The slender child senses the gaze of the group, and struggles to answer. His eyes swivel. His lips crack apart. "I … um … I …" he croaks. "Elliott?" "That's okay," says Jackie. "We'll come back to you. What about you, Talis?" "Clever!" says the tall boy with brown hair, holding a plush tiger toy. "Clever Tiger Talis!" "Excellent," says Jackie. "And what about you, AJ?" "Angry," says AJ, frowning. "Stupid AJ!"

So passes a standard morning at Baltara, a unique public school in Melbourne's north, where a handful of young children – years 1 to 3 – receive specialist education and assessment over a six-month period, taught by as many as three highly trained teachers at a time. The kids who come here have barely begun their lives and yet are often dealing with everything from dyspraxia to dyslexia, oppositional defiance disorder to separation anxiety, ADHD to ASD, trauma to poverty, domestic violence to drug and alcohol abuse, absent parents to parents in prison. The referral process takes time, but some stories immediately speak to dire circumstances. There was the little girl last year, whose hard-working single mum passed away suddenly. The mother died from a brain aneurysm on a Friday night and the six-year-old was alone with her body until Monday morning. She came to Baltara a few weeks later. Often, we’re the last, best hope for these kids. they’re desperate – they’ve been rejected, despised, expelled. Jennifer Daverington, teacher Or there was the nine-year-old boy whose mother was incarcerated and father absent, and who was brought here by his 14th foster family. When that placement broke down during the semester, he was picked up one afternoon and taken to foster home number 15.

According to the school's "team around the learner" design, Baltara also consults with each child's regular schoolteacher, as well as their psychologist, paediatrician, speech therapist and occupational therapist. The holistic approach is meant to stabilise each student before returning them to a mainstream school environment. This is the school of hardest knocks. Baltara's principal is a quiet woman with kind eyes named Nancy Sidoti. She likens the depth of challenges faced by her students to an iceberg – vast and obscured. "We can't expect a six-year-old to tell us in their own words that they are having a meltdown because they are experiencing sensory overload," she says, "or even to describe their feelings of neglect." Good Weekend tracked one student over several months. Talis, who's six, came to Baltara late last year, brought by his father, Shane, who explains why. "One word: desperation." Talis grew up with his mother in rural NSW. One day last year she drove him to Melbourne to see Shane, and left. Shane began raising his son alone, but it is hard. Talis has been diagnosed with oppositional defiance disorder, separation anxiety and autism spectrum disorder – problems that manifest themselves in hyperactive behaviour and erratic communication. Right now, Talis gets up from the story circle on the carpet and begins searching for his favourite classroom toy – a vibrating furry rocket. He can't find it. Nor can the teachers. "But … I want it now!" he yells. "Eeee!"

He frowns. Stamps a foot. Flips a table and knocks over three chairs. No one speaks – the room ignores the tantrum. "As long as they're not endangering themselves or others," says one teacher, Mary Peyiotis, "we try to give them some space." During a tantrum over a lost toy, Talis flips over two tables and a few chairs. While he sits in a 'calming corner', another student receives one-on-one instruction. Credit:Thom Rigney Talis heads to "the calming corner" – an alcove off the side of the room, which is dark except for a tall lava lamp. Talis is alone, but not quite done with his episode. Every second or two, he chucks a toy out of the cosy space. Bear, frog, dog, cat, penguin, hippo, rhino, duck and monkey. One by one, they sail into the classroom. No one scolds him. "It's not a punitive model," says Jennifer Daverington, another teacher. "It's about making them feel safe and calm, and developing that inner muscle. We'll talk when he's ready." Talis emerges soon after and begins cleaning up his mess, lifting chairs, putting away Red Riding Hood, the platypus and the snail. He apologises.

