AFRAID OF COMING UP SHORT
As Middle College High School’s principal crunches the numbers amid shifting budget projections, at-risk students try to stay on track
Chapter three of four
Principal Diana Del Pilar flits from one graduation party to another on Saturday, Jan. 20, kissing cheeks and exchanging teary-eyed hugs after the morning’s commencement ceremony. On the same day, at a semi-annual retreat, the Houston ISD school board drops a whammy: What was once expected to be a $106 million shortfall for next school year has ballooned to $200 million, largely because of Hurricane Harvey, which district leaders expect will lead to drops in enrollment and tax revenue.
As a result, the boundless joy she’s been looking forward to all semester as a reward for handing out diplomas to kids who never thought they’d be able to earn one finds its bounds. Her boss forwards her a draft budget proposal early that next week, and she learns how the shortfall could affect Middle College High School at HCC Gulfton.
“I understand it’s a draft,” she says Wednesday morning during a moment of hard-won downtime in her office. “But they’re telling us what positions we should staff.”
sal from the district’s philosophy to allocate a set amount of money to each school based on enrollment and allow principals to divvy it up to meet their specific needs.
According to the plan Del Pilar received this week, each school will be budgeted one assistant principal per 500 students. That sounds great on a macro level. But with only 164 students, Middle College would receive just one parttime assistant principal.
“It says I get a 0.3 assistant principal,” she says, tilting her head and pursing her lips. “I get them for part of the week. That’s ridiculous.”
What’s more, the school would have to sacrifice its registrar, Chris Roberson, who is a favorite among students and staff, to make room in the budget for that position, which would presumably absorb the registrar’s duties.
Del Pilar pauses to rub her temples. “And again, this is just a draft. They can change it.” They do. As the district releases new information on what feels like a weekly basis, Del Pilar spends much of February attending meetings filled with could-be scenarios that keep her up at night, wondering how best to plan for the next school year — and whether she even wants to.
The principal isn’t the only one who spends much of February in a funk.
On Tuesday, Feb. 20, Carmen Zuniga stays late after her fourth-period chemistry class to clock some extra hours at school. Today marks one month since she was supposed to cross the stage with her classmates. And as she sits at her desk, the pain feels fresh.
She still remembers that terrible moment: Three days before Middle College’s January graduation, Roberson called her into the student lounge to deliver bad news.
Carmen felt her heart sink as she sat down across a round lunch table to look Roberson in the eye. She took a deep, slow breath. Then she heard the words she’d been trying to dodge all semester:
“Carmen, you’re not graduating.”
“Don’t cry,” Carmen told herself, holding in the tears threatening to bolt down her face. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.”
She made a stony face and did her best to hear the rest of Roberson’s speech, even as her cheeks grew hot, and her mind swirled.
“Your problem is not the work,” Roberson told Carmen, who consistently scores in the top 10 percent of Middle College students on standardized tests. “Your problem is the absences. You’re not showing up to school.”
Carmen knew that. She’s been missing class regularly since she had to step up to help raise her younger siblings after her father’s deportation. And she knew the rules, too: Four or more absences in a class leads to an “NG” — for “No Grade” — on your report card. She also knew Middle College is flexible about helping students recover lost hours — to a point. What she didn’t know is that she’d inched past that point last semester in chemistry.
Roberson spelled it out for her. “Up to 10 missed classes, we’ll work with you,” Roberson said. “We’ll help you make up work so you can graduate.”
But after 10 absences, it’s nearly impossible to catch up, not just on seat time but also on understanding a subject — even at Middle College, a school specifically designed to help students facing massive barriers. Carmen had spent much of the fall semester actively avoiding knowing how many classes she’d missed, out of self-preservation. If she knew how far behind she was, she was sure she’d face a panic attack. Not knowing seemed safer.
When Roberson tallied Carmen’s absences and found 11 missed sessions of first-period chemistry, she ripped the Band-Aid off quickly in hope of easing Carmen’s pain.
