The last thing Arty wants to do is watch her tape, since she’s sure she knows what’s on it. But if they all have to do it to progress on the train, she doesn’t see another option. So (with the help of a Treevee that’s a little closer to the ground, and far away from the others) she decides to just get it over with.
—
It’s an elementary-school classroom, empty except for three people: a younger Arty—smaller and rounder-faced but otherwise nearly identical to present-day—and two other women: her teacher, and her mom.
Just her mom. She remembers, at the time, feeling relieved that her dad was away, that at least one parent didn’t have to see this. Now, she feels differently.
The teacher folds her hands on the desk and casts a concerned look from the little girl to her mom, clearing her throat slightly before speaking: “We, ah, usually have the students wait outside for the parent-teacher conferences, Mrs. Takenaka…”
Arty’s mom shifts in her seat. She pulls her cardigan around herself—a daisy pattern—but the look she casts the teacher is firm, a little steely. “Well, I’d like her here. Arty hasn’t been telling me what’s been going on. I’d like to get a better understanding from both of you.”
Little Arty looks back and forth between the two women, clearly trying to glean as much information from what they’re not saying as possible. She doesn’t know what this conversation means for her yet and she doesn’t like that uncertainty. There’s a clear reluctance on the teacher’s face that is definitely discouraging. Still, the parent wins the parent-teacher standoff. “…All right. If you think it’s best she stay, that’s fine.”
“So, I went into a little detail about this on Arty’s report card,”
Little Arty slumps in her chair, guilt evident on her face.
Right, that one she’d ruined by “dropping” it in a mud puddle so nobody would have to see it…
“but she’s… lagging behind, in some areas. She doesn’t read or write at a third-grade level. I’d say it’s closer to kindergarten, but it could even be lower. She won’t read in front of the class or write on the board, so it’s hard to say for sure. But she scores poorly on assessments, pretty much across the board but especially in reading comprehension and spelling.”
Arty’s mom leans forward a bit in her chair. The crease between her eyebrows deepens. “Okay? Well, what do we do about it? Are you trying to help her?”
The teacher looks a little miffed at that. “Well—of course we are. But it’s hard to give assistance when we aren’t sure of the problem. It’s not unusual for a child who’s struggling for whatever reason to withdraw and participate less in class, of course, but by doing that, she’s not giving us the chance to help her. That’s why I was hoping to connect with you, to try and see if anything’s going on at home.”
Arty’s mom’s frown grows. “Thanks, but no, nothing’s ‘going on’ at home that I’m aware of.” To Arty: “Is there anything I should know about, honey?” Arty meekly shakes her head. Satisfied, her mom turns back to the teacher. “Is that the only explanation you have?”
“No, it could be one of several things,” the teacher admits. “It’s possible that she just needs more individual attention outside of class. I’d say try practicing reading, writing, and spelling with her at home. Ask her questions about what she reads, make sure she understands it. If you don’t see improvement… Maybe consider taking her to a specialist?”
God, this feeling… being talked about like she’s not even here, having all her failures dragged out and discussed between the people in charge of her. Arty had always known she wasn’t good at school, but this was the first time it had been really acknowledged that it was a problem.
Arty sinks even further in her chair. She’s not looking at either of them anymore, but she hears her mom sigh beside her. “…Okay. Well, I guess we’ll try that. Thanks for your time.”