Later, Peyiotis says that despite their chaotic behaviours, almost all of these children can make it in a mainstream school – if they get the right help. "Talis just said to me, 'I'm bad.' He identifies as being bad, but he's not," she says. "I explain he might have made a wrong choice, but that he's beautiful, unique, like they all are." He is a sweet child. On a sheet of paper stuck to the wall there is a promise he made to the teachers: My name is Talis and I will "have a go" at everything on Tuesday 25-10-16. On another wall, there is a note: I am thankful for … toys, life, movies, tigers. Signed Talis. He is co-operative for the rest of the morning, as they work on the letter Q for queen, Q for quilt, Q for quartz. They read more books together, and he rests his face against the furry snout of a life-sized toy labrador, nuzzling its pink felt tongue. Talis is Q for quiet. Teacher Jennifer Daverington talks with Talis about his behaviour. Credit:Thom Rigney

Baltara is not housed in a state-of-the-art, purpose-built facility. It is neither an ambitious pilot program nor a bold new direction in alternative education. It has existed for decades, evolving slowly out of the youth justice and foster care systems. When the Baltara Special School was formed in 1961, it was a mere classroom for "troubled boys" attached to a centre for foster kids and juvenile offenders. That centre closed in 1990, by which point Baltara was operating a handful of educational units in both mainstream schools and within the Department of Health and Human Services. Then, in 2014, the school council decided it was time for a shift – leaving the education of older juvenile offenders to the state and focusing instead on mainstream early intervention – finding and fixing young kids within a critical developmental window. Baltara took over a couple of portable classrooms in the otherwise shuttered East Preston Primary School, and quietly began building its early years program. Assistant principal Marguerite Scollard White says no similar school exists in the public system – or private system, for that matter – precisely because of this organic origin. "We're here because we survived – because we've been slowly reshaped and largely forgotten," she says. "The constant feedback we get is, 'Why aren't there more schools like you?' It's because we weren't really designed – we've just survived and evolved. But we're it. For early primary-age kids, we're it." The school is unique insofar as it takes only children with the most challenging problems, and because it is resource-rich, with a 3:1 student-to-teacher ratio. But it also stands alone, importantly, because it offers a temporary intervention – a strict six-month catch-and-release program. "It's a really short journey we take with the students," says Sidoti, "but we bring the families along, and their medical providers, and the mainstream schools."

There are, of course, other specialist schools in the education system, but these are generally for older children and teens, often private, and almost uniformly built for long-term stays. Dr Lisa McKay-Brown, a lecturer in learning intervention at the University of Melbourne's Graduate School of Education, says these are known as "exclusion" programs, because they separate children from their peers. Today, "inclusion" is the preferred philosophical model for special education, and with good reason. Research shows that students who stay away from mainstream education for long stretches are unlikely ever to return. They instead bounce from one specialist setting to another, and have far worse outcomes in everything from literacy to health. Students attending Baltara, by contrast, continue attending their regular school one or two days a week. Their connection is never fully severed, and so reintegration is smoother. "We don't want to institutionalise them," McKay-Brown says. "We want them to be back with their peers." In particular, those who run Baltara want children communicating with other children. Language is their cornerstone. Hannah Stark is a speech pathologist who recently examined the "communication profile" of Baltara students. How do they interact with one another? How do they follow instructions from teachers? "How do they tell a story?" Stark asks. "For children who are in trouble, they need to be able to say what has happened, who the main character was, and the narrative of events. They need that skill, and we've got this tiny opportunity for early intervention."

