Rob lied about their father being dead. 2) Why Sherm stops talking anytime I bring Rob up.
But I’ve got a theory that those two things might be connected.
I keep picturing Rob’s face when he said he knew exactly what his future held. He’s driven and determined, with an angry undercurrent to everything he does. But whatever’s driving him also makes him unfathomably sad—the same sadness I see in Sherm’s eyes every time he looks my way.
Something horrible happened to this family, and I can’t help wondering if it has to do with why their mother is dead and they’re telling everyone their father is too. Did the father murder his wife? Domestic violence would explain Sherm and Rob’s shared trauma. It might also explain Rob’s vigilance if the father threatened to harm Sherm or the other siblings.
It’s not my business. I don’t need details. But I need to know how it’s affecting Sherm so I can help him move past it.
I’m on yard duty, sitting at a picnic table during afternoon recess, staring at Rob’s picture on my phone and formulating my plan to confront him for answers, when I hear yelling from down the row of tables. I look up in time to see Macie running toward me, her eyes as big as dinner plates.
“They’re trying to throw Sherm in the trash can, Miss Wilson!”
I spring off the bench and bolt toward the last picnic table, where Jason and his two buddies hold Sherm suspended, thrashing and twisting, over the edge of the steel drum. Sherm lashes out with his right fist and connects with Jason’s face. Jason lets go and brings both hands to his bleeding nose, wailing like a wounded animal. One of his buddies flings Sherm against the side of the trash can by the arm.
“Let him go!” I yell, as the other yard duty teachers converge on the scene.
The fifth-grade boys drop Sherm and run for the fence at the edge of the school grounds, and Jason sinks to the ground, blood and tears running between his fingers and dripping down his elbows onto his white T-shirt.
Sherm crouches near the picnic tables cradling his arm to his chest, his face twisted in grimace of pain. But unlike Jason, he’s not crying.
Mrs. Yetz presses a wad of tissue to Jason’s face. “Come with me,” she says, and shepherds him toward the office.
“Sherm? Are you okay?” I ask, stooping next to him.
When I look at his arm, it’s clear he’s not okay. His elbow is already starting to swell and seems twisted at a slightly unnatural angle.
“I’ll get the nurse,” Theresa says, heading toward the office.
“It’s okay, Sherm,” I say, settling onto the ground next to him and wrapping my arm over his shoulders. “I’m going to call your brother, okay?”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Lee.”
“You want me to call your sister?”
He nods. He’s becoming paler by the second, but he still doesn’t cry. I’m afraid he’s going into shock. He looks so small and fragile I want to scoop him up and take all his pain away. He recites a phone number and I dial it.
“Hello,” a voice on the other end says.
“Is this Lee Davidson?” I ask.
“Um . . . yes.” She’s suddenly wary, just like her brother. “Who is this?”
“This is Adri Wilson from Port St. Mary Elementary. I’m your brother’s teacher.”
“Oh,” she says, her wariness melting into concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Unfortunately, no. Sherm was involved in an altercation in the playground and I think he’s possibly broken his arm.”
“Oh my God!” she shrieks.
“The school nurse is on her way out. He’s asking for you. Are you available to come into school?”
“We’ll be right there,” she says, then she’s gone.
I lower the phone. “She’s on her way.”
Macie floats over and lowers herself to the ground on Sherm’s other side. She whispers something in his ear that I can’t hear. He covers his face with his hand, but she gently pries it away, then says something else. Through his pain, he manages a smile, then she gets up and flounces off.
Theresa is walking across the lawn toward us with the nurse, and I can tell by Theresa’s hand gestures that she’s filling her in on what happened. The bell rings as they reach us, and I tell my other students to head to class.
“I’ve got him,” the woman says.
She looks familiar, but instead of trying to figure out why, I stand and get out of her way.
“Sherm?” she asks, kneeling at his