The Case of The Missing Boy

The after-school tutoring program I work for is entirely voluntary (for the students–not for me: I wouldn’t be doing this without a paycheck–momma didn’t raise no fool). The school identifies students who will benefit from the service, and sends them an application. The parents fill it out and return it to the school, which determines who will be my students. Because the program is voluntary, there is little accountability. Students who were healthy enough to go to school occasionally miss tutoring because they’re sick. Sometimes the tutoring/babysitting conflicts with the parents’ schedule, so the students don’t attend. And sometimes kids just don’t want to go (I can’t really blame them: if they liked school at all they would be able to learn the material during school hours instead of having to give up their afternoons to do it all again).

Attendance was low the first few sessions, but we’ve grown to the point where I’ve met every student. Well, every student but one. But since he’s on my roster, I make sure I call his name every day. “Ausente, Chico? Is Chico Ausente here? Does anyone know Chico Ausente?” It’s become a bit of a running joke betweem me and my students. I call his name even though everyone in the room knows he’s not there.

Initially, I tried to hunt down young Chico. I called home a few times, but his parents never picked up and didn’t have an answering machine (who’s too poor to have an answering machine?). I asked his classmates to encourage him to come. This was a technique I used with all missing students (it also gave me first-hand information whether or not a student came to school that day). But in the case of Chico Ausente, it wasn’t helping. Chico came to nary a single tutoring session even though was attending school regularly. His classmates said he knew about the tutoring, but he vowed he wasn’t going to come. He was painted as someone who was defiant and liked the idea of not coming to tutoring–which was perfectly fine with me. I get paid regardless who shows up. The last thing I want is a student who doesn’t want to be there. Plus, from the way his classmates described him, he sounded like a real jerk. After about a month or so of absences, I started the process to drop Chico from the program and replace him with a student who actually wanted to be there. Tutoring is a voluntary service with limited seats: if Chico didn’t want to be there, I was certainly willing to replace him with someone who did.

Two days later the school’s attendance secretary told me that she received notice from Chico’s parents. They were infuriated that we were going to drop him from the program, even though he was there every single day. “Whoever is doing your attendance needs to be more efficient,” she told me.

“But I’m the one who does the attendance,” I said bewilderedly. “I call every name every day: there’s no way I screwed up the attendance.”

“His mother said she picks him up after school.”

When tutoring is finished, all of the parents are waiting outside by the gate to pick up their little juvenile delinquents. We have a log-out sheet that parents have to sign, so we can vanquish all accountability once the troublemakers are gone.

“That’s not right. It’s impossible,” I insisted. “I orally take role every day. The only way he’s there is if he’s answering to the wrong name.” The secretary pulled up a computer file and showed me a picture of Chico. “I have never seen that kid in my life. He’s never been here.”

“His mom is insisting he is,” she said confidently.

I thought about the kid. Even though I never met him, his peers described him as an arrogant jerk. The kind of little prick who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and plays by his own rules (sounds like a certain blogger I know). It only took a beat before I pieced it together. “I’ll bet he’s telling his mother he’s going to tutoring, when in actually he’s hanging around on the jungle gym or playing ‘Halo’ at one of his friend’s house. Then at 4:00, he heads back here and waits for his parents to pick him up.” Much like the Millennium Falcon and the trash from a Star Destroyer, little Chico just drifts away…

That could the worst Star Wars reference I’ve ever incorporated.

It took a couple days for the dust to settle, but when it did little Chico found himself in a heap of trouble. Not only was he facing discipline charges from the school, he also had an angry mother to deal with–an angry mother who had been lied to for the past six weeks. On top of that, he’s on my Shit List–and I STILL haven’t even met him yet. I hope Chico likes being tutored while sitting in a corner–because that’s where he’s going to find himself.

If he ever shows up.