A few weeks later, on a Monday afternoon, the kids sit down to lunch. Peanut butter and jam in white bread. Vegemite and cheese wraps. Yoghurt squeeze packs. Talis has a slice of barbecue chicken pizza, and apples. They hit the playground. The rest of the old primary school building is virtually deserted, with only part of it used for another small specialist school for teenagers, meaning the asphalt, oval and monkey bars outside are empty, apart from Talis and his handful of friends. They come back inside – time for meditation. Lying on blue foam mats with the lights off and the blinds closed, they listen to a tape. A woman with an Irish accent guides them through an imaginary, secret, magical garden. "Remember," she finishes in a calming lilt, "you can come back here any time, to dance with the flower fairies." The afternoon activity, guided by teacher Lisa Sheriff, is about anxiety. She was going to discuss bullying, but this group has more problems with fear. They are highly anxious. They worry about being touched. They worry about going to the toilets. They worry about the dark. Megan, 6, worries about getting into trouble. Ty, also 6, stands at the door of the classroom every morning, hiding behind the lockers. The group reads Lions in a Flap: A Book About Feeling Worried. As one of three teachers taking a class of never more than nine students, Daverington is able to work with the children in small groups. Credit:Thom Rigney

Last month, Daverington gave one child a "lap buddy" – a toy frog filled with sand – and watched the little girl suddenly settle with ease. The kids who come here, she says, are often hyper-alert and unable to relax, so she also finds the use of the "catastrophe scale" helpful, asking children to rank the confronting nature of any negative event from 1 to 10. She used the scale with one student whose school had received a bomb threat. Together, they established that event as a 10. Then he fell over in the mud one day, another child called him a piggy, and he lost control and said he wanted to kill himself. "So I sat down with him, and identified where falling in the mud sat on the catastrophe scale. We decided it was a 2 or a 3. Now we use the scale every week, for every bad event. He uses it at home with Mum, too." The parents enter the room shortly after Sheriff's session. There are typical end-of-day hugs and departures, but the parents linger longer here, and chat with the teachers. As Talis plays with Ty, Shane's partner Caity points out how desperate the boy is for attention – how he shadows his father, and craves reassurance. Apparently, one of Shane's housemates went for a drive the other night and left the backyard roller door up. Talis got up, sleepwalking, saw the open door and started screaming. "Shane was trying to calm him down, and eventually woke him up," she says. "He was crying, going 'I thought you were leaving me.' " Daverington goes through some of the techniques they're using at Baltara to help Talis make good choices, providing him whenever possible with options, so he feels as though he is in control. It seems to be working "compared to the first day that he came here", she says, shaking her head, "and he was cartwheeling around the room, jumping on furniture".

Such gains are crucial. Daverington has seen kids with educational difficulties deteriorate as they grow older, how their problems can worsen as they are shuffled from provider to provider. "When they're 10 and they've had 22 placements, they've worn out people time and time and time again. That has to stop sometime for them to feel secure, before they start saying, 'I'll reject you before you reject me.' " Shane nods. Still, he's doing it tough. "Long-term, it's going to work. I see the good," he says. "But right now I feel like I'm hitting my head against a wall." When graduation day comes, it's 34˚C outside and windy. Indoors, the classroom is filled with blue balloons, cupcakes, fairy bread and fruit. It is just before Christmas and so there is a wonky branch decorated with tinsel and baubles. Talis is snacking on finger sandwiches and carrot sticks. His hand hovers mischievously over a treat – a chocolate with a mint-leaf lolly and raspberry on top, made to resemble a miniature Christmas pudding. Shane shakes his head. "Sugar just tips him over the edge." The children's work at Baltara is done. They've mastered various behavioural skills for difficult situations. A chart on the wall details one process: Listen. Cool off. Walk away. Ignore it. Apologise. Discuss it. Make a plan. They've discussed their feelings while also working on literacy, reading everything from Don't Squeal Unless It's a Big Deal to Goodbye Mr Angry.