It’s not the end of the world, Roberson promised. Even though to Carmen that’s exactly what it felt like.
“Come back spring semester,” Roberson said. “You need to push through. We’ll help you, and you can graduate in June.”
Those two words — “push through” — stuck with Carmen, she says now, on this warm, sunny February day. It’s beautiful outside, and she’d love to take her dog Toby for a nice long walk. Instead, she sits in a chair, working through her chemistry notes.
Making up for lost time is her top priority. But life still keeps getting in the way.
Last week, Carmen suffered a series of back spasms that sent her to the emergency room. Then this week, she drove her mom to the hospital for a dizzy spell that launched a massive, nonstop nosebleed.
The panicky pit in her chest grew with each emergency, as she was forced to miss more class time.
“I hate this,” she sighs. She knows she needs tip-top attendance, and then some. If only life would cooperate. “I’m like, I have to get out of here in June. I. Have. To.”
The following Monday, the school district makes a new announcement: The $200 million shortfall was too dire an estimate. The real gap will figure out to $115 million districtwide, rendering plans pitched over the past six weeks obsolete.
Del Pilar crumples Post-its and ditches spreadsheets.
Budgeting is a necessary evil in Del Pilar’s world. She’s never loved doing it, and though most other district principals have a suite full of administrators they can delegate to, Del Pilar is a one-woman band. So all that fruitless budgeting comes out of her finite amount of time. The trade-off this semester has been less face time with her students, as she resorts to closing her door to carry out private budget-crunching sessions.
As a result, she fears some of her kids may be experiencing the same hurdle they came to Middle College to avoid: falling through the cracks.
She vows to spend time over the next week popping her head into classrooms and flipping through attendance records to identify students who may need an extra push.
Even if it means working through every hour of the weekend.
That’s just what she does. On the first brisk Sunday afternoon of March, Del Pilar sits at a four-person table inside Teotihuacán Mexican Cafe near Carmen’s southwest Houston home. With one week left in the school year’s third quarter, Carmen has again accumulated so many absences that she’s in danger of receiving an “NG” in chemistry.
They set a date for 1:30 p.m. The minutes tick by until finally, at 1:55, Carmen buzzes in with wet hair and a kiss on the cheek for Del Pilar. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologizes as she pulls out her wooden chair and smiles at her principal.
The waiter, who’s been circling for 20 minutes, promptly comes over, and Carmen automatically orders flautas — her favorite. Del Pilar orders the same, and they fall into a circle of small talk as each waits for the other to dive into the tough stuff.
Del Pilar looks down at the table and begins rubbing her right arm nervously as she builds up to a big question.
“So, I kind of need to go over what kind of plan we’re going to put together to keep you on track toward a June graduation,” the principal says, looking up. “I don’t want to steer us toward an August graduation if there are ways we can still stick to a June graduation. And I want to know what your thoughts are on that.”
Carmen won’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “I think I told you last year when I applied that if I didn’t graduate on time, I wanted to sign out.”
Originally, Carmen hoped to be done before turning 19 in January. But her birthday came and went.
“I should already be out. I should be my kids’ role model. This is not acceptable,” Carmen says, referring to her younger brother and sister. “And that’s the reason I told you I’d rather get out of school. Because it’s gonna be ridiculous if I’m held back and I only have one class at school. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? For me to go up to a person and say:
“Oh, I graduate in August now.” “What happened?” “I didn’t show up.” “Well, how many classes?” “Just one. Again.” She lets out a deep, frustrated growl.
“It’s stressful because I’ve been at it. And it seems like when I most try is when everything — ugh!”
Del Pilar puts her hand on Carmen’s arm. They’re silent for a moment.
“Finishing high school is just the beginning. When you go to college, it’s going to be the same thing. Life is still happening,” Del Pilar says. “So how do you continue to be the care provider for everyone around you while still moving forward on your path and in your journey? Because the better you are, the better you’ll be able to help everyone else.”
