Page 42 of I Can’t Even Think Straight

Thursday: Additional Support—Lunchtime—Mr. Ndour’s Classroom

The door is open when I arrive,

and Ms. Sarpong waits with him.

I’ve spent the entire morning worrying

since my form tutor told me in morning registration

I had to come to Mr. Ndour’s classroom at lunchtime.

“Come in, Malachi,” says Mr. Ndour,

“and have a seat.” He points

to a plastic school chair

directly in front of his desk.

He sits in his cushioned swivel chair.

I notice how he now has

a Progress Pride flag badge

pinned to his staff lanyard.

Ms. Sarpong doesn’t speak.

She’s seated to the left of Mr. Ndour’s desk

in a regular chair like mine

but, somehow, she seems to be

the one in the driver’s seat,

like Mr. Ndour is her puppet

or ventriloquist’s dummy.

“How are you doing today?” Mr. Ndour asks me.

I feel like this is a trick question

and I don’t know what to say.

“The reason I ask,” he continues,

“is because I’m aware there’s been some

division amongst your friendship group.”

I feel instantly hot with anger

and the words jump out of me:

“That had nothing to do with me.

I wasn’t even in the lunch hall at the time.

I was in the library with Jyoti.

Ask her.

Ask The Boys.

They’ll tell you,

I wasn’t there.”

“Take a big breath, Malachi,”

Ms. Sarpong says from the sidelines.

I look at her officious smile

and then into her kind eyes.

“Mr. Ndour only asked you how you are doing;

he did not accuse you of any wrongdoing.”

I take a deep breath in and out again

and I realize that it’s true.

Mr. Ndour didn’t say I’d caused division

but I somehow jumped to that conclusion.

I take another deep breath.

“Well done, Malachi,” says Ms. Sarpong

with a warmer smile.

“Okay. Carry on,” she says to Mr. Ndour.

“Malachi, I promise

I’m not accusing you of anything.

I’m just checking in,

which is my pastoral duty

as your head of year.

I’m speaking to everyone

in your group of friends

separately,

because I’ve realized

I need to treat you as individuals

and not lump you all in together

as I have, regrettably, done so far.”

I feel like these are

Ms. Sarpong’s words,

even though they come

from Mr. Ndour’s mouth.

In any case it’s a relief

to hear them.

“So, I’m not in trouble?” I ask, relieved.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” says Mr. Ndour.

“We just wanted to know

if you think you need any additional support.”

“What kinda support?” I ask, confused.

“We’ve noticed you can be quick to anger,

and we wondered if a referral

to our school counselor would be helpful

if you wanted someone to talk to

who isn’t a teacher.” Mr. Ndour pauses

to weigh his words before he continues.

“Personally, I can tell you I’ve benefited greatly

from seeing a therapist about my own anger issues.

I could set up an initial meeting for you

with our school counselor next week,

if that’s something you’d be interested in.

You don’t have to decide right now

but I’ll give you some information to take home.

I’ve already spoken to your mum

and she’s on board with the idea.”

Mr. Ndour pushes a pamphlet across his desk.

“Read this and discuss it with your mum

and then let me know if you want me to

go ahead and make the referral.”

Mr. Ndour lets out a big breath and I wonder if

this conversation is difficult for him, too.

“Something else that may be of interest to you

is that we’ve invited The Author to come in next term

to do some creative writing workshops

with a select group of students, after school

in the library with Mrs. James.”

He pushes more paper across his desk.

“Here’s all the information about that.

I know you’re hoping to be an author one day.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, gathering it up

and stuffing it into my already full backpack.

I remember my anger

in the assembly hall,

when I wanted to throw

this heavy backpack

at Mr. Ndour’s head,

and I think maybe

speaking to a counselor

could be a good idea.

I really love the idea

of creative writing workshops

with The Author.

I haven’t had time

to read his book yet,

but my signed copy waits for me

inside my backpack.

“One last thing before I let you go.”

Mr. Ndour’s voice snaps

my attention back to him.

“I’m sorry if you’ve felt

unfairly targeted by me,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, astonished.

I’m shocked to get an apology from a teacher.

I think of Obi, who apologizes

for everything all the time,

to the point that his apologies

have lost their meaning

and sometimes feel annoying.

But Mr. Ndour’s apology

is meaningful and overdue.

“I want the best for you, Kai.

According to all your heads of years

throughout school

you’ve been a model student.

You’ve never had

so much as an official warning,

let alone a detention,

before this academic year.

I would like to put

the past few weeks behind us:

chalk them up to experience.

As I’ve said, what I’ve learned is

I need to treat each

and every student as an individual,

regardless of who

their group of friends is.

Don’t get me wrong,

that’s not me saying

I think The Boys are bad news

or you shouldn’t hang out with them.

I just want to remind you

not to lose your sense of self

for any group, or anyone else.”

These are the words of Mr. Ndour,

I can feel it.

He cares about me.

He wants to help me.

I can admit that

I might’ve been wrong about him.

“I’ll do my best, sir,”

I say, and I mean it.