Back to Issue 9.

Thought It Was Enough

David Weinberger

He don’t know his alphabet. I hear him guess the wrong letters. Now she asks him to read a book. Damn. If he can’t tell letters he can’t read books. Does read some signs, like McDonald’s, Burger King, Chucky Cheeses. Is that reading? She wants him to talk about the pictures, he says ‘don’t know.’ He says that a lot. I should’ve taught him some things. I was busy and I didn’t give much thought to him starting school. It seemed far away. Oh God, she’s asking about math now. He can count a little. Not the teens. Gets confused. Can’t add or subtract. My fault: I can’t do math. He knows his colors and he can draw real good. He likes that. Time is passing so slow. My heart’s aching for my baby. He don’t know anything for kindergarten. He’s failing and it’s my fault. He has to pay the price for my many bad decisions.

I didn’t take tests like this in kindergarten, we played and heard stories. Mom says kids gotta know how to read and do math before they start school, which is fucked up ‘cause that’s what schools are for. Whatever. He’s almost five so I guess he needs to know stuff. He don’t though. Means he’ll be behind other kids. And then they’ll make fun of him, call him dumb and retard. Kids can be meaner than their parents. I could care less if people judge me; I’m a fuckup. But leave my kid alone. He done nothing to deserve people’s hate.

I feel trapped in this classroom, unable to help Jason with this test. I wish it was still early morning, enjoying my third cigarette, watching him sleep in the back of the Pinto. Smoking more lately ‘cause I knew this day was coming, a meeting with his teacher, and I’m afraid. Every teacher I ever knew talked down at me, like they were better than me, doing me a favor by teaching, using fancy words. And I could tell they didn’t like me or my mom and dad. They both worked, with no time to help at my school. Parents weren’t involved those days. Let teachers decide things, do what they wanted. Now it’s different. Do this, do that. Get involved in your kid’s education. I can ‘cause I only work part time. If I had a real job and real pay I probably couldn’t. How the hell do people work all day and still help teachers? Do teachers get that about people like me? How it takes everything we got to make it through each day. How we got very little time to do their jobs for them. Maybe this new one will be different. 

My shift at Dollar Barn doesn’t start till two so I could visit the school today. I won’t make much money but at least I get a few hours. Pay for cigarettes and some food. Not enough for an apartment. We live in my old Pinto. Danny and I sleep up front. Jason in the back seat. The little we own behind him. Danny works construction. We’re saving for an apartment. First and last month’s rent and a deposit. Take forever to save that much but we have to. Mom and dad’s place is too small for five people. Besides, they complain about our smoking. Costs too much, not healthy. And they hate that we smell like smoke. Our clothes, our hair, skin. I can’t help it. It’s a habit. Anyway, the Pinto is fine. Parked in the Walmart parking lot, at least during the night. Have to move when the store opens. It’s quiet, and there are some grassy areas where we can stretch out in good weather. Winter will be harder. We need an apartment by then. It’s already August, so there’s not much time. 

Finished my cigarette and time to wake Jason. Damn car door squeaks, stirs him. He turns away from me.

Hey baby. Time to wake up. Gotta go to school.

I call him baby. Even though he’s not a baby. It was my ex’s idea to call him Jason, after that character in the scary movies, which I think is messed up. I didn’t like it, he said he’s the boss so I didn’t have a say. That was out in LA. We rented a bungalow. It was nice having a place to live. My ex, I can’t stand his name either, was pretty mean. He scared me a lot and it took a long time to get brave enough to load my baby in the Pinto and take off. Couldn’t get out fast enough. That’s when we started living in the car and how I met Danny a few months later. We hit it off real good and I talked him into helping us get out of LA, somewhere far from the ex. Wound up in Ellison Park, near Salt Lake City, where my mom and dad live. They were so surprised and happy when we arrived they were crying right in his face. Got him crying. Took everything I got to get them to stop. The best is they love my boy. They don’t judge how I raise my kid and they treat him the way I want him to be treated. Too bad we can’t live with them. 

Hey baby. Let’s go. Gotta clean up.

It’s hard to lift Jason from the seat. Hard to get a grip inside the car and he’s pretty big. Gonna be a big guy when he grows up. Like my ex. Finally, he moves and helps me lift him to sitting. He’s waking up. I run my fingers through his long, scraggly hair trying to get the big knots out before I comb it. He hates when I comb it ‘cause it has lots of knots after a night’s sleep. The boy’s hair is too long but he won’t let me cut it. Fights me when I try. Cries sometimes. He knows I used to do hair. Right after high school. For friends. So, I could do a decent job for him. Anyway, I like his long hair good enough. Danny hates it, thinks I should force the kid to let me cut it. Says if he’s gonna wear it long it has to be neat and combed. Hurt or not, he has to look good. And he’s right. We gotta look like we live in a house, with a bathtub and a kitchen and a good bed, not like we live in a car. The thing is that most boys cut their hair short and I’m afraid his long hair will be another reason for people to be tough on my kid. 

Before he left Danny filled a bucket with cleaning water. Jason knows the routine and rinses his face and hands. Brushes his teeth. When he’s done, I wipe the dirt off his pants and WWF t-shirt. Help him into his sneakers. He looks good. Give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him we’re going to his school to meet his teacher. He smiles about this. Love his smile. Told me he wants to go to school to meet other kids. He’s got no friends right now.

