Teaching in high school, I fell into a routine that seemed sempiternal. Every morning I woke up from the sound of a buzzing alarm clock at quarter-after-five, reminding me that I still have a life ahead of me and that I need to roll out of bed, and every morning was the same. Fix myself up, get organized, eat breakfast and drive to school. My school hours lasted from six in the morning to six at night. In those long hours I would teach my classes, eat whatever lunch I had prepared for myself prior to the school day and teach some more. After school hours consisted of grading homework or helping the rare student that would come to me for extra help.
I taught a junior English class at Northbrook High, and every year I had students come and go and it was onto the next class, no second thoughts of the previous class. It wasn’t a part of my job requirement to connect to students. My job was to teach and collect a paycheck, nothing more, nothing less. Every year I had made my two rules abundantly clear to my students. “Rule number one,” I would say, “do not annoy me. If you do, then I can guarantee that personal bias will definitely be a part of your grades.”
“What, so you gonna give me a bad grade ‘cause I’m black?” said one of my students. I proceeded to write exactly what he had said on the board and said,
“Rule number two, you will use proper grammar, and only proper grammar, in my class,” as I corrected his sentence. The students laughed, which what I was aiming for. I taught my class with what I called “cold humor.” It made students more interested to know who I would hit next, and the more interested, the less annoying they were.

The first couple of months of the school year couldn’t have been more redundant. On this particular day, I was enjoying my afternoon coffee with Principal McMart when he told me of the “interesting” morning he had. Thomas Reed’s father came in today and shouted at McMartin, “I am not having my son sit in a class with a bunch of retards! You will enroll him in your average curriculum, and so help me if you move him down one class, this school will not hear the end of it,” and turned to his son and said in the same tone of voice, “and the same goes for you too, boy!” According to McMartin, he then stormed out of the building, followed by his son nervously walking out of the door.

Thomas was an autistic boy, and a fragile one at that. What I knew of him at the time was that he was one of the “special needs” boys in special classes. The boy seemed as if he didn’t belong in high school with him always carrying around a little stuffed bear either clipped to his backpack or practically attached to his chest.
That next day, I saw his name come up on my attendance sheet, and I thought I had gone mad. I went over to the principals’ office, just to make sure that it wasn’t a mistake. I stormed in McMartin’s office pleading, “John, please tell me that this is a mistake,” walking through the door and handing him my attendance sheet. “There is no possible way this boy will make it through my class,” I said coldheartedly.
“I’m sorry Rob, but by our official school rules, we must apply students to classes either requested, or in this case, ‘insisted’ by their guardian,” said McMartin as I could hear the stress in his voice that was also in mine.
“Sir, with all due respect, that boy will fail faster than that moron Eliot Halt who still thinks that he will, and I quote, ‘make it big dawg, I will be on top of the world once my I get drafted after high school.’” I said in mockery to Eliot, and all things he stood for.
“I’m sorry, but I’m just doing my job.” He said to me, trying to remain calm.
“As am I sir, but thanks to our damned rules, it’s going to be twice as tedious.” I said, starting out the door back to my homeroom.
Just that day, Thomas came into my room and became another face. There was one particular thing about him that my students, and even I, chuckled at. He had a tiny stuffed bear he would carry around the hallways, attached to his backpack and during class he would detach it and put it up on his desk.
The first time I saw him do this, I thought nothing of it, but I took it as an opportunity to belittle him. I made my way to the desk and picked the bear up saying, “Thomas, I hope you know that this is a classroom, not a playpen.” I said with contempt as Thomas’ face showed genuine fear and sadness.
“He’s Willfred, he helps me concentrate good. Please let me keep him out. I can’t think without him. Mr. Smith please, I won’t be distracting,” he pleaded. The tone in his voice even sounded like he was going to break out into tears. I caught wind of this, and so did the students, but rather than acknowledging the pitiful whimper in his voice they all chuckled and whispered amongst themselves, most likely making fun of Thomas.
“I suppose,” I said handing the bear back to Thomas as he grabbed it from my hands like an impatient dog snatching any food you may have in your hand when it reaches it’s eye level, “but no distractions,” I said as if I was actually holding him to his plea.

