The Mare

Ginger

Right when the class got out, when all the kids were milling around, Ms. Rodriguez introduced me to the school social worker, a woman named Eliza Lopez. She had a deep, good face and she seemed very happy to meet me. She thanked me for “making a difference.” In the noisy hall, I tried to express some of my doubts and fears; I wondered about how Velvet’s mother felt about it all, worried that I couldn’t understand her. Ms. Lopez’s face darkened. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said. “That woman is like a brick wall. Nobody can understand her.” And then Velvet was there with her friends.

“Here’s my card,” said Ms. Lopez. “Call me any time.”

And I went back out through the metal detectors. Wondering what it would be like to be eleven years old and to walk through that thing every day with a guard watching.