Policy

Nancy is a good student. She is one of the fifth graders I can expect will be up out of her seat if someone nearby needs some help while I am across the room working with someone else. Not that it's her job, it's something that she does.
That was why I was surprised to find her hunched over, looking furtively left and right, with her cell phone in her lap. "Nancy," I said as I approached, "Please put your phone away."
Nancy looked up at me abruptly. "What? I was texting my mom!"
I was a little confused by this response since I had expected that Nancy would quickly demur and stuff the offending technology in her pocket. Problem solved.
"Why can't I text my mom?"
I took a breath before I began: "The school rule is that phones are to be turned off and put away during school hours." I added, "That's for everyone."
The phone was still out, and I could see that Nancy was becoming more agitated by the second. "Go ahead, call my mom," she huffed.
Interesting, since I hadn't reached Defcon Mom yet. "I just want you to put your phone up. That's what I expect from everyone else." What I didn't say was that I didn't expect Nancy to be the part of everyone that I would have to remind.
Nancy had begun to cry. Just a little. Tears of frustration. I chose to back away, rather than exacerbate the situation. It occurred to me that earlier in the period, she had been talking to Grace. It was a brief interaction, but it had a conspiratorial vibe to it. Since it was Nancy and Grace, I decided to let it go. Now I wondered if there wasn't something else going on. "Grace, is there something going on with Nancy?"
The look on Grace's face told me that I may be on to something. "No." The quick  answer made me wonder even more.
"You're not in trouble. Neither is Nancy," I was trying to figure out what sort of situation I was trying  to figure out if it wasn't trouble.
Then Grace cracked a bit. "Nancy feels bad because she pushed somebody. She's trying to apologize."
"So she was texting someone?" I could tell that tensions were running pretty high for Grace too, as she started looking back over her shoulder at Nancy.
"Yes."
Now I needed to decide: Was this worth  pursuing, or should I let the last fifteen  minutes of class play out without getting to the bottom of this illicit behavior? I decided to let it go.
When it came time to line up, I was still getting a glare from Nancy. I went the other way as she and Grace made their grumbling way to the line. On the floor next to Nancy's vacated seat was a folded piece of notebook paper. My teacher  curiosity was piqued, so I opened it up. Without reading the whole thing, it was an obvious mash note, with Nancy's name and a boy from another class featured inside a heart.
Suddenly, I didn't want to be Hercule Poirot anymore. I just wanted Nancy to feel better about her place in the scheme of things: fifth grade, growing up, negotiating the perilous path of preadolescence. Later that day, I went up to her on the playground and apologized for tormenting her. I told her that I didn't want to upset her, I just wanted to be fair to her and everyone else. She didn't smile, but she didn't cry. She was on a journey, and I had put a roadblock in her way. It's what grownups do. Even the well-intentioned ones.