Testing. Testing. One, two, three. Noah leaps out of his seat. He throws his IEP-approved fidget spinner at Karl and fortunately misses. The classroom aide is absent — and will be for the rest of the year. This aide has been out for foot surgery and if anyone looked for a replacement, Noah’s one special education teacher never heard about that search. Noah’s in a financially-distressed district and his teacher is pleading with me to continue subbing in her classroom. But that plan won’t work anyway. The school’s principal (a great guy, actually) has a bad habit of redeploying subs. If a second or third grade teacher is absent, I will end up running those classrooms while Noah’s teacher manages without help for Day number 32, 45, or whatever. For that matter, the district itself will redeploy subs in an emergency. I am subbing today in a poor district that scores in the bottom few percent of its state, a district prone to that government category, “widespread disorder in classrooms.” In the past, I have been moved midmorning to schools across town. As a retired, certified teacher, I am wasted as a special education aide when a school needs multiple classroom teachers, and every so often, someone notices that fact in the midst of frantic phone calls from school offices to human resources.

That job Noah’s teacher wants me to take as her aide? I don’t know where they are posting that opening, but it’s hardly ever listed in the app I use to choose sub positions. I frankly don’t think the administration is even trying to put out the missing-aide fire. Missing teachers trump missing aides and a district that frequently cannot fill teaching positions, especially in the middle school, has to let those aide slots go.

I grab the spinner and shove it in a pocket. I sit down in a desk beside Noah to talk. He wants his spinner back. He insists. It’s his right! He needs it! One advantage of being retired and subbing in a desperate district: I don’t have to worry about giving this spinner back. Noah can complain to the Principal — as he threatens to do — if he chooses. The Principal is a sensible guy. And I for damn sure don’t need this district as much as this district needs me.

Noah has lost his fidget spinner privilege, I explain, because he threw the spinner. He protests that he did not intend to hit anyone. I observe that he came pretty close to Karl. An accident, he claims. I tell him that he must learn to make better choices. I ask him to tell me what he ought to have done instead of throwing the spinner.

It’s 8:52 A.M. I expect to have a long day.

Eduhonesty: I have heard people say that changing how America funds schools will not rescue “failing” schools, that more money will not fix the problems of inner city and other struggling students. I agree that money is no cure-all for the many challenges in American education. But I also know that if I were working about 12 miles to the Southwest, instead of one teacher trying to teach six kids with documented behavioral and other learning challenges, six kids maybe five years apart in academic understanding, I would instead be one of six aides helping six kids under a lucky classroom teacher who would never have to worry about widespread disorder in her classroom. With that many eyes watching students, Noah’s fidget spinner would most likely not have gotten off the desk, much less into the air. For one thing, “his” aide would have been working with Noah as soon as the day started. Noah would not have been left on his own.

Those one-on-one aides for kids with documented behavioral disorders cost money, often $40,000 apiece or more by the time benefits are added to the picture. Wealthy districts can budget those funds based on a fear of flying fidget spinners and other dangerous behaviors. Impoverished districts are left to triage. What would have to be sacrificed to add that aide? Are the new laptops more important? Can we get by with one aide for three kids? Six kids? Eight kids? Can we put Noah in a regular classroom and skip the aide? Maybe regular appointments with the counselor and social worker will be enough…

The effects of this cost-cutting are not merely felt by Noah and his teachers. Fortunately, Karl was facing the other direction and did not see the fidget spinner’s release. If he had, Karl would be edgy at least, probably in fight or flight mode in a district where “flight” is mostly not considered an option. But Karl seems oblivious as he starts work. A random fidget spinner hit the wall far enough from him so that he could care less. The world has calmed down. Noah is smiling at me, a goofy, happy grin. He knows he became my focus and that’s most likely what he wanted. He shows me the picture of a superhero he is drawing. I praise the cape and redirect him towards the day’s first objective.

The hell money does not matter. What would be happening here today if there were no aide? That one teacher does need help in this room, but she will not have a regular aide until next year — if then. Noah needs help, too. Today he got lucky and an aide turned up, an aide who could appreciate him even while setting much-needed limits. From his teacher’s desperate pleading with me, I know that tomorrow he is unlikely to be so lucky.

P.S. I never got to Stranger Things in this post. Posts sometimes simply unfurl. But Noah loves Stranger Things. Want to be able to talk to a struggling middle school kid? Watch this new Netflix series when you get the chance. It’s sci fic/horror so not everyone will want to take the Stranger Things ride, but being able to discuss Mike, Eleven and Sheriff Hopper can establish your bona fides as an adult worthy of a middle-school student’s time.

You want to get a laugh when a student is testing you? Try saying,

“No Demogorgon behavior in my classroom, young man! This is not the Upside Down!”

You might then pause and add, “Not most of the time, anyway.”