Special

“Mr. K, you come to my house for dinner tonight?” asked an ever-cheerful fourth grader.
I don’t know where you live, I told him.
“Park Ridge. You come.”
O.K., I’ll see. What’s for dinner? I asked.
“Taco Bell. You like Taco Bell?”
No, I told him.
“You're funny, Mr. K.”

One of his classmates approached me somewhat guardedly, requesting privacy from the other children and their aides in the classroom. “Can we talk, Mr. K?” he asked, gently steering me away from his desk. He put his arm around me and had me bend low so he could whisper in my ear.

What’s wrong? I asked. How can I help?
“Can I have some chocolate milk?”