For the grove?

Reluctant to indulge my questioning, the small boy in the curious, especially for the time of year, summer hat sat himself on the leather Ottoman, 5 years since it had lost its armchair companion. The boy was of slight build with grainy blonde hair that reminded me of a cheap doll I'd had as a child. I remember that it, too, kept its hair matted under a straw hat, although it also sported a corncob pipe. The young student did not have any such pipe, though at this point I wish he did. It was not often that I had to call students into my office and it would be much more pleasant if the charge were smoking on school property rather than bullying his classmates.
"You don't have to be nervous, Terry, I just want to talk to you,"
I tried to ease into a conversation with the boy, assuming that he had to be anxious for having been called to my office. From what I could see of him, however, he seemed to not be concerned with my reassurance. Perhaps he was not even aware that anything was wrong. I had to constantly remind myself that even though the students spoke and acted like adults, they were merely mimicking the examples they'd seen at home or in the media. I wondered what young Terry Wise had seen in his home that had led him to attack another child from class. Worse even than the physical damage Terry had caused with his fists and steel-toed boots was the verbal assault he unleashed on a Pakistani boy who was bigger than most boys, but sweet as any I'd met.
"Do you know why I called you in here Terry?", I asked him, seemingly rhetorically, as I would explain it to him anyways, although I guess I also expected a response. It was only natural for an educator to test students at every opportunity, I suppose.
"No."
Terry's response was what I expected to hear; at this age of but 5 students believed they could deny their way to innocence. Pity that some are permitted to grow up without ever learning the alternative. I'd argued before that the breakdown of families was leaving a half-generation unsocialized. Schools could only do so much. Without a strong familiar structure, how could children be expected to understand respect or love? I could feel that my cheeks were a bit warm. Seeking to stabilize my breath, I took a gulp of air. I imagined myself in the eyes of the young child, did I appear a koi's head on a man's body? Perhaps I did - he had a bit of a grin on his face.
"Do you want to talk about what happened with Janir, yesterday?"
It was starting to affect me, more than I thought it would, that I could have had a child so small. I thought about my wife, how just a few weeks before she left me we had talked about starting a family. I had never been happier. At this point, well. It was only getting harder. I could still remember coming home and seeing the ring on the kitchen table, not noticing everything else that was missing until after a few minutes of foolishly calling for her in the two bedroom house, empty of anyone but me. How many children would we have had? Would I have stayed at the school, or looked for something better? I think my wife was the only person I'd ever told how much I feared getting up every morning and going to work. How every day I figured someone would realize I was a fraud, that I wasn't fit to teach children anything. She would always console me by telling me that I was the biggest and oldest child she'd ever met, so I was a natural for the job. Five years later, I guess I wondered if she wasn't serious. Even jokes haunted me.
It was then that I realized the boy was staring at me, expectantly. I'd heard him speak, but hadn't processed what he'd said. Perfect, I thought. Now thinking about my failures were causing me to fail at my job.
"Do you realize that you hurt Janir, Terry?"
The boy regarded me as if I were lecturing him on the best way to cook black-eyed peas, with no discernible reaction other than pure disinterest.
"Yes." He whispered.
I think I believed him, but wondered how I could even be sure. Often I thought that I needed to be psychic to figure out anything from these kids. At the very least I should have been required to get certified in psychology and counseling. These kids needed personal solutions to their problems and they needed someone who could solve those problems on their feet. They didn't need me, getting ideas from books by people who had probably never really talked to a kid, and who definitely didn't have any. People who are unqualified to help anyone. People like me.
"I can tell you're sorry, Terry", I said, even though it wasn't true, "can you promise not to do it again?"
I remember some author, Richards or Holmstein or something, said that giving kids expectations for emotions, as if they're already being met, would help to create those emotions. It sounded pretty incredible, and Terry's response was apathetic, as if it were the only one possible:
"Yes, Mr. Samuels."

I dismissed Terry back to class, likely having done nothing to solve the underlying problem of the bullying in the first place. Not that I had expected to. My ineptitude, that had started with my marriage, seemed to be spreading to all aspects of my life. Out the window I could see it was still snowing, filling up the faculty lot with icy hope. Just like any other child, I prayed that tomorrow I could have a snow day. Just one day where everything in my life came to a halt. Maybe I could go to the biggest hill in town, the one where one couldn't see the bottom, and go sledding. Maybe I'd go after school, I was getting tired of waiting. Had to finish the day, though:
"Send the next student in please, Mary."