A Special Challenge

"I'm Ms. Cleaver," I say. "I'm your new teacher. It's almost lunchtime. Are you hungry? I am. Let's go get something to eat." I continue my soliloquy ("I have lots of fun toys in my room; we can play with them after lunch") before he finally turns toward me. We eat lunch in my classroom, and he watches as I peel my banana. "Do you want some?" I ask. No response. I watch him, he watches my banana, until I break off half and hand it to him. It's the only real interaction we will have all day.

On Tuesday, the boy is absent. Headquarters e-mails a roster of eight students, and I spend the day reading the IEPs of kids who may never come. I still don't have any materials, but going by the IEPs, I will be teaching shapes, colors, numbers and letters.

The next day, my lone student returns. Following the advice of another teacher, I take him into a prekindergarten class so he will be around other children. After recess, I bring him back into my hot classroom, and he flattens himself against the chalkboard, screaming and crying. I know this is partly because the regular classroom, unlike mine, is busy, bright and full of toys. When other teachers pass my room, they peer inside, their eyebrows raised. I catch their eyes, smile and nod -- it's under control, I try to convey.

The girl arrives on Tuesday of the second week of school. She greets me with a wary smile and peers from behind her father. She's tall, close to five feet, I estimate. Her disability, a genetic disorder, produced her height, as well as poor impulse control, aggression and borderline low intelligence. She's also a "girly girl," often dressed in pink, with a passion for playing house.

I ask Rice if I can bring my students into a kindergarten classroom, which has fewer students than the prekindergarten class and is closer to where my students should be, at 4 and 5 years old. "I'm trying to incorporate them into regular ed," I say. In truth, I have no clue how I'm supposed to do this. I don't have the regular education curriculum or daily schedule, so I can't help them understand what goes on in there. I also don't have an aide to take them in individually, when they're ready.

That day in the kindergarten class, we are learning the letter A. The Quiet One watches from the corner. Girly Girl sits next to me in the middle of the class. Called to the whiteboard to write an A, she manages a few lines. "Okay, give me the marker," the kindergarten teacher tells her.

"No," she says and steps back.

"Give it to her," I say and touch Girly Girl's shoulder.

"No!" she screams and hits me across the chest. I step back, surprised. After a moment, I return to my place among the students. The teacher gets another marker and moves on, ignoring Girly Girl, who sits down. I deflate with relief.

On Friday morning of the second week, Spidey arrives. "He has a speech disability," his dad says, "and he's very difficult to understand. But other than that, he's okay." From his IEP, I know it's a little more complicated. Spidey's voice is affected by a small tracheotomy hole left over from breathing complications when he was younger. Although I eventually understand his high-pitched whine, few others do. Later that first day, Spidey points to the alphabet and names the letters, impressing me.

After breakfast, Spidey bolts down the hall to the kindergarten room, his Spider-Man backpack bouncing. During naptime, he won't be quiet, so I take him into the hall, where we sing nursery rhymes and what I later learn is the "Spider-Man" theme song. Now I have the three students I will have for the rest of the year. At 4 and 5 years old, they operate on 4-, 3- and sometimes 2-year-old levels. I don't have my classroom schedule, and I won't for months. I have no designated breaks or planning periods, because there is no one to cover for me. To make a bathroom vist, I wait until the kids go to lunch, where there are other teachers to watch them, or I pull a passing teacher out of the hall.

ON MONDAY OF THE THIRD WEEK OF SCHOOL, the first kindergarten class is deemed too large, and Rice suggests that I bring the students into another kindergarten class. Spidey sits on the rug with the other students. Girly Girl watches from the pretend play area. She screams "No!" when asked to join the group. The Quiet One is lying in the hallway in front of my room. I am moving between the hall and the classroom, overwhelmed and embarrassed, when Rice arrives holding the Quiet One's hand. That afternoon, Rice sends Barrington Brown, a school guidance counselor who has experience in special education, to help me "get control" of my class. Tall and lanky, he moves like a comedian onstage, slightly hunched, shifting his weight, ready to throw the next punch line.