Carmen nods as she looks down at the table and stirs her water, chasing a lemon wedge with her straw. Deep down, she knows she’ll be better equipped to help her siblings,
Josh and Dani, when she has a diploma and a good job. But right now that seems so far away. Too far.
“Come to school this week and take your final exam for chemistry and get some of your hours done,” Del Pilar suggests.
Carmen nods again. She can do that. They spend the next few minutes calculating how much seat time Carmen has to make up: It’s upwards of 50 hours.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” Del Pilar says. “But you can do that, Carmen. We’ll do Saturdays and whatever it takes.”
Carmen looks back down at her plate and scoops a dollop of sour cream onto one of her flautas. She doesn’t say anything. So Del Pilar makes a promise:
“I won’t give up on you, Carmen.”
When Dakota Koppenol plays a game, he plays to win. The day after Carmen and Del Pilar’s weekend summit, Dakota begins a game of Jenga like a ninja, immediately pulling out the bottom block. He’s sitting at one of his favorite spots — a bubble-tea shop in Gulfgate Mall, sucking down a coconut-mango smoothie.
It’s the middle of the school day for Dakota’s classmates but not for him. Like Carmen, Dakota has only one class left. But unlike Carmen’s chemistry class, which requires face time with a teacher, Dakota can complete Spanish at home, through the online portal Apex. On average, about 10 Middle College students complete their coursework this way each semester, either because a class required for graduation can’t be offered that time of year or because they can’t make it to school during the day. For Dakota, it’s the former.
School has always been easy for Dakota, even when life has not. And if he keeps his Spanish grade up, being named valedictorian this spring should be no problem. Still, taking a class without having to go to school isn’t quite what he expected. He’d thought this would be awesome: Half a school year without having to hitch rides across town to school with his stepfather, Dan Monroe. No bedtime. No first bell. Just one class — on his own schedule. But he didn’t consider how lonely he’d get.
These days, much of his time is spent at home, waiting for his friends to finish their school days and playing Stardew Valley on his PlayStation late into the night. He still hasn’t been able to get a driver’s license, and he can’t find a job within walking distance of his eastside home. So days like this, when Monroe has time before his shift fixing bakery equipment to drive Dakota to grab a smoothie and play Jenga for a bit, feel like an escape from monotony.
“I call it ‘Driving Miss Daisy,’ ” says Monroe, who still hasn’t gotten used to using male pronouns for Dakota. “She even sits in the backseat sometimes.”
Typical teenager, Monroe teases, as Dakota focuses on another Jenga brick, poking it with his finger to gauge how hard it would be to slip from the stack. After a moment, when the topic of college comes up, Monroe looks over at Dakota. “Did you apply?” he asks.
Dakota rolls his eyes. “Yes, I applied to, like, four different colleges. And I got into two.”
A huge grin spreads across Monroe’s face. “What did you get into?”
“University of Houston and UT-San Antonio,” Dakota says matter-of-factly. His voice is calm and measured, but the edges of his lips twitch as though he’s trying to hold back the smile he’s too cool for.
“I told my friend, and she got more hyped about it than me. It was so funny, she’s like, ‘Oh yeah!’ ” he yells, impersonating his friend. “‘Congratulations, Dude!’ And I was like, ‘It’s not that big of a deal.’ ”
Monroe gives Dakota a look that says it’s a very big deal. Dakota ignores it.
The Jenga tower topples over. “I knew it,” he says, laughing as the bricks crash and scatter loudly, drawing attention of others at the tea shop. “It was going to take one little tip tap.”
The crash perks him up, and he slips for a moment, dropping his nonchalant facade to talk more about college as he restacks the blocks.
“I’ve been reading that apparently you don’t have to ask to go to the bathroom in college. You just walk out,” he says, his eyes wide at the revelation. He lifts his right hand and bites his thumbnail out of habit. “In college, you’re basically in charge of yourself.”
As Dakota plays Jenga on the city’s east side, Del Pilar gets big news at school: Superintendent Richard Carranza, the driving force behind plans to increase equity in the district — including the new assistant-principal-to-student ratio — announces he’s leaving to lead New York City’s public schools after less than two years in Houston.
