In which I meet a hero

Kai didn’t want to go back to school on Friday.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he wailed from the backseat.

His eyes welled with tears he swiped at with the back of his hand.

“I’m going to go in with you,” I said, in that determined way a parent learns to say these things, even when their legs are jelly. “And if you don’t like it, we’ll leave.”

We were on our way from the doctor, where they’d checked him for broken bones and noted his bruises and where I’d blown up 10 latex rubber glove balloons while alternately fighting back tears and staring dazed out the window.

Child services advised us to go.

I hated to force him to go to school. I hated that he thought I was forcing him back into the same situation.

“The bad man is gone,” I said. “And I’ll be there with you as long as you want.”

:::

That amount of time appeared to be 30 seconds. The kids were at recess when we got there. They were excited to see Kai, and several ran over to us right away.

I was holding him in my arms, and he kicked to get down, and without a backward glance, he was off.

I chatted with his teacher for a while, both of us exhausted and devastated from the day before.

A young guy appeared on the playground. He had what looked like nails in his earlobes. He was all wiry in the way guys are as they emerge from adolescence, before their faces fill out and bellies appear.

“Megan,” Kai’s teacher said, “that’s AJ.”

AJ runs the after school program, and has recently begun to help supervise the kids at recess. He was the one who told the principal about the abuse on the playground.

AJ is a hero.

I walked up to him and introduced myself as Kai’s mother.

I thanked him for alerting the authorities, but AJ brushed me off.

“Hey, Kai’s on the jungle gym, it’s like, ‘Kai, come down,’ he doesn’t come down, whatever that’s Kai. You just gotta let Kai do his thing.”

“I’ve pulled him off of playground equipment before,” I said.

AJ shook his head. “You’re his mother, you have that right. This guy, it was so violent, he was so mad.”

AJ brought his hands up and pantomimed holding a child the way Mr. X had held my child.

I winced. AJ seemed to catch himself.

“I’m not allowed to say anything,” he said, “all I can do is tell the principal. But if that guy was here today, I was gonna say something to him. I get fired, whatever, I don’t care. You can’t do that.”

I felt the tears prick my eyes.

“Thank you, AJ,” I whispered.

:::

The principal and I talked about it later that day.

“AJ was pretty upset,” he said.

“I’m so glad he said something,” I replied.

“Did AJ tell you that he has an autistic brother?”

The tears, so close to the surface all day, threatened again, so I went home.

:::

We saw AJ that afternoon. He was holding a copy of the Lorax movie.

“Hi, AJ!” I called.

“Hey, Kai,” AJ said.

“That’s the Lorax,” Kai said. “I love the Lorax.”

AJ looked at me.

“Are you on your way home?” he asked.

I told him that we were.

“Come inside for a sec,” he said, and he ducked inside the school.

Pick up was a sea of hellos and how-are-yous and can-you-believes and wait-a-minutes and we couldn’t make any headway against the sea of students coming out of the school, but suddenly AJ was back and handing Kai something.

It was a sheet of Lorax stickers.

“Wow,” Kai said.

And I said, for what must have been the 20^th time aloud, and the gazillionth in my heart, “Thank you, AJ.”

Comments

[Lisa Price]

AJ's definitely a hero; so is Kai, the brave boy. Oh, and so is his mom. :)

[Kristina Blakley]

You're writing always gives me shivers, even across the other side of the word.
AJ is a true angel.
I hope he is the beginning of something really special for Kai at school!