Page 7 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“I agree. With your permission, I’d like to arrange a dyslexia diagnostic assessment. I don’t believe she has dyslexia, but we want to be sure.”
I’m reeling. Dyslexia? “Yes. Absolutely.”
Laura is silent for a moment, then she clears her throat and I straighten in my seat. Nothing good follows an awkward throatclearing. I try to mentally prepare myself for whatever Lisset’s teacher will say next.
“Mrs. Miller...Kate...has anything happened at home?”
My spine stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“Has Lisset experienced an upsetting event recently? Sometimes children act out of character if there’s something going on at home.”
“There’s nothing going on at home,” I declare, trying not to sound defensive, but realizing I sound it anyway.
“There’s been no big upset, like a family member moving away?” Laura presses. “Or an illness in the family?”
“No,” I maintain, shaking my head. “We’re just carrying on like we normally do.” I shrug. “Nothing momentous has occurred.”
In all honesty, sometimes getting out of bed feels like a momentous occurrence.
“What about school?” I ask, shifting the questioning. “Has anything changed there? Maybe Lisset’s being teased? Or she’s fallen out of her friendship group?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” Laura admits. “She’s shown no reluctance at lunchtime to head out. She’s smiling and she’s not left out of games. She also appears happy in the classroom.”
My attitude toward her softens. Laura Bilson is clearly worried and going out of her way to try to figure out what’s happening with Lisset.
I give myself a moment to think. “Could it be the books you’re offering her? Maybe they don’t interest her?”
Laura gestures to the bookshelves positioned around the periphery of the classroom. “As you can see, we have a wide variety of books on offer. I’ve encouraged her to pick whatever book she wants, but she refuses to even choose.”
I worry the silver necklace hanging around my neck, my stomach twisting in concern. “I’ll chat to Lisset tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Thinking we’re done here, I make a move to stand, but Laura stays me with a light hand on my arm.
“We have a new program starting up at the school in two weeks,” she says. “It’s called the Reading Dog Program. It involves children with social, emotional, or learning needs working with a volunteer handler and a therapy dog.”
I try not to sigh. I know she means well, but that description in no way fits Lisset. Yes, I’m a single mom and I work full time, but she’s not a neglected child. I’m there for Lisset every night after school. I’m there for her on weekends. I don’t take drugs, drink to excess, or go out partying.
And even if I did agree to enroll her in such a program, I know Lisset would feel singled out and she’d hate that.
But Laura is caught up inearnestlyexplaining the merits of the program.
“I believe the formal term is ‘Reading Education Assistance Dogs,’ but we call them ‘Reading Dogs.’ It’s easier for the children.”
You know what’s easier for the children? Humans. Preferably those who have gone through the higher education system and who have been trained to help a child read. Not a dog, who can provide no feedback or assistance whatsoever.
“The sessions will be conducted in the library,” Laura continues, oblivious to my skepticism, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “The kids will sit on bean bags and it’ll be a non-threatening, fun environment for them.”
I stare at her in confusion. Fun? How is that supposed to sell it to me? The program sounds like a waste of time and an excuse for kids to simply lounge around. I mean, I’m all for kids havingfun, but that should happen in recess. In classroom time, I want them to learn, not loaf around on bean bags and play with a dog.
I realize that what Laura lacks in experience, she makes up for in passion, but I wouldn’t mind a little more practical teaching experience in this current situation.
“Has this program been tested at the school?” I ask.
“Not here, no, but we’ve heard positive results from other schools.”
“What positive results?”
