Mason Corbin came over and sat down next to him.
“He never sits by me,” Ethan said. “He said a bad word to me on Tuesday. But today he sat by me.”
Mason had his backpack with him. That was against the rules. Backpacks were supposed to stay on the hooks in the classroom. But Mason had brought it outside.
According to Ethan, Mason looked around to make sure no teachers were watching. Then he
unzipped the front pocket of his backpack a little bit. Just a few inches.
“He said, ‘Look,’” Ethan told us. “He said, ‘You want to see something cool, retard?’”
He said the word flatly. Like he didn’t know what it meant. I think he didn’t, really. Not all of it. But he knew it was bad.
“And I looked,” Ethan said. “And it was a gun. A black one. Like Uncle Joe’s in the drawer.”
“Mason said, ‘Don’t tell anybody,’” Ethan went on. “He said, ‘Nobody will believe you anyway. You’re stupid.’”
He picked up his cookie again. He looked at it.
“I’m not stupid,” he said quietly.
“No, sir,” Officer Delgado said. “You are not.”
Officer Kim picked up the story.
“Ethan got up off that bench,” she said. “He didn’t run. He didn’t scream. He didn’t try to grab the
backpack or argue with Mason. He walked straight across the playground to Mr. Dale, who was standing by the four-square courts.”
“I walked away,” Ethan said. “That’s the third part.”
“And he told Mr. Dale,” Officer Kim said. “Exactly what he saw. Mason has a gun in his backpack. The
front pocket. It’s black.”
She paused.
“Mr. Dale told us that Ethan was shaking,” she said. “But he said it very clearly. Twice. And then he said, ‘I didn’t touch it. I did the song.’”
Mr. Dale believed him. That’s the part I’ll be grateful for until I die.
He didn’t say, are you sure? He didn’t say, maybe it was a toy. He didn’t think, this is the new kid with Down syndrome, he probably got confused. He looked at Ethan’s face and he believed him.
He walked over to Mason, very calmly, and asked him for his backpack. Mason said no. Mr. Dale got
between Mason and the rest of the kids and radioed the office. Within two minutes, Officer Kim was on the playground. Within three, the school was in a lockdown.
The kids were brought inside. Mason was taken to a separate room. Officer Kim took the backpack.
“It was a loaded nine-millimeter handgun,” Officer Delgado said quietly. “Fully loaded. A round in the chamber.”
Steven made a sound. I couldn’t even breathe.
“It belongs to Mason’s father,” Officer Delgado said. “We’ve confirmed that. He kept it in the center
console of his truck. Unlocked. Mason took it this morning before school.”
“Why?” I said. “Why would a ten-year-old bring a loaded gun to school?”
Officer Delgado and Principal Harris looked at each other.
“We’re still talking to Mason,” Principal Harris said carefully. “But it appears there are some older boys.
Fifth graders. Who’ve been bullying him. On the bus. For several weeks.” He took off his reading glasses. “He told Officer Kim he was going to ‘make them stop’ at lunch recess.”
Lunch recess was at 11:45.
The fifth graders and the fourth graders share the same playground at lunch. Three hundred kids. Ms. Rivera’s class. Oliver. Priya and Harper. Marcus, who could burp the alphabet.
Ethan.
I looked at my son, sitting in the big leather chair, eating a chocolate chip cookie with chocolate on his chin.
He looked back at me.
“Mom?” he said. “Why are you crying? I did it right. Didn’t I do it right?”
Chapter Seven: Tracy
I got up out of my chair. I went around the desk. I knelt down beside that big leather chair and wrapped my arms around my son and held on.
“You did it right,” I said into his hair. “You did it so right, baby. You did it perfect.”
He patted my back with his cookie hand. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said. “Don’t cry. Everybody’s okay.”
Steven came around the other side of the chair. He put his arms around both of us. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
Officer Delgado cleared his throat and looked out the window.
After a while, Principal Harris sat down at the edge of his desk.
“Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he said. “I asked you not to speak to any other parents because the school is still in a secure hold. Parents are being notified. And I wanted you to hear the truth from us first,
before rumors started.”
He hesitated.
“And because Mason’s mother is in the building,” he said. “She arrived about twenty minutes ago.
She’s in the conference room with Mason and a counselor.”
“Tracy Corbin,” I said.
He looked surprised. “You know her?”
“No,” I said. “I just know her name. From the class list.”
I didn’t know then about the petition. I found out about thirty seconds later.
There was a commotion in the hallway. A woman’s voice, loud and frantic. Mrs. Fenwick saying, “Ma’am, please, you can’t…”
The office door flew open.
Tracy Corbin was in her late thirties, thin, with bleached blonde hair in a messy bun and a Lululemon jacket and leggings. She’d clearly come straight from somewhere. A gym, maybe. Her mascara had run down both cheeks in black streaks.
She looked at the police officers. She looked at Principal Harris. Then she saw Ethan in the big leather chair, and something happened to her face.
“Is that him?” she said. “Is that the boy?”
Steven stood up. He moved between her and Ethan. He’s not a big man, Steven. But he stood very
straight.
“That’s my son,” he said.
Tracy stopped. She stared at Steven. Then past him at Ethan.
Officer Kim stepped forward. “Mrs. Corbin, I need you to…”
“I signed a petition,” Tracy said. Her voice cracked. “To get him out. Out of the class. I got forty-one people to sign it. It’s on the school board agenda Tuesday.”
Nobody in that room said a word.
I looked at Principal Harris. He looked at the floor. He’d known. Of course he’d known. It was on the
agenda.
I looked at Tracy Corbin. At her running mascara and her shaking hands.
“Why?” I asked. It was the only thing I could think to say.
“Because Mason told me.” She was crying now. Openly. “He came home on Monday and said there was a retarded kid in his class who was weird and loud and got special treatment. He said the teacher spent all her time on him. And I believed him. I didn’t even meet your son. I just started the petition.”
She put her hand over her mouth.
“And this morning,” she said through her fingers, “my son put his father’s gun in his backpack. And the only person on that whole playground who did the right thing was the boy I was trying to get kicked
out of school.”
Ethan put down his cookie. He climbed down out of the big leather chair. Before anybody could stop him, he walked around Steven and went straight up to Tracy Corbin.
“Are you Mason’s mom?” he asked.
She nodded. She couldn’t speak.
“Is Mason okay?”
She stared down at him.
“He’s okay,” she whispered. “He’s okay, honey. He’s not hurt.”
“Good,” Ethan said. He thought about it. “He was mean to me. He said bad words. But I don’t want him to be hurt.”
And then my son did what he always does. What he’s done since he could walk. To the mailman and the cashier and strangers at the park.
He wrapped his arms around Tracy Corbin’s waist and hugged her.
She broke.
There’s no other way to describe it. She sank down onto her knees right there on the carpet of the principal’s office and held on to my son and sobbed. Big, gasping, ugly sobs. Officer Kim had to look away. Officer Delgado took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.
Ethan patted her back, the way he’d patted mine.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “Don’t cry. Everybody’s okay.”
Chapter Eight: The Weekend
