I wanna piss on you

This is how you know a kid belongs in your emotional support program. This is how you know a kid isn’t misdiagnosed. As I’ve written before, I teach emotionally disturbed high school kids in an affluent Philadelphia suburb on the other side of the river. It’s the type of town you’d move to if you were Donovan McNabb. The type of high school where cars in the student lot are more expensive, exotic and infinitely faster than those in the teacher lot. But, that doesn’t mean the rich don’t suffer too. In their own ways, the rich suffer.

This girl walks into my homeroom, on time for a change, but boobs heaving out of her shirt as usual. “My dad’s a fucking asshole,” she exclaims to the only other kid in the room --the kid who waits outside my locked classroom door before even I arrive because he’s petrified of the crowded halls. No one but he is ever punctual. But today this chick is here and spitting fire. “What happened?” this boy is forced to ask because I don't. She spills all over the place, “He woke me up early. He woke me up at 6am! I don’t wake up at 6am. I wake up at 6:15.” My timid boy reasons, “You should thank him. You’re here on time and no detention.” But she yells, “I should piss on him. I’m so mad I could piss on him!”

In my you’ve crossed that line voice request, “Please, don’t say that ever again.” But she says it again. She looks right at me, puts both her hands around an imaginary jar then lowers it past her groin and says slowly, “I could piss in this jar and throw it all over his face is how mad I am.”

I say nothing, but immediately think that someday, because of her heaving bosom, a chronic masturbator with low self-esteem, a man much like my only punctual to homeroom boy, will make the biggest mistake of his life and marry her.