Talis has been taking Ritalin for a week, but it hasn't helped. Just this morning, he had a tantrum over a board game. He ran out of the room, broke through the fence outside, and was close to a main road when he was caught. As part of the farewell ceremony, staff play "thank you" videos starring each student, explaining what they've learnt to do better ("Stepping away for five minutes"), what they're working on ("Coming when called"), what they like best ("Friday swimming lessons!") and what they're looking forward to back at their old school full time ("Assembly!"). The video of Talis begins. "Hi, my name's Talis and I'm six and four quarters old. I'm about to turn seven and I go to Baltara. I love everyone here. I like the vibrating rocket best – it helps me calm down. And maths." He says he has improved at sitting down and listening. He's working on not getting angry for no reason. He's good at dodgeball and Mathletics (an online maths program). He misses playing with snails with his friend Annabel. "We make a potion that makes them better. We put the things they eat in there." Mary Peyiotis says she has seen "little successes" in Talis, but the next six months will be predictive. He's only now seeing a psychologist and paediatrician, and being connected with services. A big part of Baltara is making parents aware of what support exists. "The program is really unpacking the child," she says. "Finding out what works for them."

Most of Baltara's teachers began teaching in standard schools and found themselves drawn naturally to "the naughty child" or "the sad, mad or bad stream" – the ones who would lash out, or be blamed for every schoolyard spat, even falsely. All found themselves looking deeper, asking why. Daverington, who was once thanked by a mother for teaching her to love her son again, can think of no more rewarding work. "Perhaps there are just personality types who are drawn to this. Many of us seem to have rebellious streaks, too. If I was religious, I'd say it was a calling." Shane has seen this commitment, and seen his son's communication improve. With the teachers' support he feels part of a united front. "Talis has this constancy of caring for him," he says. "I'd be months behind without them. I wouldn't know where to direct my energy." Talis is now better equipped to handle a normal classroom, but his school, too, will be handed a better understanding of his needs and capabilities. And Baltara will check in on him: during the first week of school, then at three months, six months, one year, and 18 months. "It's not like, 'Placement's finished, congrats, don't know you next year,' " says Daverington. "We maintain that connection." Talis had a great school holidays: Christmas, his seventh birthday, a trip to Adelaide to see his grandfather. He settled into school well. His PSD (Program for Students with Disabilities) funding came through, so he was able to have an assistant with him in class 12 hours a week. Peyiotis helped introduce his personalised learning plan and support strategy to the school. Yet within two weeks, he was acting out. By the end of term one, Shane was fielding almost daily calls to pick up Talis and take him home. "There's rarely a day this term when I don't get a phone call," he says, sitting at home in Coburg. "I'm anxious between nine and ten every morning, waiting for the phone to ring."

Talis is getting suspended now, too. He was suspended yesterday, in fact. I ask him what he did. "I threw a block at the teacher's head. Plastic, big Lego," he says. "Also, can I show you one thing?" He shows me a Nerf gun, and I hold out my hand as a practice target. Then he gives me a long, unprompted hug, and climbs onto his trampoline for a bounce. Shane shakes his head. "It feels a little like we don't know what to do any more. We're a bit lost right now." Like most parents in this position, Shane is swimming in a mixture of confusion and exasperation, but is trying things. He has researched home-schooling, so that Talis can at least receive lessons during suspensions. Talis will meet a new psychiatrist soon and try a different medication. Shane has considered a small public school in the quiet hills outside the city. After advice from his psychologist and the education department, Talis will also visit the Northern School for Autism, to see if that is the right fit. "Even that plays on my mind – the idea that the constant in his life is that there is no constant," Shane says. "That could be really damaging." Baltara has not magically solved the problems of this small family, but it has helped a father better understand his child. The school also did much for the others in his graduating class. "Often we are the last, best hope for these kids," says Daverington. "They're desperate – they've been rejected, despised, expelled, and they're drinking at the last-chance saloon when they get to Baltara." Daverington recently followed up with the two children she was responsible for in the program, and found them at their old schools, thriving "and beaming". In both cases, the schools had once said, "We'll never be able to manage this child," but are now saying, "It must be some kind of miracle, because these children are brilliant."

This is what sets Baltara apart. "Without bragging, we are unique," she adds. "That gives me pride but it's concerning for me, too, because we've got long waiting lists, and you just can't help but feel bad for those kids who can't join us. There isn't another place like us."