Rather than finishing the school year in Houston, Carranza pushes for a hasty exit, throwing even more uncertainty into the district’s budgeting fiasco. Del Pilar is at a loss for what this means for the rough draft budgets she’s spent so many hours putting together.
But even with so many bits of information up in the air, she has to continue hitting deadlines. By the end of March, she must submit a master schedule for next school year to the district, even if she’s not yet sure how many teachers she’ll be able to afford. She decides to be optimistic.
On Monday, March 26, she and teacher Michelle Palmer spend their lunch period planning how best to allocate next year’s staffing budget, inking in plans to hire a part-time art teacher and a part-time truancy officer. They make plans to spend the last period of the day — and as many hours of the evening as it takes — creating next year’s master schedule, which is due to central office shortly.
At the beginning of eighth period, Palmer, who teaches history — and, in a pinch this year, physical education — is grading assignments at one of the long tables in the principal’s office as she waits for Del Pilar to return from a teacher observation in a nearby classroom so they can dig into the project.
Palmer looks up from her work when she sees Carmen rush in, flustered.
“What’s up, Carmen?” Palmer asks.
“I love you, Miss Palmer. But that does not mean I don’t want to get the hell out of here,” Carmen replies.
After two years of teaching her, Palmer is used to Carmen’s nonanswers. She smiles and watches as Carmen sits down next to her and begins pulling Post-its from a dispenser. She takes five in total, sticking them to the table in front of her. Then, she grabs a black marker and writes her message in big letters, split up over the five orange squares. “I “Need “A “Meeting “With Miss Del Pilar,” she says out loud as she writes her request, which she plans to stick onto the jumbo calendar at the receptionist’s desk.
It’s been three weeks since their Sunday afternoon meeting at the Mexican café, and Carmen has already knocked out a good chunk of her required hours during Saturday makeup sessions. But she wants an accurate count of how much she owes so she can ensure she isn’t surprised with bad news again this semester.
“I need to talk to her,” Carmen says. “But every time I find her, she’s busy with something else.”
Palmer gives Carmen a sympathetic smile and tells her to be patient with the principal. “She’s got a lot going on right now,” she says, explaining that in just a few minutes, she will help the principal map out which courses to offer during which periods next year, so they can solidify staffing.
“Don’t hire nice teachers,” Carmen tells her. “We don’t need nice. We need strict, so we’re not lazy. We need teachers like you.”
Palmer smiles. She looks like the archetype for a nice teacher, all tie-dye shirt and closecropped Kool-Aid hair. But she’s no-nonsense.
“You’re right, I’m not nice. That’s why I get things done,” she says, laughing. “Literally, this is my lesson: ‘Blah blah blah blah blah. Put your phone down. Blah blah blah blah blah. Stop it. Blah blah blah blah blah. What are you doing?’ ”
Carmen laughs, too. “Sit down!” she chimes in. “Where are you going? No.”
Palmer cackles. “No, you don’t need to go to the bathroom,” she says, rolling her eyes.
They’re still laughing when Del Pilar walks into the room a few seconds later.
“Sorry,” the principal says to Palmer, her nose buried in papers. “I had to finish those observations.”
Palmer smiles. “No problem.”
Del Pilar looks up from her work and sees Carmen for the first time. “And Carmen came in while I was observing and interrupted my groove,” she teases, smiling.
“Of course,” Palmer deadpans.
“Of course,” Carmen chimes in. “I interrupted Miss Palmer, too.”
Carmen is about to ask if Del Pilar has a spare moment to chat, but the principal turns back to Palmer. “Are you ready?” she asks. “Let’s go do this in your room.”
The educators move to Palmer’s classroom, Room 213, leaving Carmen by herself. She stays for a moment to gather her notes. Then she walks the orange pile to the receptionist’s desk and sticks them in plain sight.
She heads home hoping to meet with Del Pilar later that week, so she can share an ultimatum with the principal: If she can’t graduate by June, she’s giving up.