I teach at a small school in a mountainous region in the United States. On good years, we have maybe twenty students grades kindergarten through eighth. I handle the littles, my husband handles the older kids. It’s not a job you take if you want a secure lifestyle with a luxurious retirement, but it is one you take when you care about the future of children.
Alma was a first grader and very bright. I ended up having to give her the second grader’s books by the end of the first quarter and knew by Christmas she’d likely be caught up to the fourth graders. She always raised her hand and never spoke out of turn.
But she was also a bit strange.
Alma rarely spoke in general, preferring just to remain in the corner coloring rather than participate in activities or talk to her friends. And after a while I came to realize that she didn’t seem to have any friends at all. The other kids didn’t pick on her, far from it. They didn’t even seem to realize she was there. And I’m embarrassed to say even I occasionally overlooked her. Other kids just needed my attention more.
But then we had Parent’s Day.
Parent’s Day happened every fall. We invited the parents of the children to tour the school and talk about current projects, we’d order pizza and play games on the playground. It was always a great time.
At least one parent would always try to make it, and if they couldn’t, grandparents were just as welcome. But Alma arrived alone and didn’t make space for her parents at her desk… and that worried me.
I excused myself from talking with Brent’s parents and made my way over to her.
“Alma?”
She looked up from her drawing, a very cheerful picture of smiling dogs. “Yes, Mrs. Riggs?” She said, her voice so soft I could barely hear it.
I made a bit of a show to look around. “Where’s your mom or dad? Will they be arriving in time for lunch? It’s pizza lunch, after all!”
“They don’t want to come. They don’t like going into the school.”
That took me by shock. After all, Alma was such a bright child.
“Oh. How about your grandma? Or grandpa?”
“I don’t have any.”
I’m used to how children state things like that so matter of factly. Still, my heart ached for poor Alma, all alone while seeing everyone with their parents. I smiled and gestured to my desk. “How about you sit with me today then? I’m a bit lonely eating by myself after all.“
“Thank you, Mrs. Riggs, but if I sit there, I can’t see them,” Alma said as pointed out the window.
Frowning, I looked as well. Just across the field was the thick forest, full of gorgeous pine trees that always made the school smell a little woodsy.
“Who can’t you see, Alma?”
Alma shrugged as she folded her picture in half and put it in her bookbag.
“My parents, Mrs. Riggs.”
During the whole day, Alma hardly budged from her spot, consistently looking out the window. Occasionally I’d see a flash of a grin across her face, I even caught her waving once.
There wasn’t anyone out there of course. And although it broke my heart that her parents willingly deceived her like that, I didn’t tell her to stop. It made her happy after all.
The more I watched Alma, the more things I found out about this strange and lonely girl. During morning recess, she would go sit on the swings, and stay there the entire time while chattering to herself. I discreetly listened in a few times, and I made out a few names of imaginary friends. Luca, Naomi, Samson, Goliath. She’d tell them about all she was learning, about how fun math was and how she couldn’t wait for lunch, as Luca seemed to always pack them. Her lunches would always consist of the same thing- a piece of bread and a slice or two of salami. She never seem like she was starving, but it wouldn’t hurt to throw the girl a bologna sandwich or an apple.
