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your ears have stopped up. And they aren't just randomly cussing. They cuss us . They don't do homework. They won't do class-work. They sit there in their own little worlds, with God-knows-what brewing inside those heads. Sure, there are a few who listen, who do what I asked, but it's few and far between.   Nine-year-old girls dressed like twenty year olds on the make. Eight year old boys already spouting racist rhetoric."
    "Yes," said Deidra. "Whatever. I'd quit if I were you."
    "It wouldn't matter if I did. They can still stick me for assault."
    I ought to quit. I ought to get the hell out of Dodge. She’s right. I don’t need this job.
    Deidra seemed to consider this. Then, "Call your husband yet? If anyone can find pull to get out of something like this, you can."  
    "No.”
    "Damn, girl, get on that phone now while you can. He'll get it fixed. Not many of us here in this poor little county have someone in the family who has the power to clean us messes for us. Hey, your kids leaving lunch in couple minutes? No problem. I'll watch them for you. I'll take them back to your classroom if your call runs over. Go on, now."
    "I…," Kate said. Why not? She thought. Call him. Let him do something for her for once in his life. Then, "Sure, yes, thanks." It was a worthless effort, but at least it would get her out of the conversation with Deidra and give her a few extra minutes.
    In the office, Miriam was back at her desk, typing something into her computer with a tidy little clickety -clack of her polished nails. Mr. Byron's office door was shut. On the bench near the teacher mailboxes, first grader Mistie Henderson, dressed in a thin gown with a cardigan sweater, squirmed and played with her fingers. Kate knew this child. She'd heard Mistie's teacher discussing this girl before school in the lounge. Mistie stuck crayons up her vagina. Mistie rubbed herself against tables and chairs and had been discovered several times in the girls' bathroom, benignly watching her face in the mirror as she squeezed her own neck with her hands. Twice, she had grabbed the crotch of Vernon Via, the school’s physical education teacher. Joe Angelone, the guidance counselor, had promised to schedule a conference with Mistie's parents, but so far, hadn't quite gotten around to it.
    "Why is Mistie in here?" Kate whispered to Miriam.
    Miriam kept typing, but her lips pursed. "Wearing a nightgown. Got no panties on. Joe found a sweater and some clean underwear in lost and found. Called her parents. Her mother said she’d bring out a dress. It’s been twenty minutes. No mother. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t show. She never does. I’ll send her back to class in a few minutes.”
    "Oh."
    There were only two phones available to teachers. One was on Miriam's desk and the other was in the guidance counselor's office. Kate didn't want to talk in front of Miriam, so she knocked on Joe Angelone's door. He called her in. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with a thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was seated at his cluttered desk, examining a brightly painted wooden mask, turning it over in his hands and sighing.
    "Our new artist-in-residence," he said, holding up the mask. "Isn't she wonderful? Her family is from Kenya, and we have her for a whole month. All grades except fourth and fifth, sorry. She's going to teach mask design. We’ll have the best display at the Southampton Schools Art Fair."
    "I need to make a call."
    Joe rubbed his thumb on the mask’s blue nose. "I found her. She's from Norfolk. Has work in galleries all over the United States, I understand. I'd pat my own back if I could twist my arm that far.” He chuckled and his eyes winked behind the lenses. “I've always been able to get the best artists to come to Pippins Elementary. I beat out the middle schools and high schools every year. I bet they wish they had my connections."
    "I bet. I need the phone."
    "Yes. Well. Please make it short. I’ve got a lot of