A month had passed since that day, and every day I would find Thomas sitting in the hallway where his locker stood, clinging onto that bear as if someone were about to take it from him. There came a point in time where I couldn’t suppress my curiosity, so I turned down the hallway he was sitting in and said to him, “Thomas, I hope you know that the busses have already left. Is your father coming to pick you up?”
“No. I just like sitting.” He said slowly, almost sounding he was forging the thought as he was saying it. He started to grip his bear harder, as if he was scared and holding on tighter to his mother’s hand.
“Well I suggest you get home soon. Shouldn’t walk on these roads after dark.” I said trying to quickly get myself out of the awkward situation I seemed to get myself into. I started back down the hallway to my classroom, and before I reached the end Thomas asked me,
“Mr. Smith, am I stupid?” And I stopped dead in my tracks and turned back around, but did not step forward.
“Why do you ask?” I asked him.
“My Pop tell me I am. He tell all the time that I’m a stupid retard and the reason Momma left,” he paused for a moment, “I try my hardest Mr. Smith,” he said with an obvious lump in his throat and tears being forged in his eyes, “I try my very best, I stay here after school cause I think it’s gonna make me smart. It don’t work though. I just want to be smart and it don’t work. What am I gonna do Mr. Smith? I don’t want my Pop to call me stupid no more.” He finished with tears dripping from those scared eyes. “I do what I’m told. He tell me to do somethin’ an’ I do it all the time, but he still yell, and I don’t like it. I try so hard to be smart and it don’t work.” He hugged the bear even harder, and I saw a bruise that was once covered by his sleeve.
“It’s okay, Thomas,” I said walking back to actually help this boy, “you are hard working, I can see it. If you want my honest opinion, I will take a hard working, less fortunate, boy over any procrastinating and useless genius any day of the week.” I went and sat down next to him, as awkward as it felt for me, and again he started clenching onto his bear. “What did you say his name was again?” I asked trying to make conversation.
“Wilfred,” he said, trying to choke on the still flowing tears, “he been my best friend since I was, uh.. um..” he paused, trying to remember when he even got the thing, “four. He always is here to hold my hand whenever I don’t understand things so good or when I get scared. He tell me all the time that I can do it. But sometimes I don’t believe him.” And then I realized what that bear meant to him, really. I had been so arrogant and naive, and I felt that I had to make it right. I stood up and asked him,
“Thomas, how are you at reading?”
“I don’t read so good sir.” he said, sounding even more disappointed.
“Well,” I said in reaction to his incorrect grammar, “You don’t read so ‘well.’”
“I said that,” he replied to me.
“Well Thomas, you're not going to be doing much learning here in the hallway. Come along with me, I have after school classes starting soon, and I can help you understand more.” I said holding out my hand to help him up. Not understanding my gesture, he stood up himself and started handing me Willfred, as if I was asking him to give him up for class. I pushed his hand away, “Hold onto Wilfred,” I said, “if he helps you, then by all means, keep him around in class.” He managed to crack a smile hearing that, and I couldn’t help myself but to smile as well, but turned around to start walking so he couldn’t see the joy his smile brought to me.

