I sit in my car outside of the school board building, my phone propped up on the steering wheel as I wait for the clock to tick over. The monthly meeting starts in just five minutes, and I've got one shot to nail my proposal to make my best friend's ranch a legitimate, government-funded, after-school activity.

I've been working on this for a while. It's been in the back of my mind since the first time Shane suggested I bring some of my students out on the weekends, and he and I have sat for hours at his kitchen table and talked about "legitimizing" the program. It's great as it is, with no restrictions and no scrutiny keeping us from helping kids who don’t have a whole lot of positive influences in their lives, but I know we can do so much more, and now that my brother’s around to help, I have to try.

I look at my notes again, scrolling my phone screen to quickly go through them all. I've got a few talking points, but it's never been my style to speak from a script. The best thing I can do as a teacher is to speak freely and passionately about history and its place in our current world, and the same goes here. I just need to keep it simple. Present the idea of what the program is, describe how it would work, and tell the committee why it’s needed.

No big deal.

An alarm chimes. Two minutes left. I let out a sigh and fuss with the knot at my neck, making sure my tie is straight. I own exactly one suit, and today seemed like the best time to dust it off.

Cutting the engine, I step out of the car and look around the mostly vacant lot. The county seat of Belmont is more well off than Glen Springs, but I'm guessing the BMWs parked with wide spaces between them belong to school board members, because they sure as hell don't belong to any teachers I know.

When I go inside, I find a few other people waiting. Two women who greet me, and a man who's leashed to his phone. Once time is called, we’re all shepherded into the meeting room, seated, and then forced to sit through the formalities of the monthly meeting before the floor is turned over for questions, comments, and concerns.

When my fellow teachers and administrators are recognized, they each bring forth a different problem. One's trying to save the free breakfast program in Hamilton County—an admirable goal, but with the deep cuts the state is trying to make, I'm not sure the school board is going to fight against it.

The man who was glued to his phone is apparently the principal of a high school in Harris. His speech isn't a plea, but a demand. Evidently his school's sports budget was cut, and now their basketball team doesn't have the supplies they need. I tune out as he starts giving statistics about how much money ticket sales bring in.

Once he's dismissed, it's down to me and one other woman who introduced herself while we were waiting as Pam. She smiles a little nervously and motions for me to go first, so I gather my nerve and head up to the podium, adjusting the mic.

I clear my throat, a sound that's unfortunately picked up in all its rough, feedback-laced glory. Rather than let myself get caught in a cycle of nervous apologies, I just start.

"Good morning. I know there's a lot on the agenda, so I'll try to keep this brief. My name's Jacob Morrison, and I teach world history at Glen Springs High School. In the seven years I've been with GSHS, I've had the pleasure of teaching students across all ability levels. And some of those students have needed extra care and attention."

I take a breath and continue. "Their social skills aren't where they need to be. They're struggling with conflict at home that's affecting how they behave at school. They act out. Or they withdraw. Their grades suffer. I believe we as teachers are obligated to help these kids, but we aren't given sufficient tools to do so. We're told to send them to the office and let the guidance counselor sort them out, but let's be honest: Most counselors are overworked and ill-equipped to deal with every single student who needs them."

I look to the three people of the board who are tasked with hearing me out, and I can't say I feel all that encouraged. One is marking something down—could be anything, for all I know. The other two are looking at me, but in that same way students look toward the front of the class while their minds wander.

All right. Message received. Time to make things personal. I'd prepared this anecdote, but I don't need any memorized notes to tell Julie's story.

"Three years ago, a quiet freshman walked into my class for the first time. She sat in the back, never talked to any of the other kids, never talked to me. She turned in assignments on time and aced her tests, so she flew under my radar for a long time. Then she started doing worse and worse. Not turning in homework, failing tests outright. I made a point of trying to talk with her outside of class. Just greeting her in the halls at first. It took months before she started to open up, and eventually I was able to start a dialogue with her. The signs of depression were pretty clear, and I knew just talking to the counselor wasn't going to help—the 'send them only when there's a behavioral problem' approach really wouldn't work in this case."

I pick and choose what to tell them, holding back the fact that I strongly encouraged Julie's parents to seek out a therapist for her. They politely declined, and it was obvious they didn't trust therapists or maybe even believe in their capabilities altogether. Either way, it was hurting Julie. It's still hurting Julie, and I'm guessing that attitude is hurting a lot more kids than people know.

