by Carol Cujec
I wondered when those words would apply to me. When would “all” really mean all?
Other heroes of liberty lined the halls—Frederick Douglass, Susan B. Anthony, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Cesar Chavez, Nelson Mandela. The last one was a portrait of Malala, the young woman from Pakistan fighting for girls’ education.
Malala’s brown eyes looked into mine. I inched closer until my nose touched the dimpled concrete. My eyes swam in the rose and orange brushstrokes of her headscarf.
Giggles erupted behind me from a group of girls.
“Time to go, sweetheart.” Mom turned me around.
How long was I standing there?
The girls laughed at something on their phones.
At least they were not laughing at me.
Were they?
The tallest girl wore her pink hair—pink hair?—in a sloppy bun. Another girl stared straight at me, holding her sparkling emerald fingernails over her mouth, ready to burst.
“Celia told us room 129,” Mom said, pulling me forward.
We continued past the cafeteria—pepperoni pizza cooking—to a long hallway lined with brown, steel lockers.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
I covered my ears at the sound of the morning bell. The high-pitched sound stung my brain.
Ouuuuuuuuuch!
The hall flooded with students rushing to homeroom—a sea of denim and multicolored backpacks. Mom tugged on my hand.
Move, feet, move!
“Come on, Charity. Celia is expecting us.”
Rubber soles squeaked on the waxed floor. Smells of perfume, shampoo, and stinky armpits hit my nose. Too much too fast.
Mom’s voice urged, “Keep going, sweetheart. Almost there.”
My feet stuck to the tiles.
Page 86: Geckos use microscopic hairs on their toes to stick to smooth surfaces.
Someone bumped my shoulder. My hands clamped into tight fists. Jergen’s trial basis might end on day one.
My knees bent up and down.
UP-down-UP-down-UP-down.
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .
“My newest addition is here.”
I heard Celia’s voice behind me, felt her curly cinnamon hair on my cheek, and my feet obeyed her hand guiding my back.
“Querida, all will be well,” she whispered in my ear.
She led us into her office and shut the door. Once I escaped the roar of the hallway, my heartbeat slowed.
“Please sit down, ladies. I’m so glad to see you.”
No leather jacket today, but a tangerine tunic with a silver cross around her neck.
Photos and artwork filled the top of her desk, and my hands wanted to touch everything. Celia pulled up a chair next to us and handed me a plastic snow globe.
“Look at this, Charity. From my trip to Acapulco, Mexico, last summer.”
I smiled inside, thinking of a snow globe from a city where it never snowed. Shaking the globe sent flakes swirling around a white cathedral with a sea-blue dome. I held it to my eyes.
Shake, swirl, shake, swirl.
Celia went over my schedule for the day, actually speaking to me instead of about me. Talking to me like I was thirteen instead of three.
“Charity, you will spend the first few weeks working with your aide to improve motor control.”
At least I will not have to watch Barney.
“What happens after that?” asked Mom.
“As much as possible, I want to support her full participation in regular classes.”
Wait. What?
Mom looked confused, but Celia kept talking.
“I believe in my heart—and research supports this too—that all students benefit from learning together. With the help of key faculty members willing to work with us, we have been successful so far.”
I loved what she was saying. But did this woman really think I could join in a math or science class . . . with no words and a body I cannot always control?
Mom’s face lit up. “That would be incredible. This is just what she needs.”
Shake, swirl, shake, swirl.
“But there is something else I want you to know.” Celia took the snow globe from me and placed it back on her desk. “Lincoln is heavily supported by donations from families. Our computers, science lab, the entire performing arts auditorium were funded through parent donations. These parents are pressuring Mr. Jergen to place greater focus on advanced curriculum.”
“What does this have to do with Charity?” Mom pulled my hand out of my mouth and handed me my animal flashcards.
Llama, flip, manatee, flip, orangutan, flip.
“Well, some parents are worried that having special-needs students in regular classrooms lowers standards and distracts other students.” She looked at me. “Charity, the administration is keeping a close eye on us . . . on you.”
Translation: Jergen wants to get rid of me. I knew it.
Mom gasped. “Why in the world would you tell her that?”
“Charity is a big girl. She should know the truth.”
Celia took both my hands in hers. Her dark eyes stared into mine. “I believe you do belong here, querida.”
For a few seconds, my eyes met hers.
“We will support you to be all you can be. And your success will open doors for other students.”
Thoughts swirled in my head like snowflakes in the globe. Celia’s words echoed in my mind—your success will open doors. My hands flapped.
Flap-flap, flap-flap.
I made an IOU with God at Pine Valley. Maybe this could repay my debt. Maybe I do have a purpose.
My body sprang out of the chair.
Jump, jump, jump. Flap-flap, flap-flap.
Maybe I am not so different from those heroes painted on the hallways of the school. Malala fights for girls’ right to an education. I could fight too. Fight for kids like me. Fight for Isabella.
My tongue fluttered and chirped like a chipping sparrow.
Maybe one day schools like Borden can be closed. Boarded up. Bulldozed to the ground.
“I think Charity is eager to begin,” Celia said with a huge smile.
Then I saw Mom’s face full of worry, and I stopped. Her worry weighed me down.
What am I thinking?
Joy turned to panic.
It would take a miracle for me to succeed. With my wild body and no voice, what chance did I have of being allowed to stay at Lincoln? Chances of snow in Acapulco were probably higher.
I sucked in air and puffed it out my lips.
Suck, puff, suck, puff.
Celia looked from me to Mom. “Mrs. Wood, time for you to go home. Let us take it from here.”
Mom stood up and handed me my backpack. Then she squeezed me like an orange and backed out of the room as if I was boarding a rocket to Mars.
I knew Mom’s stomach would sink every time the phone rang today.
