T. lives in the neighbourhood with her parents, who moved here in 2001. She is the family's third and final child, born sixteen years ago last spring, a home-birth I was invited to, so I can say I have known T. since she was a moment old.
Yesterday, while raking leaves, I saw T. coming down the block, all bottom lip and kicking a pebble.
"What's up T.?"
"They're gonna close the cafeteria."
"They?"
"The school," she said. "They fired two of the staff, including Ms. L. who everybody likes."
"I'm sorry to hear that. School cafeterias can be more than a place for soup and a sandwich. I learned a lot at my high school caf--"
"Yes, but the principal says she's fed up with bullying. But then D.'s mom said that's just an excuse to cut staff, so it's not about bullying; they're lying."
"So you never saw any bullying in the cafeteria?"
"Well, I mean, there's mean people everywhere, right? So why should the cafeteria be singled out? It's not fair."
And with that, T. held her gaze at me. As if for the first time. Hers were pleading eyes, glassy with tears.
I felt my hands tighten on the rake. I did not want those tears to fall. "I'm sorry T."
"You have no idea how important that place is to us! And now they're gonna take it away! It's just not fair!"
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