A few months had gone by, and every day Thomas would come by for my extra help class after school, and I knew he wanted to be there as well. Every day started with the same words, “I’m going to get smarter today Mr. Smith!” Thomas would say as he sat down at the desk in front of mine. I gave it a little chuckle and began the lesson. I would help him with sentence structure, give him reading tips, or just read what was due for the next day out loud for him.
Thomas would come into school some days with apparent bruises running up and down his arms and legs. I could usually tell when he had them when he would wear long sleeves and pants, but didn’t realize he was limping and not moving his arms very much. I would ask him most days that had happened, “Are you okay Thomas? You may go to the nurse if you’re hurting,” and he would reply the same way.
“I’m okay Mr. Smith. Just fell is all.” If that were the case, I would have bought the boy a wheelchair myself, but I had known exactly where they came from.
One Friday we had sat down for after school help, but there was nothing to help with since the next day was saturday. On that particular Friday though, Thomas’ bruises weren’t only on his arms, but now one on his face. I tried to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there; but it was there alright. I made it halfway through our session, until I couldn’t take it any longer. “Thomas,” I said taking off my classes, “why do you come into school with bruises?” Sure enough, he gave me the same response,
“Just fell sir,” as if it were programmed in his head to say that.
“Fell doing what?” I finally asked after weeks of the same question and response.
“I...” he started, followed by some “um’s” and “uh’s” until he finally forged a lie in his head, “I have trouble walkin down the stairs,” he said with confidence that I would buy it.
“Thomas, you make your way up and down the stairs to get to your classes every day, and there hasn’t been a single hazard,” I said, “now tell me why you come into school with these bruises.”
“Pop said I’m not s’pose to tell,” he said getting nervous.
“Well your dad isn’t around. Why not tell me, and I won’t tell him.” I said. He started looking around the room, making sure his father wasn’t around.
“Pinky promise?” he asked. I held out my pinkie to his and said,
“Pinky promise.” We hooked pinkies to seal the deal, and he looked around the room again.
“Pop got meaner again last night,” he started, “I don’t like it when he does. He always does this though. He come home sometimes from the drink place, and then he calls for me to go downstairs. I do what he say cause he scares me. And then...” he grabbed Wilfred from the corner of his desk and brought him closer, “Then he yelled at me. He tell me I’m stupid and retarded and I disappoint him. I cry when he does, I try my best, but it hurts. He starts hitting me then.”
“Tell me about last night,” I said, “where did the one on your face come from?”
“Pop got real mean last night. He was yellin at me, and then he got all sick in the sink.” Thomas started to tear up, “I thought it was funny, but didn’t. He yelled at me more and told me to come forward, and I did. He hit me in the face then,” Thomas was then crying, but trying to finish his story, “and it hurt Mr. Smith. And it still does.” My hands started tighten into fists in rage and in sadness. I knew he had a difficult time at home, yet I still felt the same shock as if I wasn’t expecting it. I cleared my throat to rid of the forming lump and said to him,
“It will all get better. You’ll see,” as I patted him on the shoulder. For the rest of the lesson I let Thomas sob into Wilfred while I tried not to tear up.

That next day, I called Thomas’ father to meet me during lunch. Rest assured, he showed up. He barged into my homeroom at the time I had specified, but the odor he brought was not pleasant; he smelled of an Irish pub that was invaded by a pack of chain smokers. He wasn’t anything special, he was around my height, a spectacular five foot nine, and had greasy black hair with the teeth in his mouth yellow rotting away as if he hadn’t brushed his teeth in years. “Mr. Smith,” he said with the odor now leaking out of his mouth, “feel like tellin’ me why I’m here during my work hours?” He said to me condescendingly. I had almost gagged from the smell he was producing, but I stood up from my desk, walked around to him and said,
“Judging by your smell Mr. Reed, you haven’t been at work at all today.” He clenched his fists and was immediately infuriated that I talked down to him, but did not object to my statement,
“Why am I here you good for nothin’ know it all!” he screamed to my face.
“Sir, I’d like to know why your son walks into school every week with new cuts and bruises infesting his body.” I said with my fists now clenched in my pockets.
“That good for nothin’ little ingrate? What does it matter to you? He is an idiot, he is always gettin’ himself hurt,” he said, but I could see through him all of the times he had practiced this lie in a mirror.
“Well that certainly isn’t what he told me,” I said, “and I would like you to know that he is a boy of special needs, and if you keep treating him the way you do, I swear on the stars that if he comes in here with another limp because ‘he fell’, you better believe I will have Child Protective Services on the other line.” As I finished, he gritted his teeth harder and was breathing heavier.
“That selfish, good for nothin’, spoiled brat!” he screamed as he stepped away from me, and as he did, we both saw Thomas open the door. Thomas immediately froze in his footsteps in the doorway.
“Thomas,” his father said, “you step right up here, right now.” And he did so on command holding Wilfred as close to himself as possible. He stood face to face with his father, and Wilfred was ripped from his grasp. “I thought I told you to never. Tell. Anyone.” he said poking his chest with the last three words.
“You broke your pinky promise,” Thomas said sobbing at the floor.
“What in blue blazes are you talkin’ bout?” his father replied.
“You broke your pinkie promise,” Thomas repeated with greater sadness, “you promised!” he yelled with tears dripping down his face. His father in a fitted rage took Wilfred by two hands and ripped him into two.
“Shut up! I didn’t tell you that you could talk, now did I?” said his father, raising his voice even higher. I just stood there, staring in shock of that of which he had done in lieu of the more common action than to pull his father away. Thomas’ eyes were dripping harder as his face also turned to shock and screamed for the loss of his only friend. I snapped myself back into it as Thomas pushed his father away in an attempt to run away, yet it was in vain.

