Page 52 of What Boys Learn
I’d played with matches and lit fires as a kid, just as I’d shoplifted, but I’d spent a lot of time alone, especially after my mother died. From that day on, I knew what it was like to feel uncared for, and I did everything I could to spare Benjamin that feeling. I rarely left him alone for long. He spent nearly all his time either in school or day care, or with me. There were exceptions of course—the day of the sledding accident, when his friend broke his arm, came to mind—but not many.
Raveena steepled her hands below her strong jaw and gave me the sort of smile you give a mother who worries too much.
“I understand your concerns. But in Benjamin’s case, certain personality attributes haven’t developed into alarming behavioral problems.”
“Except at school.”
“Yes. But that’s not uncommon. Didn’t you say you’re rarely in an apartment for longer than a year or two, and that he’s had to change schools several times? That upheaval alone can explain conflict with other children and difficulties fitting in.”
“But you do see it,” I’d insisted, not wanting a damning answer but needing something—truth, advice, confirmation.
“I see something. But I wouldn’t want to say anything prematurely. Psychologists and pediatricians aren’t miracle workers. Not only are we unable to fix everything, but we use inadequate labels more often than you’d assume. I’m sure you’ve heard the term FLK?”
That meant “funny-looking kid,” a cryptic, impolitic term doctors sometimes wrote into juvenile patient records when something seemed off—more often physical, but not always—and they couldn’t pinpoint the problem.
Dr. Adelman said, “I wouldn’t apply the conduct disorder label to Benjamin. You need to realize, Abby, there are children who get into much more trouble than your son has. Vandalism, substance abuse, extreme aggression. Granted, lack of parental supervision and other aspects of the environment, even poor nutrition, can exacerbate problem behaviors, whereas a positive environment can both mitigate and obscure.”
Not prevent, only mitigate. Not eliminate, but onlyobscure. She seemed to be saying I was hiding Benjamin’s true character by being a half-decent mother. But she wasn’t promising that my adequate parenting would be enough.
Dr. Adelman added, “Later childhood and adolescence is when you may know better, unfortunately.”
“You’re saying I have to wait until he’s a real problem before I know he has a real problem?”
She smiled again, pushing her scarf back over her shoulder. I was beginning to dislike that needy, slippery scarf, and the bob so razor-sharp perfect she must need to trim it monthly. “And even then, you might be frustrated, because it’s only in adulthood that certain labels can be applied.”
“So what do I do now?”
She sighed. “Focus on stability?”
Of course I tried to give my son stability. “That’s it?”
“And beware of self-fulfilling prophecies.”
I ended up switching thesis advisors a week after that meeting, frustrated that the woman who wrote persuasively in a scientific journal gave me nothing but wishy-washy advice in person. It was my first indication that studying psychology wouldn’t necessarily help me, especially when problems were close to home. If anything, the field would taunt me with the false expectation of definite answers.
Now, finally, Benjamin was a teenager. Now, finally, he was in trouble. But as people like Robert tried to remind me, using the least jargon possible, all adolescents are temporarily crazy. My first year at Summit confirmed that. The same kid who seemed stable one moment could do something unpredictable or unkind the next. Izzy’s promiscuity and manipulation. Sidney’s poor judgment, allowing a stranger into her house—unless, of course, he wasn’t a stranger, but I wanted to believe he was. They were the “normal” kids, and they tested boundaries and made poor decisions all the time. And the boys? They were less caring, less reflective, more risk-taking. Benjamin wasn’t entirely different from his male peers.
If I went back to Dr. Adelman now, she’d tell me to wait another ten years, until Benjamin’s prefrontal cortex had finally matured. But she didn’t have my memories or my deep foreboding. And one last thing—she didn’t have children. When I discovered, just after graduating, that our college’s so-called childhood expert had never parented anything more than a cat, I deleted her phone number from my contacts.
I barely slept that night, but when I nodded off on the couch, from six in the morning to about seven twenty, I had nightmares. I woke with a stiff neck and bleary eyes, imagining how much worse it must have been for my son, cold and alone in a jail cell.
The legal aid number I’d called the night before got back to me with a low-cost lawyer named King who agreed to meet me at the station. I called Curtis and left him a voicemail, asking if he’d decided whether to take on Benjamin, and I told him why it mattered now, more than ever. Then I drove back to the police station, ready this time with a change of clothes for Benjamin, and deodorant and body spray under the assumption they wouldn’t let him shower and it would make him feel better. With snacks, including three cold toaster waffles. Also with a paperback—first I picked Stephen King, then worried that looked incriminating, so I swapped it out for a YA novel by John Green. I had no idea if they allowed juveniles in custody to have some way to pass the hours.
Upon arrival, I was made to wait ten minutes before being shown into the interview room. Benjamin was seated at the farthest chair, shoulders slumped, hair uncombed, staring at the opposite wall. He didn’t make eye contact with me. Hernández was there, as was another tall white detective named Timothy Price and a Black man in a baggy suit who reached forward to shake my hand.
“Ralph King from Lincoln State Legal. I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting your son, Ms. Rosso. How are you doing?” Before I could answer he said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Detective Hernández told Benjamin they needed to go over his statement one more time, especially about the last day of Izzy’s life. The detective read the statement and began to ask his first question, about why Benjamin had stopped at home just prior to going to Izzy’s house.
I fully expected Benjamin to say something ill-advised when King interrupted.
“My client won’t be answering any more questions.”
Hernández tried again, followed by Price, but the answer was the same.
“My client won’t be answering any more questions. I think we’re done here?”
Barely five minutes had passed. King pushed back his chair, shot Benj a serious look, then asked to meet me outside.