"What finally worked for Julie was inviting her—with her parents' permission, of course—to a therapeutic horseback riding session. She was able to bond with the horses in a way she couldn't bond with other people, and the ability to overcome her fears and learn to control a horse has helped her immensely. Because of the program, she started talking to other students; talking to her teachers. She's still shy, but she's a little more confident now, and a little more willing to take social risks. She's happier than she was when she was a freshman, and I think the program is responsible for that progress."

I at least have their attention now, and I take that time to hand out some packets of information I had printed off. I go on to tell them about the ranch, about what I hope to accomplish by making therapeutic riding an officially supported after-school program for GSHS.

After a deep breath, I finish saying my piece. "In conclusion, I hope you will agree that the emotional well-being of our students should not be overlooked, even if they are doing well academically. And I hope this program can be the first of many open doors for students who need it."

There's a moment of near silence, papers rustling and soft murmurs hidden from the microphones. I stand completely still, fighting the urge to shift my weight from side to side. I've never been nervous speaking in front of kids, but this is something totally different.

"Thank you for your very heartfelt proposal, Mr. Morrison. While we are sympathetic to the emotional health of our students, there is a great deal to consider with your program," the woman who's acted as head speaker says. "In addition to permission slips, parents would have to sign waivers. The ranch in question would need to be routinely inspected, and everyone working there would require background checks. That's not counting the cost of transportation and the liability the school would face if anything did happen."

Her immediate laundry list of concerns catch me off guard. It's not as if I haven't considered these things—I even prepared a rebuttal for each of them—but I realize now that I didn't exactly include them in my report. That's enough to throw me off, and I just stand there saying nothing until the speaker continues.

"We will consider your proposal, Mr. Morrison. Thank you for your commitment to Hamilton County public schools."

It's a dismissal if I've ever heard one, and though it's no different than what the other presenters received, I can't help but feel like I've failed right out of the gate.

I take my seat, going over the presentation in my mind, thinking of how I could've been better. My dad always said I had a bad habit of opening my mouth before I really thought my words through. It was one of the only things he said to me, and it rings in my mind now, even if I know it's not true.

When the meeting's called to a close, I start to leave the building, ignoring the coffee and donuts someone's set out for us. Pam catches me before I can make it to the parking lot.

"Mr. Morrison?" she asks, all smiles and bright eyes.

"Call me Jake," I say, forcing what I think is a pretty convincing smile.

I'm a pro at it by this point.

"Jake," she says, extending her hand. I shake it. "I just wanted to say I really appreciated your words in there. Honestly…" She leans in a little closer and lowers her voice. "It's all about the bottomline around here. Test scores, graduation rates, athletic performance. Those are the things that make money. Everything else just gets swept under the rug, and it's a damn shame."

"I couldn't agree more," I tell her.

We exchange contact information after that, though I have no intention of reaching out. This is my fight, not hers. I retreat to my truck, embracing the cramped space of the cab and how quiet it is with the engine turned off.

My phone sits on the bench beside me, and I look at it with a little bit of dread. I need to tell Shane and Travis about this, but I really don't want to bother them or spoil an otherwise good day. Ever since my best friend and my brother got together for good, they've been making the most of it. Travis even recently got approved to teach PE at GSHS next year, and Shane's going back to the racing circuit soon.

I can't spoil that.

So instead when I reach for my phone—since I'm not exactly eager to drive home yet, either—I check my email, finding a new one from Maria Vasquez, the principal.

"Jesus. Already?" I wonder aloud, thinking she's somehow managed to hear of my failure back in Glen Springs. Like a really sad, fucked up Bat Signal or something.

But what I see is a more official looking email:

Mr. Morrison,

This email is to let you know that as of Monday, you'll be receiving a new student in your third period World History class. I've attached the student's information below. If you have any questions, please contact me.

Regards,

Maria Vasquez

Principal

Glen Springs High School

I open up the attached PDF, finding the student's name and transcript. Riley Frazier. Age sixteen. Apparently she was held back a year at her old school in Chicago. C and D student, with a D- in history.

I never want to see a student struggle, but right now, this is a welcome distraction. I save the file and start my truck, a plan already forming in my mind for how I can reach this kid.

It's all I let myself think about the entire hour-long drive back to Glen Springs, because I know this, at least, is something I'll succeed at.