The Paper Burger

all good things…

The bell rings at 2:45 pm and I realize I still have about 20 miles to go and my needle is hovering on empty. The students begin to rush into my first floor classroom with more enthusiasm than they show during my actual classes. Nothing special about it since I took over the class in January. I spruced the room up with some lamps and bright signs, a reading rug, and a supply station the kids can stop in to help themselves to all day. They know where to find the Uno cards and snacks for those who need to decompress before heading home where I know the hardships of my next day with them are born. The springtime buzz has turned into an explosion of sounds and I look at the children in my room. Some of them are from the high school upstairs, and I remind them: “keep the volume to a decent level.” I don’t know all of them, but word has spread to head to my room after school–and they do each day. I stare at my computer screen, juggling a lesson plan and monitoring the group I have inherited by default. There’s a little boy in one of my sixth grade classes who is younger than the rest of his classmates. I seat him near the front with his brother so I can watch out for them. Kids can be cruel when dealing with new students, especially younger ones. He started at the school about 2 weeks before I was hired. He approaches me. 

“Mr. S”

“Hey bud.” 

“Do I have homework?”

It’s been a long day and I’ve transferred from my wheelchair to the plush, rolling desk chair and parked my wheelchair beside my desk. He looks at it, tentatively. I make sure it’s locked.

“Have a seat.” He isn’t sure at first, but then says, “it’s pretty comfortable.”

I ask if we are doing digital or paper for the character analysis assignment on Bridge to Terabithia.  He says “paper.” I warn him that the ending is sad, but we can write about it together and he nods. We sit scrolling through the text for thirty minutes while he writes. He’s afraid I can’t read his handwriting. I tell him that it’s fine. I look up at 3:30 pm and the crowd is dwindling, but the Uno game is going strong. I read his work and it’s good. Not good–great. If you look past the handwriting, the ideas; the creativity are all there. His mom won’t be there until 4 pm. He asks if I like swiss cheese. “Now that you mention it, I do.” I turn to my computer and begin planning the slideshow for the morning and I can see him making stealthy trips to the supply station for construction paper. “If you had a choice, would you take ketchup or mustard, Mr. S?”

I look him in the eye, “well that’s an easy one, ketchup every time, hands down.” He nods with a look of determination. I keep typing, my eyes starting to droop because I only have about five miles left in me, the engine is sputtering,  and I’ve already stopped one fight that day by wheeling between the kids. He borrows my hole puncher. “Are you thirsty?” he asks. “I could go for a Diet Coke.” I hear “Uno out!” from across the room as I zero in on the group sitting by the window. I turn back to my desk and next to my computer is a smiling, ten-year old boy holding out a construction paper cup of Diet Coke.

 “For me?” He smiles with the biggest grin I’ve seen all day.

 “Here's your burger. He flips the construction paper burger–brown bun with sesame seeds drawn on top, yellow construction paper-hole punched swiss cheese, green construction paper lettuce with wavy leaf lines, the brown construction-paper burger, my red construction-paper requested ketchup, and brown construction paper burger bun. 

“This is for you.”

“Nobody’s ever made me a burger like this. I’m super hungry. How much do I owe you?

He thinks. “Three cents.”

“Do you need it now or can I put it on my tab?”

“You can put it on your tab. Your credit’s good with me. I just need a high five.”

It’s 4 pm and he packs to leave. The Uno group brings me their cards. The room is silent. I close my laptop, turn off the lights, and take my paper burger with me to refuel for the next day.