Raising Blaze by Debra Ginsberg Read Free Book Online Page A

sit down.”
    “But he’s never been in school before,” I say. “He has no idea what he’s supposed to do.”
    “He’s never been in preschool?” Dr. Roberts asks, eyebrows raised.
    “No, I’ve kept him home with me. I thought that was better for him.” My voice sounds squeaky and tight, betraying my state of mind. Keep control, I tell myself, keep it together.
    “And you’re a single mom, is that right?”
    “Yes, I’m a single mom.”
    “And does Blaze see Dad at all?”
    “No, Blaze does not see Dad. There is no Dad.”
    Dr. Roberts makes several notes on the paper in front of her. Others shuffle papers of their own. Ice Princess maintains a glacial silence. This meeting is starting to feel less like a parole hearing and more like a trial. I still have no clue what Blaze has done to warrant such attention. Did he hit someone? Start a fire? Threaten the president of the United States? What?
    “So we’re here because Blaze didn’t sit in the circle?” I ask.
    “Well, no, there’s a little more to it than that,” Dr. Roberts says. “In my observation of him today, he didn’t initiate play with any other children.”
    “He’s never been around any other children,” I tell her.
    Ice Princess finally chimes in. “Blaze does not seem able to cut with scissors,” she says. “Is that something you’ve noticed at home?”
    “No, it isn’t,” I say. “He’s never used a scissors at home. He’s never had to.”
    But Ice Princess is not finished. “When I asked the children to form a line, Blaze could not take his place. He ran out the door without waiting for the rest of the group.”
    “You know, he really doesn’t have any experience in a classroom environment,” I tell them. “He’s really not used to lining up and cutting and all those things. There are really a lot of things that he can do.”
    “Really?” Dr. Roberts says, smiling. “Why don’t you tell us some of those?”
    I’m wondering if it’s her tone that’s making me feel like jumping across the table and throttling her or if I’m just having a psychotic break. Surely, she’s said and done nothing that warrants the fury I’m starting to feel.
    “He knows the names of all fifty states,” I say feebly.
    “That’s wonderful,” Dr. Roberts says. “Does he have any other special talents?”
    Her tone indicates that she doesn’t necessarily think “special talents” are such a good thing, but I answer her anyway, unable to stop myself. I am proud of the things Blaze knows, proud of the fact that he is special. I tell Dr. Roberts that Blaze loves jazz and that he can tell the difference between Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. I mention that I’ve been showing him a big illustrated book of Impressionist painters and he can now identify Degas and Monet. Dr. Roberts continues to take notes. I glance around the room at the impassive faces surrounding me and I want to cry. I must sound like a complete fool. I’m protesting too much. They must think I’m lying or at least exaggerating. Maybe they think I’m deranged. Anger creeps in again. These people probably don’t even know who Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday are , I think, especially Ice Princess who is now telling the group that she doesn’t think Blaze is mature enough to follow the rules of a kindergarten classroom. I respond, pointedly, that Blaze knows all his letters and numbers.
    “Blaze seems uncomfortable making eye contact,” Dr. Roberts pipes in. “Have you noticed that at home? Does he dislike being touched?”
    “No,” I tell her emphatically, “I’ve never noticed that, not ever. Blaze is a sweet, happy kid. He’s really very bright. He’s clean and neat…”
    “Really?” Dr. Roberts asks. “Is he very neat? Does he like to have things ordered? Like his toys? Does he line his shoes or building blocks up in a row?”
    “No,” I tell her through clenched teeth. I can see where she’s going with this. “He’s neat, he’s