life,” commented Kara as she did a passable imitation of me.

I watched Derek interact with the class. He so desperately needed affirmation and acceptance. The effect of his classmates’ words was comparable to the joy of a big bear in the woods when he finds a stand of wild honey in a fallen tree. I could see the praise being absorbed through his pores. His posture straighten-up and his usual stormy expression rippled into a soft smile.

I stepped over to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. His body leaned into my palm. “That was lovely, Derek. In a few select words, you’ve conveyed loneliness and pain, and you have constructed the emotional context of the piece by using an empty house to demonstrate your aloneness. Anyone who has experienced similar feelings can relate to this. It’s lovely. Truly lovely.” He looked down at his work trying to figure out how this piece possessed the power to move his classmates and evoke praise. It was the first time I had seen him smile in weeks. “Would you like me to keep it for you until you get a chance to type it up?” I offered, returning his smile.

Derek hesitantly handed me the paper towel, holding it back for a moment as if he were afraid to pass his prized possession into the care of another. I tenderly received his gift and let him see me smooth it out over the palm of my hand as I re-read his words.
“Hey, wait a minute.” he said. “Could you put these in there, too?” He reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of greased stained poems, some written on lined paper and others on more paper towels. “I wrote most of these on my breaks at work!”

How could I expect this child to care about poetry? He was seventeen years old and living a life most adults would find trying. He worked a full-time job and carried a full course load. Derek carefully unrolled his work and smoothed it out on his desk as a loving parent smoothes out the wrinkles in a beloved child’s clothes. His face broke into a smile of enormous self-satisfaction as he transferred his remaining creations. My eye caught the title of the top piece.

“My Mom”

I remember when I was a little kid.
Mom used to make yummy cakes for dessert.
My Mom would tuck me in and kiss my lids.
I remember when I was a little kid,
Way before the marriage was on the skids.
She would kiss my cuts and clean out the dirt.
I remember when I was a little kid.
Why is it me who is now deserted?

Derek’s gaze had followed my progress across the room. He watched me place his work in my folder of student poetry.

“By the way, Derek,” I added from my desk. “Welcome back.”

Author’s Notes:

As this has been condensed down from a larger piece, I am concerned that it includes insufficient information for the reader to understand the “underlife” of the piece. Does the end just feel right?

AND -- how do you feel about the airplane scenario to demonstrate the teacher’s attempt to nudge Derek in the right direction, acknowledging his strengths while encouraging participation. Does this work?

AND anything else?