WHY I TEACH-Part 14: Superheroes

A boy I recognized as one of my late bus leftover kids burst into my classroom.

“My sister,” he panted as he thrust his phone in my direction, “She’s overdosing.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I said as I took the phone.

“Please, she called me and told me she’s overdosing,” he cried out.

“Hello,” I said tentatively into the phone, my heart began to thump in my ears.

A very groggy female voice responded, “Hello.”

I grabbed my phone from off the desk, entered my password, and threw it to Terrance. “Call 911.”

“Hey, your brother wanted me to talk to you,” I said to the girl on the phone. “Is that OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

“Well hello Sarah, it’s great to talk to you.”

The 911 operator answered. “What do I say?” Terrance asked.

“You’ve got a kid overdosing,” I said as I covered the microphone on the phone I was holding. I looked at my late bus leftover kid. “Tell him everything.”

“Hey Sarah, where are you?”

“Bedroom.”

“Can you do me a huge favor and head to the front door?”

“Yes, overdose,” Terrance said. “What did she take?”

“H,” my late bus leftover kid said.

“Heroine,” Terrance told the dispatcher. “What’s your address?”

“Hey Sarah, you still there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you make it to the front door?”

“Yes, but it’s closed.”

“Can you open it for me?”

I heard the door squeak open. “It’s cold,” she said.

“That’s OK, it will just be for a minute.”

“I’m getting a blanket,” she said.

“OK, but don’t set the phone down, take me with you.”

“You can come with me.”

I heard her shuffle slow steps toward a blanket, somewhere.

“Did you get one?”

“Yup.”

“OK, I need you to go back to the front door,” I urged.

I covered the speaker, “How long before the ambulance gets there?”

“It’s been dispatched, should be there soon,” Terrance replied.

“OK, Sarah, I need you to sit criss-cross apple sauce in front of the door.”

“Like in first grade?” She slurred the words—painful and slow.

“Yup, just like first grade, I need you to criss-cross apple sauce in front of the door. Can you do that?”

I heard a soft thud.

“Don’t leave me,” Sarah said, barely a sleepy whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I heard the siren through the phone on her end.

“Tell them she’s waiting by the front door,” I told Terrance.

“I can hear help, help is coming Sarah.” I waited for her response. “Sarah? Sarah?” I screamed into the phone.

“She’s unresponsive, but breathing” I heard a voice through the phone say a very long moment later. I understood the chaos, saw the stretcher approach and leave, felt the front door close, heard the siren trail off, and then nothing. I handed my late bus leftover kid back his phone.

He flung his arms around my neck and began to sob, his body trembled as did mine.

I heard Terrance say, “General Memorial. I will, yes, I will, thank you ma’am,” before he hung up on the 911 operator. I gave him a thumbs up and a nod.

“I’ve gotta call my mom,” my late bus leftover kid said as he pulled away from me. “Thank you.” He turned and sprinted just as quickly from my classroom.

I sat down at my desk and stared at the clock on the wall—it read 8:35. I put my head in my hands and stared at my desk. At 8:45 I looked up to a classroom of somber kids.

“Um, let’s watch a movie today,” I said. “Can someone go and get the projector from Mr. Collins in the media center?” Several hands shot up. “OK, go.”

“What are we going to watch?” someone asked.

“I’ve got a bootleg of the new Spiderman movie,” another replied. And everyone agreed.

I watched the movie four times that day.