Bitsy Magruder
![Bitsy Magruder Bitsy Magruder](https://terriblakeslee.com/wp-content/uploads/elementor/thumbs/Bitsy-Magruder-pyla0a1u4fosgnbijmdszn3wam4gcbwq0dggat2oos.png)
Hi, my name is Claire Foster, and I’m a middle-school teacher. I have many stories I could tell about this age group because middle-schoolers are the most incredible human beings who walk the earth. They are funny but incorrigible, insecure but confident, happy but full of angst. Yes, middle-schoolers are a contradiction of terms.
So, with this line of thought, I will tell you about the day that a new student, Bitsy Magruder, walked into my class. A petite child that looked more like a fifth-grader than an eighth-grader, Bitsy handed me her schedule that transfer students get when they are enrolled. She was in my third-period, gifted, English class.
Because of Bitsy’s diminutive stature, I gave her a desk on the first row in front of Cassidy Alexander. Cassidy is the eighth-grade darling; you know, the promising, future homecoming queen whom every boy adored, and every girl hated. Her blue eyes were only outranked by her long, loose blonde curls that bounced off her tanned shoulders.
Bitsy, on the other hand, had a mop of rebellious red coils that barely touched her shoulders. While the other girls wore clothes with skinny jeans and cropped tops, Bitsy wore baggy overalls with Haines tee-shirts beneath. More could be said about the differences between Bitsy and the other girls, but anyone reading this and has had experience with tweens gets the idea.
Lunch immediately followed third period. When the bell rang, my students knew better than to just take off. They were anxiously waiting to hear me say, “Okay, go,” and then they did. One couldn’t get out the door faster than the other. It was a real race.
This first day of Bitsy’s arrival, she didn’t seem to understand the stampede. Because she was in the first row, Bitsy made it to the classroom door ahead of anyone else. Cassidy saw this as offensive, for like the parting of the Red Sea, everyone stepped aside for Cassidy. When Cassidy hip-bumped Bitsy, the smaller girl said, “Excuse me,” and stepped out of the way.
Teachers were required to follow the kids to the lunchroom in order to do crowd control. I always thought this was ridiculous to have to walk 13 and 14-year-olds to lunch, but I also felt that if I didn’t obey the rules, how could I expect my students to do so. So, I followed behind my herd as they raced to the lunch lines. I watched to make sure no student was pushing, smacking, or grabbing one another. Poor Cassidy. As usual, I saw Kyle and Tyrone come along side of her and begin the game of pushing her between the two. This happened almost every day. I had asked Cassidy once if she wanted me to intervene, and she told me it would only make it worse because I couldn’t be around for everything. She added that she was also sure they wouldn’t hurt her because both boys were “dying” to be her boyfriend.
On this, Bitsy’s first day, she, too, saw Kyle and Tyrone pushing the class beauty between them. Apparently, Cassidy was in no mood. “Stop! You two, just stop! Quit being childish. You are dorks! You’re off my radar. Go away!” Of course, they didn’t.
“Leave her alone!” Bitsy yelled.
The two bullies turned around and made a lewd gesture at Cassidy’s diminutive defender.
With the moment it took for Tyrone and Kyle to turn around, Cassidy took off running. She never cared to notice that the two boys were running toward Bitsy. I was already hustling to the scene that I knew would conclude in a suspension for students, and a reprimand for me for allowing the altercation to happen.
Yet, I had to do something to defend Bitsy. It was a strange thing. I was about six feet behind her when the little munchkin held up her right hand and said, “Stop right now. Go to lunch and leave Cassidy alone.”
Tyrone and Kyle stopped in their tracks and stared at Bitsy. They seemed to have a singular minute of gaping at her before they walked away. Bitsy walked onto lunch, and I followed behind. I told myself that the boys stopped because they saw me standing behind her.
I walked around and made sure all of my students were where they were supposed to be. Sadly, I watched Bitsy try to sit with Cassidy and her friends. Cassidy said, “Uh, sorry, shrimp. This seat is taken.” Bitsy just shrugged and sat at a table by herself.
That afternoon, I had bus duty. I was standing with the math teacher, Hal Archer. I saw Cassidy approaching with her usual the-world-is-driving-me-crazy look. What was her tragedy this time? I was getting ready to find out.
“Ms. Foster, can I go to the office and call my brother? I hate to ride the bus. Everybody on there are a bunch of dweebs.”
“Is a bunch of dweebs,” I corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “Is a bunch of dweebs. Can I go?”
I scribbled a pass and she took off.
After my little pouter was gone, I asked Hal, “What do you think of our pint-sized, new student, Bitsy Magruder?”
Hal’s eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t get any new student in.”
“You do teach advanced math.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t get any new student today.”
I told myself that while Bitsy was gifted in English, she must not be in math.
Hal and I chatted about students, the usual type of chatter about who were good students and who drove us crazy, and the crazy antics they pulled because they thought they were clever.
Hal told me how Brady Connors, one of our volleyball students, came into class with his hand wrapped in an ace bandage. The student said he had sprained his wrist the day before at practice. In truth, it was test day, and Brady had many of his geometry formulas hidden in the layers of the binding.
“Oh, they think there are so smart,” I said.
“I remember trying crap like that,” Hal chuckled.
It was then that Bitsy ran up to me. “Ms. Foster, Cassidy hasn’t come back from the office, and her bus is going to be here soon.”
I told Bitsy to mind her own business, and I was sure Cassidy would be back soon.
As she walked away, I told Hal that was my new student, and Hal said, again that Bitsy wasn’t one of his students.
Little by little, I watched buses come and go, and finally, the 400 or so students who were waiting for buses had disappeared. Ah, I could soon go home. Before going to my classroom to retrieve my bag of papers to grade, I stopped by the office to get an emergency card and class schedule for Bitsy. She had told me that her homeroom teacher had given her no papers.
