When I walk into my school’s office I get a quick situational reading from our secretary.  Rosina knows which moms were heroin, coke or meth users. She knows which gang patriarchal grandmothers are affiliated with. Who was / is in jail, and how many times.  Who the dads are. She swabs wounds, soothes egos, prevents multiple crises, acts as the first line of defense against crazies, and knows who died.  

          I opened the side door to the office at 7:45 A.M.  I only saw Rosina’s back as she sat in her swivel commando chair.

          She didn’t turn because the phone was glued to her ear. She raised her right hand, and spun in her seat for a mili-second. Her eyes were red, wet and tear-laden.  She eyeballed me, mouthed the words, “For You!” and pointed at me.  She continued talking.

            Not good. I thought.  Tears are not good. She put the phone down and faced me. “Cristo found his mother dead this morning.”

            I closed my eyes, exhaled, and fought the urge to cry. “Crap!”  I said.  Cristo is one of my students, a great kid. He lived alone with his mom. Has a brother in jail, a sister he never met who was shot to death by her boyfriend.  Lives three blocks from his dad, but never sees him.  Cristo is ten. Laughs like a hyena, smiles like the man in the moon, and grumbles when I’m not fair.

      “How?” I asked her.

      “She didn’t get up in the morning. He threw water on her. Still didn’t get up. Dead.”

       “Aw, hell. He’s ten.”

       “I was just on the phone with the aunt and uncle. They’ll take him, and even though they live in Salinas they’ll drive him to school every day.”

       “Poor kid. God.”

        I prepped the kids with the talk that day. It went something like this – “Kids, Cristo’s mom died. Can you guys imagine if your mom died?”  I looked at Ivanna.  She nodded. Ivanna and I have a quiet bond. A bond of communal death. “Ivanna, would you want to share?  You don’t have to if you don’t want to?” 

        She’s mature beyond her years, but I knew why. “No, it’s okay.” She cleared her throat, “My father died in a car accident. Mr. Karrer’s father died in a car accident too.”

        The kids didn’t move a muscle.

        “Ivanna came through it and is a super-kid.”  I said.  She smiled, turned red and put her head down. I added, “I think if we help Cristo he’ll do okay too.”

          Three nights later I got a phone call at home. 

         “Mr. Karrer, what was the homework assignment?”

         I’m shocked to hear Cristo’s voice on the phone and I rebooted my emotional self. “How uh, how are you doing?”

          “Okay.” He sighed and didn’t say anything. 

          “Cristo your mom just died. Don’t worry about homework.”

          “I don’t want to get behind.”

          “If you insist, just write an essay. But only if you want to.”

          “That’s it?’

           “That’s it.”

          “You coming to the funeral?” he asked me. “It’s in Seaside on Monday.”

          “Absolutely.”

          Eventually Cristo came back to school. It just so happened that he sat right next to me. That made it easier to give him extra attention, special missions, like sending him to the office with the daily attendance sheet to see Rosina.

        One day when he went to the office, I pulled out a twelve pound rock I brought in just for him. I stuck it in the bottom of his backpack. My plan was to be playful.

        It took him a week.

        “Mr. Karrer,” he whispered to me. “Somebody stole my cell phone and they left me this stupid rock.”

        Hell, I thought. “Alright, Cristo, here’s what I know.  I put the rock in your pack because I thought it would be funny. I don’t know anything about the cell phone. The two things are not related.”

        He gave me a goofy look.  “I thought some retarded kid stole my cell phone and he thought he had to give me something in return.”

        “Nope, I’m guilty with the rock. But completely innocent with the phone.”

        “Kinda’ makes sense. My aunt thought the rock thing was weird.”

        The school year passed and I decided to bump up a grade from fifth-grade to sixth-grade, in order to have the same kids again.  Cristo was a little bent out of shape because he wouldn’t be able to come to our school for two reasons.  First, his aunt and uncle didn’t really want to cart him from out of town every day. I understood that. But the second problem was out of my league.  He no longer lived in our district.  

        I stuck a letter in his end-of-the-year report card saying, “He’d suffered plenty already and probably the best thing in the world for Cristo might be if he attended our school again next year.”

     Rosina the secretary called me later that summer. 

    “Cristo just called the school. He’s coming back next year.”

    “Cooool. But he’s out of district.”

   “Hey, I’m the secretary. I fix things.”

    “Yes, you do.”

    “Oh, Cristo said to tell you he found some phone in the car trunk.  Does that make sense?”

    “Yes.”  I laughed.

    “Oh yeah, Cristo wanted to know if he could sit in the same spot next year?”

     “Tell him – ‘No problema.’”

 

      Rosina can fix most things.  She’s the best.