Into the front seat and off we go to the school which isn’t far. Lit sign out front of the big brick building saying Welcome to School! Screw that. Jason screams happily about the two playgrounds. Probably thinks that’s what school is about. I hope he gets time to play on them. He’s only ever played at McDonald’s playgrounds. And not that much. I’m glad he’s excited, even though I’m scared. Scared what the teacher will think of me and my boy. Worried she’ll be hard on us ‘cause we live in my car. And my lie about the car scares me too. When I registered Jason, the school people told me I have to show I live in the neighbourhood with a mailing address. That was a surprise to me. So, I lied. Told them we live with my mom and dad. Told me I had to prove it with a bill with the address on it. Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me? Sent me away and I had to come back later, wait in line again, and hope they believed me. I gave them my phone bill I had changed to mom’s address. That was good enough. Something I will worry about every day, them finding out.

I think about driving by, not going to the test. Like I did in high school. Ditched tests a lot, regular classes too. If I didn’t feel like going, I didn’t. Got tons of detention and mom and dad mad. If I ditch this today, we would get the same trouble. Give the teacher a reason to not like us. Can’t do that, so I park.

First thing we do in the building is use the bathrooms, then we follow the signs down the hall to the kindergarten rooms. Outside the first room there’s a lady and a little girl sitting by the door. They both smile at me as I read for Jason’s name on the list. The girl is clean, fresh smelling. Wearing a pretty dress, probably bought for the first day of school. Jason’s wearing the same old clothes. Clean enough, but not fancy like this girl. There’s his name. Means he belongs here. We sit on the chairs next to the lady and watch as another parent and kid leave the classroom with the teacher. First time I’ve seen her. Looks young and dressed nice. Hair as long as Jason’s. Same color too. She greets both us parents and then invites the other in. Mrs. Hernandez and her kid, Karla. I guess I’m early or the teacher’s running late. Not surprised she’s gonna make me wait. Half my life is waiting.

Jason can’t sit any longer and starts to walk down the hall looking at the obnoxious bulletin boards decorated with back-to-school crap. I walk with him past more classrooms, other families waiting outside doors. He stops. Stares at a little boy playing with Matchboxes on the floor. No talking though. I know he wants to play with the boy’s car. He don’t have any Matchboxes. Danny says he had lots as a kid. Don’t know why he never buys any for my baby. They could play together if he did. Mom promised some for Christmas. He remembers and constantly asks her if she remembers. Makes her laugh and then promise again. He moves on and I follow. He stops at the window looking out at the playground. I open a door and he runs to the monkey bars, hollering the whole way. Climbing he knows. Rough and rowdy play. Learned that without school. He got a big smile on his face, climbing ladders, sliding down the slide. Running in circles round the stuff. Makes me smile. I can let him play a bit longer. Teacher’s late. He’s so happy. I like when he plays. No worries. No fears. Like he’s a normal kid with a home and his own toys and lots to eat. 

Damn, teacher’s at the door, waving us over. We walk back to his classroom, freaking quiet, stressing me again. Wonder what she’s thinking, if she knows my lie, if she’s already judging Jason. Teacher says she’s Miss Lawson and lets him look around the room. Bright colored toys, letters, numbers, books everywhere, stuffed animals. He ain’t got nothing like this. He takes some toy off the shelf, asks if he can play. It embarrasses me ‘cause he’s here to work not play. Miss Lawson leads him to a table covered with papers, pencils and markers, and more books. She makes me sit at a different table. I’m not allowed near. He’s alone with her. I should say something so she’s not too hard on him, ask her to take it easy or something. She says his name, asks him to write it. Shit, I knew it. That’s something he can’t do. I can barely see what he writes. Most likely scribbles. 

Miss Lawson interrupts my thinking by talking to me, takes a minute to realize I’m still in the classroom, Jason at my side. What I hear don’t match her smile and patient voice. Delayed development, far behind, challenging year, playing catch-up. Stuff like that. Says he should know more by now. Will have to work extra hard at home. I don’t understand everything she’s saying. What I do understand is that I fucked up. He’s not ready and everything I’ve done for him is not enough. That’s what’s she’s really saying. Danny will be upset. Mom and dad disappointed. So, we leave and Jason runs to the playground. I gotta think. About what? It’s not like I have choices. I’ll have to send him to school every day, where he’ll fall more and more behind, and probably learn to think bad about himself. And if I keep him with me, like I did instead of sending him to preschool, I’ll have problems with the cops. 

I’m glad I have my boy but it’s such a struggle. Nothing is simple, easy to deal with. And I’ve been failing him since the day he was born, giving him an asshole father and then taking him away. Me with no real job, no home. I don’t see a good future for him and it makes me sad. And angry with myself. How the hell is he gonna make it?

Gotta go baby.

I’ll take him to McDonalds for lunch. He’ll like that and he can play more. Danny will be mad we went without him, plus there’s the money. But this is my baby, he deserves it. And he worked hard on that test, even if he didn’t do too good. He’s not fazed by things like I am. He rolls along, laughing. I get pissed, frustrated, mean. I can’t laugh through it. I should learn from him.

That sound as I try to start the car. It’s not good. Makes that noise and won’t start. Just what I need. Jason stares out the window at the yellow M a few streets away.

Let’s go baby, we’ll walk.

I gotta do better by this boy. Have to find a way to give him a home, a car that starts, that’s only for driving. Protect him from mean people who judge him because of me. I thought, if I loved him, it would be enough. He would grow smart and do better than me. Now I realize, it wasn’t enough, that he’ll end up like me. I should get us out of here. Walk past McDonald’s and keep walking. Keep going till we find someplace nice. Where there’s no school, where we’re both smart, and nobody thinks nothing bad about us. That would be good.

about the writer

David H. Weinberger is an American author writing in Bremen, Germany. His stories have appeared in Thrice Fiction, Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, The Ravens Perch, Gravel, and elsewhere. He holds a Master’s Degree in Early Childhood Education and taught kindergarten for eight years in Salt Lake City, Utah. Visit davidhweinberger.com to read more of his stories.