At one tiny Nebraska high school, there’s only one freshman

TAYLOR, Neb. — Bailley Leibert walks into civics class and plops her sunflower-print backpack onto an empty table. The 15-year-old rummages for her notebook and colored pens.

Around her are enough chairs to seat 10 students.

But today, and every day, there are nine empty seats. It’s just the ninth-grader and social studies teacher Ken Wright — an unintentional private lesson for the only freshman in this school.

At Loup County High School, Bailley is the sole member of the class of 2027. The class was entirely empty for three years before she moved to the village of Taylor this school year.

Nestled in the Sandhills, Loup County Public School has just 89 kids — one of the smallest school districts in Nebraska. Twice, the tiny school, in danger of closing, has gone to the Nebraska Legislature to keep its doors open.

Teachers and students say it feels like the school holds the community of Taylor and the 571-square-mile Loup County together. It’s the place to be during Friday night football games. It’s the town’s biggest employer. And, even in a shrinking county — and despite the freshman class of one — the school is growing.

As recently as 20 years ago, small country schools and one-room schoolhouses dotted rural Nebraska, said Jack Moles of the Nebraska Rural Community Schools Association.

In 2005, the Legislature implemented a major change, requiring districts to offer every grade. It led to a wave of school consolidation, as the country schools closed or merged with neighbors.

Now there are 244 school districts in Nebraska. Only five, including Loup County, have fewer than 100 students.

Running a school this small takes some improvising. At Loup County, Spanish is taught through Zoom, remote learning that it used long before the pandemic, said Principal Ken Sheets.

Sheets himself doubles as the bus driver most mornings, driving a yellow school bus down bumpy country roads to pick up students.

Starting at 7 a.m., he scoops up kids from their farmhouses; from a truck idling on the side of the road; from the Sinclair gas station in Sargent. He waves at the cars passing by —most of the drivers he knows, some he doesn’t — while the gaggle of bus riders chatter about homework and yesterday’s fifth-grade gossip.

The school has sports, band and choir, but only because Loup County combines with neighboring Sargent High School. Bailley and her friends make up the school’s first cheer team because there was enough interest at both high schools to form a squad.

“It’s about gauging interest. It’s hard to do things for just one student,” Sheets said. “Sometimes, decisions have to be made. Do we need these girls to play sports, or do we need them to be on the dance team?”

For some parents, a school the size of Loup County can be a turnoff.

There’s no dance or theater classes. The school doesn’t have soccer or baseball teams. Foreign languages other than Spanish have to be taken virtually with prerecorded lessons. High schoolers can take virtual college courses, but no Advanced Placement classes.

But other parents feel Loup County is a perfect fit, Sheets said. They want the small school experience, with small class sizes, a family atmosphere and the teacher’s cellphone number.

Bailley is no stranger to small schools. When she lived in Broken Bow, the 800-student district felt huge, she said. In Bartlett, she was one of 10 kids in her eighth grade class.

Then she moved to Taylor, becoming the lone freshman.

But to Bailley, there’s nothing lonely about flying solo in grade nine, even as a new kid at a new school.

She mostly attends classes with the sophomores. She likes the sophomores. She likes knowing everyone’s name. She likes that, after school, she and her new friends can walk across the street to her house.

She feels comfortable turning to her teachers for help, she said.

Studies have found that at small and rural schools, students find a greater sense of belonging, and teachers often feel better about their work. Small class sizes make individualized instruction easier. Students are more likely to participate in a wide range of extracurricular activities, which is linked to academic success.

Students like Hector Estrada, a senior on the football, wrestling and track teams. He’s also in Future Farmers of America, the Future Business Leaders of America and the quiz bowl team.

“I got all these opportunities I never would have done if I was in a bigger place,” Estrada said. “I probably wouldn’t have played all three sports if I was at a bigger school. Here I get to do all three … here, they need the numbers.”

At Loup County, high schoolers have the same teacher for each subject all four years. This practice, called looping, has been found to aid academic and behavioral performance, according to a 2022 Brown University study.

English teacher Megan Helberg, the 2020 Nebraska Teacher of the Year, said she sees those benefits in her classroom. It also means she has four years to get to know her students and their families.

“Of course I want you to learn … how to use a semicolon,” Helberg said. “But more importantly, I want you to know that you are a part of this community, and we need you and you’re valued.”

At one point, Loup County’s high school population dropped below 35. State law required a public vote on whether to stay open. Twice, residents of the county overwhelmingly voted to keep the school open.

Rural communities wither away once their school disappears, said Jeanne Surface, educational leadership professor at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. People move away. So do businesses. In Loup County, the school is the community’s hub, Sheets said.

If it were to close, “the town would just turn into … a bedroom community,” he said. “If they’re having to bus kids into Sargent or Burwell, that’s where the people are going to go.”

Last year, the district went to the Legislature lobbying to change the law, arguing that it should be allowed to operate “without the constant threat of closure looming over our heads,” Sheets said while testifying to the Education Committee.

The Legislature agreed — now, the decision to consolidate schools is left to the school board, rather than a public vote.

Loup County staff now feel more secure, Helberg said.

“That rolls into job attraction and people attraction,” said Helberg. “If someone is unsure if the school is going to be open, that might deter families from moving here. But now, it’s like, OK, bring your families here, bring your children here. We’re ready.”

Helberg teaches in the same classroom where she once sat as a student, one of many teachers who double as alumni.

Standing before her class on a Wednesday morning, she writes on the whiteboard: What are the perks of your community?

The 10th graders — and Bailley — ponder the question, scribbling down their answers.

They love that there’s lots of land and not a lot of people. There’s no traffic. They love how close they are with their teachers, and how people help each other, like the time the town helped Estrada’s family when his father was bedridden from long COVID.

Helberg wrote another question on the board: What is it lacking?

There’s not enough housing, the teenagers said. There’s no post office — two years ago, a building explosion shook the town and knocked it out of commission. There’s no grocery store. They miss having an ice cream shop and wish there was a soccer team.

Some of Helberg’s students dream of bigger cities, working as graphic designers or nurses. But a growing number see themselves moving back to Taylor, running the family ranch, becoming a police officer or starting their own business.

It’s a trend backed up by the Nebraska Community Foundation’s annual youth survey. In 2020, 47% of rural students surveyed said they preferred to stay in small communities like their hometowns. Last year, that number grew to 64%. Students point to jobs as the main reason why they’d live elsewhere.

“People are not dragging them back kicking and screaming; we are seeing more returners come willingly,” Helberg said. “We have more new families, new faces, new last names, which is a good thing. As a community … we are learning that we have to accept all types of newcomers. On a practical side, quite frankly, we need them. We need people in our school, we need people in our community.”

Civics class is Bailley’s last of the day.

It’s also her least favorite — not because of the subject, but because she’s the only kid. No one to goof around with. No one else to field hard questions.

Her teacher Ken Wright puts a Constitution pamphlet on her desk, quizzing her on the amendments they reviewed the day before.

He explains a citizen’s right to vote, and why Bailley’s vote matters when she turns 18. He recounts a school bond vote in another state that lost by one vote.

“Your vote counts,” he says, knocking his fist on the table.

The lone student in his class quietly listens.

She’s thinking past the last bell of the school day, when she’ll be able to hang out singing karaoke or doing makeup with her new friends from her new school in her new town.

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