“Hey, Reba,” I said. “Could I have an emergency card and class schedule for Bitsy Magruder. She said Tina hadn’t given her any in homeroom, nor had the front office.”
The school secretary looked funny at me. “We’ve had no new students enroll today.”
I shook my head. “Well, some little pocket-sized redhead was in my class today whom I hadn’t seen before. She said she was a new student.”
Reba shook her head. “You need to go home and have a glass of wine.”
I was too tired to have this debate with Reba. She was a conscientious and committed secretary, but obviously, Bitsy had enrolled when Reba was getting coffee or in the bathroom. In any case, I just wanted to get home.
Now, the school office is at one end of the campus, and my classroom is at the other. Though less than a 500-feet walk, it felt like a mile by the end of the day. As I was dragging my feet to my classroom, I heard whimpering behind the art room. It sounded like a hurt dog. I have an affinity for dogs, and it broke my heart when I saw those commercials on television about abused dogs, so I couldn’t pass this by. I walked around to the back of the room, and I saw Cassidy crumpled on the ground, her knees under her chin. Her face was dirty, and her Abercrombie and Fitch shirt was torn.
“Cassidy! What is wrong? What happened?” I squatted down beside her.
Her voice was trembling, but she was able to mutter, “Tyrone and Kyle grabbed me brought me back here. Ms. Foster, they wanted to hurt me. Tyrone was trying to get my shirt off and Kyle…” she started crying again.
“Oh, God, no. Please, God, no.”
I put my arm around Cassidy. “Here, I have to get you to the clinic,” I said and tried to get her to stand.
“No, no. I’m fine. Nothing happened. I was just afraid. Bitsy stopped them.”
“Bitsy? Bitsy Magruder stopped them?
The distraught girl explained, “I was screaming, and they were laughing. Suddenly, Tyrone and Kyle yelped and seemed to be pulled backwards. I scrambled to sit up because they had me flat on the ground.”
I was wiping Cassidy’s hair out of her face. I was sure she was in shock. I still wasn’t sure she hadn’t been violated. “Come on, sweetheart. Your parents are going to be worried about you.”
“No, listen. I sat up, and there was Bitsy, that new girl. She used some kind of Kung Fu stuff or something and knocked them down. Kyle and Tyrone got up and dived for Bitsy, and she jumped at least, I don’t know, taller than you into the air, and made a complete circle, kicking them. This time, she knocked them out.”
I sighed. “So, Cassidy, where are they?”
“That’s the really weird thing. My guardian angel, Bitsy, or whoever she is, took a water bottle out of her bookbag and gave Kyle and Tyrone a drink. I’m almost sure I heard her say, ‘You’ll be all right. Now, don’t mess with Cassidy anymore.’ I leaned back against the building and closed my eyes. I don’t know for how long. When I opened my eyes, all three of them were gone.”
“All right, Cassidy,” I said. “It’s late. We need to call your parents. I’ll look into it. I promise.”
To say Cassidy’s parents were furious would be an understatement. They threatened suit and assured my principal, Mr. Gilbert, that they would be taking their daughter out of our school. When they were gone, Mr. Gilbert said he would be talking with me and Mr. Archer the next day.
I absolutely needed that glass of wine when I got home.
The next morning, I knocked on Mr. Gilbert’s door and asked him when he wanted to talk with me. He said that he would let me know after he gathered all the facts.
Bitsy wasn’t in school that day, nor the next, nor the next. I thought that strange, but not totally unusual because in public schools, absenteeisms are pretty normal.
Thursday and Friday of that week, I had a meeting for all English teachers at the county office. These gatherings happened about once every two months, and though it was a good time to swap ideas and experiences, I hated them. I did not like my students being left with a substitute.
At break, a group of us went to lunch together. Munching on my club sandwich, I share the unusual and enigmatic incident with Cassidy. As I was describing Cassidy’s tiny body guard, Bitsy, Allison Canton, stopped me.
“Did this little girl have unruly, red hair?”
“Yes, she did,” I said, a bit perplexed.
“And did she wear overalls and plain tee shirts?”
“Yes.” I said. How did you know that?”
“That little girl was enrolled in my class for one day, but her name was Minnie Highland.”
All I could do was shake my head. “And, how long was she in your class?”
Allison said, “Only a day. She got into trouble for beating up a couple bullies who had been harassing one of our Down Syndrome students.”
Excited but confused, I asked, “And, then what happened?”
“My principal suspended her and the two girls who were picking on Andy, my Down Syndrome student. But, after she was suspended, Minnie never came back.”
Now, I have to tell you at this point, church-going had been left behind me some 30 odd years ago after my grammy passed away. Since that time, the world of stuff, tangible stuff, had suffocated any and all of my Sunday school stories. But, at that moment, I wondered.
That night, I searched angels on Google. Everything I found was full of New Age and mysticism. Nothing seemed right in all those searches. So, I went to bed, telling myself how silly I was and promised not to tell anyone I had considered such childhood fairytales.
In the night, Bitsy, alias Minnie, consumed my slumbering. In my dreams, I kept seeing this tiny red-headed warrior fighting for middle-schoolers everywhere. Always, my little dream invader was unassuming and did little to draw attention to herself.
I awoke, opened the blanket box at the foot of my bed and found my childhood Bible under two sweaters and an afghan my grammy had made me. I ran my finger down the concordance in the back. Angels. Angels. There it was.
“Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” Hebrews 1: 14.
I was very still. I looked around my bedroom, a strong sense of reverence running through me. Was it possible?
My sense of logic fought against my little girl innocence. Yes, I finally decided. Yes, it is possible.