I’m administering a Level I Vocational Assessment to Ana, when Julian bursts into the room.
He throws something that misses Myru and hits the metal cabinet housing our class’ books and folders. He drops into a worn desk. His fists repeatedly pound the surface, before opening and clasping the back of his head.
Then he howls.
I rush to his side and take a knee. Coax him to breathe. Victor A.—our AP of security—appears just behind him and asks if he’s all right.
I get Julian up and outside. “We’re good,” I reply to Victor.
We walk a lap around the school, and Julian explains his outburst. He’s failing Algebra. He’s terrified of what his mom will say.
He can’t stand it, but he won’t let it go.
in his counselor’s office
rapid eye movement
more by FRANK J. TASSONE