Wolf of the Playground

When James Cartwright started growling at the other children during recess, most teachers laughed. I didn’t.

I’d been teaching first grade long enough to know the difference between imagination and isolation. And James wasn’t playing. He was retreating.

It started in October. He stopped playing with the other kids and began circling the playground alone, crouching low behind the old tire structure. He didn’t respond to questions unless you were close. Sometimes he’d bare his teeth if another child got too near.

I first noticed the change on a Thursday. It had rained that morning, and the mulch was soft underfoot. I saw James crouched beside the monkey bars, eyes tracking the group of boys playing tag.

He wasn’t watching with interest. He was watching like prey watches predators—or like a predator waiting for a slip.

I walked over.

“Hey, James,” I said gently, kneeling beside him. “What are you doing?”

He sniffed the air.

Not metaphorically. Literally. His nose twitched, and he sniffed.

“Hunting,” he whispered.

That was the first time I felt a chill—not from the wind, but from a realization: James was becoming something else to survive.

---

His parents had divorced in August. I knew this from the file in my drawer and the tension in his mother’s voice at parent-teacher night. She had sat in the plastic chair across from me with red-rimmed eyes and too much makeup. She told me James was “adjusting.”

I didn’t correct her. But what I wanted to say was: James isn’t adjusting. He’s building armor.

By November, the other children had given him a nickname: “Wolf Boy.” Some used it with awe. Others with cruelty. It depended on the day.

I started documenting his behavior in a little notebook I kept in my desk:

> Nov. 3 – Refused to sit at his table during group reading. Chose instead to sit under it. Growled when approached.

Nov. 7 – Made no eye contact all day. Asked to go outside during snack time “to run.”

Nov. 14 – Told me he had “wolf ears” now and could hear the whispers in the teacher’s lounge. I asked him what they said. He replied, “They’re scared of me.”

He was right. Some of them were.

---

I tried different approaches. Positive reinforcement. Stories about transformation. I even read Where the Wild Things Are aloud and asked the class how it made them feel.

James was the only one who didn’t say a word. He just stared at the picture of Max in his crown, his jaw clenched.

Later that day, I found a torn scrap of notebook paper in the recycling bin near his desk. Written in pencil, in messy capitals, it read:

> “If I’m a wolf, I can run away. Wolves don’t cry. Wolves don’t get picked up late.”

I kept it.

---

December brought colder days and darker moods. One afternoon, after indoor recess, I saw James curled up under the coat rack, fast asleep.

His hands were curled like paws.

I didn’t wake him. I sat beside him, folded my legs, and waited. When he opened his eyes, they looked tired in the way grown-ups get tired: like life was something to be endured, not enjoyed.

He blinked at me.

“I’m not broken,” he whispered.

“I know,” I replied. “You’re just trying to survive.”

He looked away, embarrassed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Wolves don’t talk.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then you don’t have to.”

---

That night, I emailed his mother.

> Hi Ms. Cartwright,

I wanted to check in about James. He’s been engaging in some unusual behavior lately—pretending to be a wolf, isolating himself during playtime, and showing signs of stress.

I believe he’s using this persona as a way to cope, not to misbehave. But I’d like to work with you on a plan to help him feel safe and connected again. Would you be available for a meeting?

Warmly,

Ms. Parker

She didn’t respond for three days.

When she finally did, it was a single sentence:

> I’ll come in next week. Sorry. Things have been hard.

---

At the meeting, she looked thinner. Tired. I could see the outline of the same sadness James carried.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap.

“I didn’t know it was this bad,” she said after I explained what I’d observed. “At home, he doesn’t talk much. Just… hides under his bed a lot.”

“Sometimes, when things hurt too much, children become something else to keep themselves safe,” I said. “He’s trying to protect himself the only way he knows how.”

She started to cry.

“I thought I was protecting him by not letting him see me fall apart.”

I handed her a tissue.

“Kids always know,” I said gently. “Even when we don’t want them to.”

---

In January, I asked James if he wanted to make a book with me.

“A book about wolves,” I said. “Real ones. Imaginary ones. However you see them.”

He stared at me suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Because sometimes stories help us understand things that words can’t.”

He thought about it. Then nodded.

Each week, we added to the book. Drawings of wolves running. Pages with questions like:

> What do wolves do when they’re sad?

Where do wolves go when they’re lonely?

What scares a wolf?

One day, James drew a picture of a wolf curled around a smaller figure.

“That’s me,” he said, pointing to the child. “The wolf is keeping me warm.”

I blinked back tears.

“It’s a good wolf,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It just doesn’t know how to talk yet.”

---

By spring, James stopped growling.

He still played alone sometimes, but he also let another child sit next to him under the slide. He started answering questions in class again. Not always, but sometimes.

The wolves were still there—but softer now. Tamer. Integrated.

On the last day of school, he handed me a drawing. It showed a wolf sitting beside a teacher on a bench. The teacher was smiling. The wolf looked peaceful.

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched.

He shrugged.

“Wolves remember kindness,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I nodded. “And teachers remember wolves.”

---

I still keep the drawing in my classroom.

Some children build towers. Others build walls. And some grow fur and claws, not to frighten, but to survive.

And sometimes, when you sit beside them long enough, they start to remember they were human all along.