EDUCATORS GAMBLE ON GIVING METH KIDS A SECOND CHANCE

Peter Newberg reaches inside a thick folder and pulls out a stack of
papers, photocopied selections from David Pelzer's book The Lost Boy.

His eighth-graders are seated at tables arranged in a U, still
settling down after a game of dodgeball. Each takes a packet of
papers and passes the rest.

Tapping his sneakers, Newberg waits in his chair, a spot that puts
him at eye level with the six students.

"Winter, 1970, Daly City, California," Newberg reads aloud. "I'm
alone. I'm hungry, and I'm shivering in the dark."

Heads bent to the pages, his students follow along. Newberg stops at
lines that serve as springboards to discuss addiction, survival and self-image.

The eighth-graders look up and listen closely.

"See, a lot of kids have learned to self-medicate," Newberg says.

"They think, 'I don't know why I'm so depressed, but if I smoke 'G'
(Glass, a k a methamphetamine), it makes me feel better. Or they are
hyper and know if they smoke weed, it will chill them out."

"It keeps them level," says a boy with a buzz cut and bunched jeans.

"Yeah, thanks," replies Newburg, smiling. "It keeps them level."

Teachable moments are hard-won when topics are deep and personal.

The 38-year-old Newberg used to think he could save troubled kids by
himself. But after more than two years seeing the world through their
eyes, he knows he can only help them save themselves.

His class meets all day, five days a week in one of the portable
classrooms next to Copper King Elementary School in Phoenix. The
class is a life-skills program for kids having trouble with drugs and alcohol.

Created in 2004 by Pendergast Elementary School District, the program
was a hurried response from stunned officials after 13- and
14-year-old students were found using and selling meth at nearby
Westwind Intermediate School.

Meth Discovered

In February 2004, Newberg was teaching seventh-grade science at
Westwind, one of his first teaching jobs since graduating 10 years
ago from Arizona State University.

It was a Tuesday, and Vice Principal Amy Perhamus was in her office
when an instructional assistant walked in. An eighth-grade girl had
told her she was using meth and wanted help.

The assistant brought the girl into Perhamus' office. Perhamus asked
the student questions, trying to understand her problem.

As they talked, Perhamus' mind raced. Call the family. Form a plan.

The instructional assistant said the girl had admitted having meth in
her backpack.

Perhamus hurried down to the classroom where the girl had left her
bag. No drugs. Perhamus was scared. Where was the meth? How much was
in her school?

Perhamus had been concerned about meth for several months after she
heard about an eighth-grader's birthday party where meth was
available. She had begun to compile a list of students she suspected
might be involved.

A petite blond with the toned muscles of a runner, Perhamus grew up
near Albany, New York. Her high school gym teacher inspired her to go
into education, helped her see opportunity outside her poor
neighborhood. From him, she learned a teacher could change a child's
life. Now, it was her time to act.

Perhamus locked down the entire eighth grade and began going
classroom to classroom searching for meth.

Students were instructed to sit at the desks with hands folded while
Perhamus searched. She was joined by Westwind's school resource
officer, a Phoenix police officer.

In the first classroom she entered, Perhamus found packets of meth in
a student's backpack. It looked as if he was selling the drug. The
officer arrested the boy on suspicion of dealing.

A second student was found in possession of the drug.

A few miles away at the Pendergast administration building,
Superintendent Ron Richards' phone rang. In the middle of her search,
Perhamus filled in the assistant superintendent, who then called Richards.

Richards had a hard time believing middle-school students were
dealing and using meth. Sure, smoking in the bathroom and skipping
school. Not meth.

Back at Westwind, Perhamus reached the last classroom in the
eighth-grade wing. She found a vial of meth a student had tried to
hide in her clothing.

Richards is not a man who cries easily. But later in the day, when he
knew there really was meth in his middle school, his eyes filled with tears.

The next day Perhamus called to go over details again with Richards.

"We arrested three," she said.

"Do you want to get them out of the school?" Richards asked, upset
that expulsion might be his only option.

"Just one," Perhamus said reluctantly. "We have to get rid of the dealer."

"So, let's say we take care of these three," Richards said. "How many
more at Westwind need help?"