His father grabbed him by the arm in the hallway and threw him up against the lockers. I went out into the hall after them; I saw Thomas had been pinned against the lockers and could see the wrath in his father’s face as he was throwing punches at his helpless son. I ran up to them both and tore his father away with as much force as I could provide, but he retaliated by giving me a good swing to my torso. I collapsed to the ground in pain as Thomas’ father repeatedly kicked me in head and chest screaming profanities that I didn’t even know existed.

People finally started filing into the hallway after the screams of Thomas’ father’s vulgar language and Thomas screaming bloody murder and his father yelling and came to our aid. Thomas’ father was pulled away from my aching body. Principal McMartin had finally made his way into the hall and saw Thomas’ father struggling to be let go so he could make an escape and me as I was coughing up blood and trying to cling onto consciousness. Thomas was still bawling as he dashed off through the crowd of people. I tried to chase after him, but as I tried to stand I fell right back over from the pain in my chest, and I blacked out.

I woke up a few hours after the event and people were still in uproar. Days then went by as news teams would appear at our school asking to interview me, and I did so. I had to conjure ever ounce of strength in me to make it through interviews without letting a shred of sadness show on my face or voice. Thomas was still missing, and it made me worry to end. I hadn’t the slightest idea where he had gone. Thomas’ father faced a judge and jury only to lose his court case and was charged with public intoxication, child abuse, was to release custody of Thomas and he would be admitted to a boys home. After the case was closed, I went up to one of the officers and I said to him, “When you find him, I’m begging you, please put him in a good place.” The officer just replied with a,
“We will do what we can, sir.” His words did not sound very reassuring.

Principal McMartin had given me the remains of what was Wilfred, he said that I knew Thomas the most out of all of his teachers, so I should have it, just in case. Those words, “just in case,” they made a chill go up my spine like a cold wind on my unprotected body in the middle of a snowstorm.
For those weeks that Thomas wasn’t there, it felt like I had been woken up from a dream. I was right back into my old routine. I had nothing to look forward to and was only collecting a paycheck twice a month. It wasn’t until into the third week that Thomas made an appearance in my classroom again. He didn’t acknowledge me that whole first day, and he didn’t come to after school help that day either. I searched the hallways for him. He wasn’t near his locker, he wasn’t in the bathroom, neither any floor nor any hall. He was mad, and I don’t blame him. I broke his pinkie promise. I went back to my classroom and locked the door, I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.
A couple of days went by and then it was Friday, the day I dreaded most of all out of the days of the week. But that particular Friday, I found him in the hallway I had approached him the day that started our friendship. He was missing something though: Wilfred. I went down the hallway, and he saw me and turned his head away. I sat down next to him, and neither of us spoke for a good minute or two; he broke the silence. “You promised,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I replied quietly, almost whispering.
“Fine,” he said so bluntly. “Mr. Smith,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Am I stupid?” He asked. I was waiting
“I have something for you,” I said, and he turned his head towards mine to meet my eyes. “come on, let’s go get it.” We both stood up and headed over to my room. Thomas sat back down in his desk. “Close your eyes, and hold out your hands.” I said, and he did so. I took the object from my backpack and put it in his open hands. “Okay, open up.” I said again.

Low and behold in Thomas’ hands was his best friend, once again. He leaped up from his desk and gave me a hug with tears of joy in his eyes, as well as mine. I said to him, “Thomas Reed, you are the smartest person I have ever known.”

After that day, I made it my effort to take custody of Thomas as his official guardian. I took him out of the boys home he had been put in and he lived with me, but of course I had to quit my job to do so. I had no issue with that, and to this day, I am proud of it.
I now work in an autism clinic teaching children and teens with autism reading and writing. The paycheck isn’t as large as my last job, but it is very worth it to help out these children and to give a smile to someone in need of one.

And Thomas, if you ever read this,
Thank you.