Subbing in a Credit Recovery Class, I Found a Student With IBI and No Support. Something Was Wrong.
The call came at 6:40 in the morning. A local high school needed a substitute for a “credit recovery” class. I’d done those before. Usually a room full of silent teenagers pecking at Chromebooks, making up work they flunked the first time around. I said yes.
When I got to the room, the lighting was the same beige hum you find in every portable classroom. The attendance list had twenty names. In the margin, next to one name, someone had written “Eli” and the acronym IBI. I’d seen it before: Intensive Behavioural Intervention. That usually means a student with autism who needs structured, consistent support — often one-on-one.
I looked around. There in the corner sat Eli. A tall, thin kid who looked both sixteen and about ten. He was rocking side to side, stacking pencils into a perfect grid. His backpack was still on. No aide. No visual schedule. No token board. No tablet. Nothing.
The sub plans were two pages. “All students should work on the credit recovery modules. No one leaves until the quiz is completed.” There was no mention of Eli. No mention of breaks, sensory needs, or what to do if he got overwhelmed. The classroom teacher had left a stack of worksheets and a note about locking the Chromebook cart. That was it.
I went over and crouched beside Eli. “Hey, Eli. I’m the sub today. What do you need?” He didn’t look at me. He kept stacking pencils. A few students glanced over, then looked away. One boy in the front laughed under his breath. I didn’t know what to say. The wrongness of the whole situation rose in my chest.
The problem wasn’t that Eli was in that room. The problem was that he was in that room without any of the supports that made the rest of his day possible. This was supposed to be inclusion. But inclusion without an aide, without a modified plan, without someone who knows how to redirect a student respectfully — that’s just a place to sit. For the other kids in the room, the stakes were already low. For Eli, the stakes were basic dignity.
I called the office. “Eli’s aide called in sick,” the secretary said. “We don’t have a replacement today.” She sounded sorry, and busy. I asked if there was a resource teacher or an educational assistant in the building who could at least check in on him. “I’ll see,” she said. No one ever came.
I thought about Eli’s parents. Maybe they got a generic email that morning saying, “Your child will be supported.” Or maybe not. Maybe they had no idea their son would be left with a substitute teacher who barely knew where the paper clips were, expected to do the same online modules as students who had already failed a class. That thought stayed with me all day.
What I did that day doesn’t solve the larger problem, but it made the hours survivable.
I moved Eli’s desk near the window. Not because he asked, but because sitting under the fluorescent light seemed to make him more agitated. I didn’t tell him “we need to get working.” I gave him a choice. “Eli, you can do the math worksheet or the reading worksheet. First, choose one. Then you get a break outside.” He looked at me for a second. That was enough.
When his voice got too loud, I didn’t ask “Why are you doing that?” I said, “Your voice is in the classroom. If you need to make that sound, let’s step into the hallway for two minutes.” We did that maybe six times. Each time, he came back and finished another problem. Once, he took my pen and drew a line under a math answer. That was progress. He didn’t finish the quiz. He did four questions. That was more than I expected.
At lunch, a student named Marcus came up to me. He was seventeen, already in his second credit recovery class. “Why are you worried about him?” he asked, nodding toward Eli’s empty desk. “He shouldn’t even be in here.” I shrugged. “He’s in my class today, so he’s in here. And he’s not bothering anybody.” Marcus thought about that. “Yeah, okay,” he said. Later, I saw him show Eli how to press the headphone volume button down. That small moment made me feel like the room could almost work.
But it wasn’t enough. The bigger issue is the placement itself. A credit recovery class is not a natural place for a student with IBI. Not because Eli couldn’t be with peers — but because every other student in that room had failed something and was there to make up missing work. Eli didn’t fail. Eli had a disability that meant he needed consistent, high-level support. He was placed in that room probably because of scheduling, because it was the only class with an open seat. That happens more than parents might think. “Least restrictive environment” sounds good on paper. On the ground, it often looks like “wherever we have space.”
If you have a child with IBI, or any student who needs intensive support, it’s worth asking a few direct questions at the next IEP review. First: what happens when the assigned aide is absent? Is there a named backup, or just a hope? Ask to see the sub plans that get left for a supply teacher. Are your child’s communication supports in there? Are the sensory breaks written down? What about the plan for a meltdown or an elopement? If the answer is “we’ll try to handle it,” that’s a red flag.
One practical thing that helped me was having a one-page “About My Child” sheet that could go inside the sub folder. It doesn’t need to be long. Just: “My child uses a token board. First work, then break.” “When he repeats phrases, let him finish, then prompt.” “If he starts to hit his head, clear the area and call for support.” That is not asking for too much.
For substitutes, a couple of things I learned: don’t assume the regular teacher’s plans are enough. Scan the attendance list for acronyms. Ask the office about aides and IEPs. If there’s no support, don’t silently make it work. Document what happened. Leave detailed notes. “This student had no aide. This is what helped. This is what didn’t.” That note might be ignored, but sometimes it becomes exactly what a parent or caseworker needs.
I can still picture Eli sitting by the window, one hand holding a pencil, the other pressing his palm flat against the cool glass. He was not in the right place for him. But he made it through the day. I made it through. The room full of students who had flunked made it through. We all did.
Later, I heard that Eli was moved to a smaller, better-supported class the following semester. I don’t know if that’s true, or if it was just something someone said to feel better. I’d like to believe it. But I still think about the secretary’s voice when she said, “We don’t have a replacement.” There was no drama in it. It was routine. That might be what bothers me the most. For a student like Eli, a day without support isn’t strange. It’s just another Tuesday.
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