"A lot more," she said, thinking of the list she started after the party.

After talking with Perhamus, Richards contacted officials at
Tolleson, Fowler and Cartwright Elementary School districts,
searching for a program, a way to help young kids on meth. Most said
meth was not a problem in their schools. If they found a student with
drugs, punishment was suspension or expulsion.

Richards and Perhamus were on their own.

The bust had shaken Richards. He blamed himself. He was supposed to
keep kids safe. How did he miss this?

Finding no programs, he told Perhamus they should try something on
their own, a separate class. Get the those kids out of the other
classes but don't throw them away.

"If I was to find you a room, could you find me a teacher?" Richards asked.

"Absolutely," she said. "I know the perfect person."

Art Lesson

Classical music plays in the background. Newberg's students are
quietly sketching with black markers.

Every couple of minutes, someone holds up a drawing and the others giggle.

Friday is art therapy.

The students' task today is to use straight and curved lines to
sketch a bulldog.

This is one of the few periods when Newberg is not teaching, not in
charge. A guest teacher each week allows him to work along with his
students. Today, he is sitting at the table sketching with the group.

In the corner of the room, a large paper check for $1,000, an award
for Teacher of the Year, leans against the wall. Behind Newberg on a
white board, written in graffiti-style bubble letters, are the words
"Drug free." A student in the second class wrote it a year ago.

A boy known for his jokes nods toward Newberg's drawing. "Let me see."

Newberg looks up and smiles.

"Come on, Newberg, let me see," the boy begs. "We won't make fun of you."

Newberg turns back to his work, and the students follow his lead.

Many in this class need an adult role model. Though they have gotten
into drugs in different ways, difficult family lives are common,
including drug use at home. Some turn to meth to cope. And though a
good home is not absolute protection against meth, a positive adult
role model is a key to quitting. So Newberg aims to fill that spot
while teaching eighth-grade subjects.

Down the row of drawings, the bulldogs are all different. Bodies
filled in with colors, from blue to pink. Some are skinny, some lopsided.

In the grass surrounding his bulldog, one boy sketches 40-ounce
bottles of beers. One is labeled Olde English, a popular and cheap "40."

The boy stands up and holds out his drawing to show Newberg.

Spotting the bottles in the grass, Newberg frowns. The boy catches
his expression.

"I'll cut them out," the boy says quietly.

Newberg says nothing. What the boy does is his decision.

Over the past two years, Newberg has learned the value of patience
when trying to change a teenager's life.

The boy sits down. He takes a black marker and crosses out the beer.

Then he stands up again and shows it to Newberg.

"Is that better?"

"Yes," Newberg says.

New Assignment

Three days after the Westwind bust, Newberg was in his science
classroom when Amy Perhamus cracked open the door and entered.

Perhamus asked him to lunch at the Chinese restaurant down the
street, so they could talk in private.

The invitation made Newberg nervous. They had worked together at
Westwind for two years, but Perhamus was still a boss.

He had heard the whispers about the meth bust three days ago.
Locked-down rooms. Eighth-graders in trouble. But he taught seventh grade.

As they started their lunch, Perhamus said the district wanted to
help the students involved with meth. Not kick them out.

A special classroom would be set up off-campus. The students would
have one teacher for the rest of the year.

She wanted it to be Newberg.

"If we put a long-term sub in your class," Perhamus said, "will you
come over to a portable by yourself and take in whatever kids show up?"

Perhamus did not have a strong second choice. She hoped his loyalty
to the district would work in her favor.

Ten years ago, Newberg was reading a magazine outside an ASU job fair
for teachers. Inside the big room were representatives from schools
across the country. A Pendergast official recruiting for the district
walked up to him.

"Are you here to teach?"

"Yes," Newberg said.

"Do you want to teach seventh grade?"

"I'll do anything," Newberg replied.

He loved teaching science. Now, Perhamus was asking him to give that
up for a class with some students riding on a final chance.

Newberg told her he had to think about it.

Perhamus wanted an answer in 48 hours.

The next day, he took the job.

Over the years, he had gotten to know a lot of students, parents and
other people in the community. He felt a part of their lives. Taking
the job seemed to be the best way to serve them.

But the decision filled him with questions and fear.

