The middle-schoolers—all ten or eleven of them, gangly and awkward and barely coordinated—somehow rushed into the hallway before Mr. Noah could get in front of the troubling tableau and block their view of it: “it” being a perfect pile of poop, much like the ubiquitous cartoonish emoji: tiered, piled high, deep brown. Grace squealed in horror again, as did Mr. Noah, before they managed to corral the students back to the classroom and call the janitor, Ms. JoJo, to remove the mess. The teachers—rattled, whispering in the corner—could then be overheard assessing the possibility that the excrement had been produced by a dog that had somehow entered the building, done its business, and then let itself out—all without being seen or heard. But the “dog theory” was debunked as quickly as it had been suggested, since both teachers, who had several dogs between them, knew, as did their pet-owning students, that there was a clear difference between animal poop and human poop. No one who had ever picked up after the family dog in the backyard or on a walk in the woods would mistake what they’d seen on the buffed wood floor of the second-floor school hallway for anything other than what it was: people poop.
The second time was the morning of my presentation. The students and Mr. Noah were already in the multipurpose room when Grace, who had lagged behind the others to prepare a handout for a pre-Inhabitancy PowerPoint presentation—“Puppetry Through the Ages”—came upon the pile of feces in a slightly different spot—this time, on the floor inside the unisex bathroom: outside the stalls and in front of the row of sinks. Later that day, the students were questioned, one by one, in the science lab adjoining the main middle school classroom, by the teachers who tag-teamed, continually checking the hallway for another pile of poop.
“What do you mean you were questioned?”
“They asked each of us if we were the Pooper.”
“Flat out. Like, straight out. As in, ‘Are you the one who pooped on the floor on purpose?’” Teddy nods. “And when you said no, what happened?”
“They asked us if we had seen anything weird, if we had any idea who was doing it.”
“And had you seen anything weird?”
“No.”
“So as far as you know, some kid has somehow managed to drop their pants,” I say, mindfully using a gender-neutral pronoun, “and poop instantaneously—and very very quickly—leaving the scene before anyone sees them.”
When he shrugs, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t buy it.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. I’m just not sure I believe that it’s happening the way it seems.” Instead of explaining what I mean—I’m not even sure I know what I mean beyond having a nagging suspicion that something about this story isn’t making sense. How does someone, outside a full classroom the first time, and down the hall from an entire schoolful of people gathered for an assembly the second time, poop on the floor that quickly—on command, essentially—without being seen? I focus on the fact that this secret pooper has been on the loose at the school for almost a week and no one has notified the parents. Which is maddening and strange, since the school usually finds any and every excuse to communicate operational minutiae to parents via email and voicemail (“Please note: the refrigerator in the teachers’ room is being replaced this week with one that has a bigger capacity but a much higher energy-efficiency rating!” “New entrance mats for foot-wiping have now been installed! Children from homes that still use commercial salt and sand mixtures [and who should really switch to environmentally friendly nontoxic compounds . . .] please wipe well before entering the school!”) So why the sudden radio silence, now that one of the middle-schoolers is a probable sociopath?
“The bottom line is that the school should have told the parents.”
“But I told you.”
“But you’re a kid.”
“But now you know. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Yes, but what also matters is that the adults do the right thing.” Finally past the giant addition, weaving around the usual mess of tow trucks and backhoes and pool diggers—Pool diggers? In Cambridge?—but there’s no time for house ogling today. “They’re the grown-ups. They’re supposed to tell us about any kind of dangerous situation.”
“Dangerous? It’s just poop.”
I can see a flash of fear in Teddy’s eyes, even under the hair that crosses his nose, how he starts to fidget with the zipper on his hooded sweatshirt. Great. I’ve leaked my fear and distrust of life and sparked his, just like my parents did to me. Have I learned nothing about how to pretend I have faith and hope in humanity so that I don’t incite and escalate my child’s imagination about all the dormant evil lurking in the world? “You’re right,” I say, trying for a calming clinical tone. “I’m being ridiculous. It is just poop.” And then, of course, because I can’t help myself, I add: “But sometimes disturbing behavior is a symptom of something else.”
“Like what?”
“Sadness. Loneliness. Being deeply troubled.” I look down at the sling and realize that I should probably either use myself as an example of the connection between feelings and behavior manifesting in some kind of outward sign or metaphor—I’m sad, therefore I wear my dog—or stop talking so he doesn’t make the damning connection himself. “Sometimes the things we do are clues to how we’re really feeling. So, like, if someone poops like this, on the floor, at school, it probably means they’re unhappy. Or angry. Or maybe they’re unhappy and angry at school, since that’s where they’re doing the pooping.” I pause to think. “Unless they’re also pooping on the floor at home, which would mean they’re unhappy there, too.”
Teddy is now running the zipper of his sweatshirt up and down in short frantic spurts. “Maybe it’s not a kid who’s doing it.”
I pull into the school lot, push the gearshift into park, and turn to him. It hadn’t occurred to me that it wasn’t. But now that he’s mentioned it: maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s a grown-up, a pissed off teacher, a disgruntled employee. “When the poop was discovered, were both teachers in the classroom?”
He thinks for a minute. “The first time, Mr. Noah was teaching and Ms. Grace was on her way into the classroom. And the second time was when we were all downstairs for your thing.”
“So Ms. Grace found the poop both times.” That’s like finding a body. Once is possible; but twice? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Or maybe it is entirely a coincidence. Teachers probably get their anger out in different, less creepy ways—refusing to give extra help after school when asked for it; grading down; being shitty to kids they don’t like. Little power-grabs and shame-fests. Could it be that Morningside Montessori is harboring a teacher with a serious grudge against the school? Doubtful. No, my money is on a student—a boy, I’m sorry to say—someone who is troubled at home or maybe the product of an unpleasant divorce, a boy for whom the daily annoyance of school feels like the last straw.
* * *
I let Teddy go into the building first before I go in to track down Mr. Noah or Grace—whomever I find first—which turns out to be Grace. Same zip-up fleece; same beverage-equipped nylon knapsack; same plastic container being snapped shut with a loud and proud freshness-burp. She waves, friendly and conspiratorially, as I open the glass door to the office.