Light Switches

In bottom set year 9, every kid is a big personality. Lightswitch Kid is not as loud as some, so he can slip by without being noticed. He's not very bright, not angelically behaved but not a real hassle either. He's the 'Who? Oh, him' kid in a class of kids where everyone, everywhere in the school knows their names. And his favourite thing to do is play with the switches.

No, really. The first lesson I had to go and fetch him from the corridor, where there are two sets of double switches a little way apart. He was spinning between them, flicking them in some sort of pattern. It's pretty complex, and patterns are definitely maths, so I thought he must have some sort of logical understanding, but when he's inside the room it disappears.

Everything we try is 'No, don't make me, I can't!' 'Don't bother, please, I can't do it!' and when that doesn't work, and he can't hide in the corner, he tries to flirt with me. I don't want to crush him too much, but of course this has to be diverted. He hates his seat, because I can see him, and tries to sit at the back, but I turn his own flirting against him. 'Come on cherub, you can't sit there, I can't see your lovely face!' Eventually he warms up.

Weeks later, I mark the books, and suddenly see that his is pages and pages of problems and answers. I've almost fallen into the trap of forgetting about him; he's almost made himself invisible again, but here is a real surprise. He gets it. He's flying. Very very quietly, he's shooting through the work. He's flipped the switch.

I make extension work, assign the TA to him, and the switch stays flipped. He does more and more, until he's on a totally different scheme of work to everyone else, doing more complex work than the others could ever manage. Eventually, we have to talk about moving him up a set. He's reluctant, but we manage to convince him and in the last week of term, the whole year group sit a test. He's more scared that I've ever seen him, and he knows how much prep we've done, how much we're all hoping this won't look like every other test he's ever done.

He pulls at his hair, huffs and sighs and tells me he's done dreadfully, but the next day he turns up early, eyes alight. He waits outside as the others goes in and turns to me, switches ignored. 'I've got some bad news, I'm afraid. I won't be seeing much of you next term!' 'Really? Really? I've moved up!' He spins, delighted, then plunges into the classroom and sits, looking like he's almost sleepwalking.

Next term, it will all be new for him. He's managed two months of success like he's never known, and a totally switched attitude. He just needs to keep that switch flipped.