How do you structure a class like this? Who could he turn to if
things went badly? One group of kids for the entire day, all up to
him. What if he failed them?

Ten days after the bust, the class began. Six students and Newberg in
the portable classroom. One was from the bust. Five others had asked for help.

Newberg decided to begin with ground rules, how they would deal with
each other in this class. He prepared a PowerPoint. The goal was to
get healthy, change your way of thinking and graduate into high
school. The class would center on mutual trust.

Facing his new class, Newberg thought of something a college
professor once suggested. Form a milieu, a surrogate family.

Days and gradually weeks passed between Newberg and his students.
There were units in math and science. They went on field trips,
including rock climbing. He wanted them to see there was more to
life, give them a sense of accomplishment. He wanted them to look up.

Newberg tuned into their conversations. After school, he cruised past
their hangouts. He played their hip-hop radio stations in his car. At
home, he flipped his television to MTV. He began to learn their lingo
and some of their values, what was important or popular.

He quietly seeped into their world and gained respect.

They began to trust him.

He went to Juvenile Court dates and sat in rows on his students'
side. When they ran away from home, they called Newberg. He said he
would help but never hide them.

Even as he felt his way into their world, Newberg still wondered if
he was on the right track. He questioned his methods. He struggled to
be the adult they could confide in and still be an authority figure.

In three months, the class doubled in size.

Calculated Teaching

After art therapy, Newberg turns to math.

"You were supposed to complete Chapter 5 vocabulary test and review," he says.

The students moan. They did another section. Fine. Newberg decides
they will do it today.

Two students are in algebra, the restpre-algebra. Newberg must find a
way to accommodate both.

In this third year of the program, Newberg uses approaches worked out
the first year: trust, honesty and respect.

"Find the prime factorization of 240," Newberg says.

After a few seconds of silence, one boy volunteers.

"This is what you do, Newberg," he says. "You want me to show you?"

"Show me, dog. Show me," Newberg replies.

When the student successfully completes the problem, reading aloud
from his scratch paper, Newberg applauds.

"You know, the nice thing you did right there was you made it real
easy with the twos," he says.

"The numbers are even in order. You may not have meant to do that, but heeey."

Newberg's drawn out singing and arched body is perfect, like the
rapper Fat Joe's video they all watch on TV.

The students laugh. Some shake their head at their teacher's moves.
Others sing heeey in response.

Growing Up

At the end of that first term back in 2004, all 14 students moved on
to high school. Their success was Newberg's success, at least a sign
that he was on the right track.

In the next two years, his class would be open to any students in
Grades 6 through 8 struggling with drugs.

Newberg and the district's efforts gain attention, including a visit
by John Walters, director of the White House Office of National Drug
Control Policy.

In the second year of the program, Amy Perhamus left her job as vice
principal and moved into the trailer next to Newberg's classroom. The
program was now a life-skills class, and Perhamus was named
Pendergast's director of safe schools and alternative education.

She worked closely with the Scottsdale-based New Foundation, which
provides mental-health and substance-abuse services. The foundation
offered the students group and individual counseling sessions. Music
therapy and tae kwon do classes were funded with grant money.
Perhamus also was now responsible for all student referrals and
placing students in programs outside the district.

Two school years after the bust, the program became what Ron Richards
had hoped for back in 2004: a place where Pendergast students could
find help in many forms. And while Perhamus searched for funding and
pushed the program in new directions, it was Peter Newberg who
remained in place as its persistent heart.

Going On

After math, the students grab lunch, a combination of food from the
elementary school next door and pizza delivered as a reward for good
behavior. They settle in their seats to watch a movie as they eat. It
is a movie they begged Newberg to watch after spotting the jacket of
the DVD that morning.

The movie is the story of Stanley "Tookie" Williams, the man who
started the Los Angeles street gang known as the Crips and spent more
than 20 years in prison.

From his prison cell, Williams decided to never again let
circumstance dictate who he was and spent the remainder of his life
preaching against gangs. In December, denied a pardon, he was
executed for his involvement in four murders.

"This is all about the change in his life," Newberg says.

Newberg hits the button, music begins and his students turn their
chairs to see. No one speaks. The title appears on the screen. Redemption.