Little Rooms

Chapter 6

Mrs. Margolies, the school's Special Ed instructor, was a graying woman in her late 60s who wore clothes with flower or fruit patterns on them. Used balls of Kleenex were always tucked behind her computer stand and the few family photos strewn across her desk. She should have just thrown them away, but perhaps she had a sentimental attachment to used pieces of paper.

She was expecting a detailed quarterly report on Isaiah's tutelage. I obliged by sitting down and banging the thing out for this woman. Highly regarded by the school, Mrs. Margolies' students thought otherwise.

"Couldn't be a bigger pain in my ass," said Isaiah with a grumble.

"What do you mean? She seems okay."

"You don't have to live with her every day. I can't get away with anything," he said, pausing before a devilish smile spread across his face. "Except for us."

While I included tidbits about how quickly Isaiah learned and his dedication to reading what I assigned, I didn't go any further by writing about his character or behavior. I was afraid I'd let something slip.

"I don't want her to think I favor you."

"God forbid the tutor becomes tempted by the student... the younger student." He was right. I was technically an adult while he was a year behind me. I started obsessing about those lady teachers who'd kidnap their 17-year-old males students, go to Vegas for a week, and wind up in jail for three years.

"That's the last thing you'd be thrown in jail for if you hang around me," he said with a laugh.

Always hiding something, Isaiah would occasionally skip out on a night in my bed. I assumed he was delivering pizza.

"How many houses did you hit last night?" I asked, leaning against him in the Green Machine.

His face turned cold for a minute. "Two."

"That's all? Your tips must suck."

He bit his lip. "Uh, yeah. It was just a bad night, that's all."

Bad tips or not, Isaiah always had money to spend. He wouldn't let me pay for anything. Even the smallest piece of candy from 7-11 was on his tab.

"For a delivery guy with a shitty route, you're rolling in cash."

"I work hard for that," he'd remind me.

On this particular day, Mrs. Margolies wanted to discuss how hard Isaiah was really working. My fingers almost went through the paper notes I clutched.

"Sit down, Nicole," she said, sitting behind her laminate desk. A homemade clay pencil cup sat on her left, a giant coffee cup on her right that said "Mom" in Old English letters. A giant wad of crumpled pink Kleenex sat tucked in the picture stand in front of me.

She leaned forward, her sausage fingers clamped together. Reading glasses hung from her neck with a purple rope.

"I admire the work you do. Especially for these kids," she said, taking her sausages off the desk and hiding them in her lap. "But, I think Isaiah needs something more than a student tutor."

I'd never been told I wasn't enough.

"He seems to be doing fine with the program."

"My dear, Isaiah has issues outside of the classroom that are rather... extraordinary. Although I can't share the details with you, please understand that it has nothing to do with your performance as a tutor."

She'd caught my attention and left me high-and-dry on the doorstep. Extraordinary?

"Does this mean I won't be tutoring him anymore?"