Would I even make it to the next bell?
Humiliation Served Fresh
Celia swung open an olive-colored door with a gold, sparkly heart on it. “Welcome to the EPIC room,” she said. “EPIC stands for Every Person Is Capable. Consider this your home base at Lincoln.”
My eyes scanned the room.
Computer stations!
Shelves of books!
Real art supplies!
Compared to Borden, this place was Disneyland.
Was this a school where I would be treated as equal?
Define equal: Equal does not mean that everyone gets the same. It means each person gets what they need.
Probability: hopeful.
“Charity, meet Jazmine.” Celia high-fived a small girl in a wheelchair. “She will show you the ropes. She is the EPIC room’s official
ambassador.”
My first clue about Jazmine was the bumper sticker on the back of her wheelchair. It said, “I speak fluent sarcasm.”
“Nice shirt,” she said. “Much cooler than my dismal polo and khakis.”
She twirled her chair to model her outfit and flipped back her brown hair supermodel-style. I wanted to poke all the buttons on her wheelchair.
“Just to let you know, I may look small, but I’m in seventh grade. Mighty Mouse is what Celia calls me. But you can call me Jaz.”
I looked down at my animal flashcards.
Panda, flip, racoon, flip, salamander, flip.
“Oh, yeah. Celia said you can’t talk yet, but don’t worry. You’ll still learn a lot.”
Talk yet? YET?
“Hey, wouldn’t it be great if we could trade places for the day?” asked Jaz. “I mean, I could have your legs to jump and run and ice skate. I’ve always wanted to ice skate. Twirl around in one of those silly tutus.”
What makes you think I can ice skate?
“And you could have my flappy gums all day and finally tell everyone what you really think of them.”
Wow. That would take more than a day. Just Miss Marcia alone.
Jazmine led me to a back table piled with gadgets in all shapes and textures—spiky balls, twisty plastic tubes, twirly spinners, squishy bean bags.
“We call these fidgets. Some kids hold them to keep their hands busy. It helps them pay attention better.”
I dropped my animal flashcards and grabbed a bumpy, twisty, tangled tube fidget. My hands twisted and squeezed.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
“Have a seat.” She pointed to a bright yellow stool that kind of resembled a turtle shell.
I sat down and felt it move and bounce with my busy body. I could actually move and sit at the same time.
“Or if you get tired of sitting, we have standing desks back there that some kids prefer.”
At one of the desks, a tall boy with thick glasses and a puffy afro stood in front of a keyboard next to his aide. Jazmine led me over.
“Julian, this is Charity.”
Julian looked up for a second. I saw kind eyes magnified in his glasses. Like me, eye contact was not his thing. Why do people make such a big deal about that anyway? I see you. I hear you. Why do I need to be staring straight into your pupils? For me, it feels too intense, like staring into the sun.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
“He doesn’t talk with his voice,” Jazmine explained to me, “but he can type what he wants to say. Maybe you could do that too.”
Sorry, Jaz, that’s where you’re wrong.
I tried typing a hundred times with Mom and Dad. Each time was a failure. I mean, I knew what I wanted to say. I knew how to spell the words, but the signal got lost somewhere between my brain and my finger. I could reach for the letter P twenty times and miss it eighteen times.
Jaz looked up at Julian. “Do you want to say something to Charity on her first day?”
Julian smiled and started typing with one finger as his aide quietly encouraged him by his side.
“We just need to hold on a minute,” Jazmine said.
We waited, me twisting my fidget as Julian pecked at the keyboard.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
After a few minutes, Julian pushed a button, and a mechanical voice spoke his words.
“Pointed to peace, I esteem you. You have treasured qualities that all must see.”
His words . . . I esteem you . . . they rang in my ears. You have treasured qualities that all must see.
“That’s beautiful, Julian,” Jazmine said. “You’re a poet. If I could just get you to write my English essays for me, ha ha.”
Jazmine chuckled, and her laughter rang in my head in harmony with Julian’s poetry. I stood in a trance until a girl with dark braids threw her arms around Jazmine.
“Don’t break the merchandise, Skyler,” Jaz said. “Meet Charity. This is her first day.”
Skyler smiled big with shiny metal braces. Her braids bounced as she lunged to hug me too.
“The girl gives killer hugs,” laughed Jaz. “Literally . . . she nearly strangles me every time.”
Lots of people are afraid to touch me, but I like hugs, especially great big bear hugs like Pops and Gram give me. Skyler’s tight hug felt as warm and homey as Dad’s apple crumb cake.
“Charity is a beautiful name,” Skyler said. “It sounds like cherry tree.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks as if she had a great idea. “Let me make one for you!”
Skyler sat down at a table full of art supplies, grabbed a fistful of popsicle sticks from a bin and got to work.
I could see from Skyler’s bright, slightly slanted eyes that she had Down syndrome like Isabella. Then I remembered Isabella stuck at Borden with broken crayons and dried-out glue sticks.
My spirit sank.
“This girl is an artistic genius,” Jazmine said. “She did all those sculptures over there.” Jazmine pointed to a bookshelf full of creations made of sticks and string, a vase made of shells, and a green toddler toilet seat transformed into a picture frame with fake jewels—twenty-nine of them—glued around it. The picture inside was of Celia dressed as a cat surrounded by a dozen kids in Halloween costumes munching orange popcorn and caramel apples.
They have actual parties at this school?
“My favorite is Alien Barbie over there.”
Jaz pointed to a Barbie posed on a glitter-dusted pedestal, her arms lifted high. Her hair was green instead of blonde. Her skin was salmon-colored instead of milky white. No sparkly mini-dress for this Barbie. Her body was wrapped in brown twine, like a pudgy cocoon.
Jazmine laughed. “That should be the official uniform for all the snooty cheerleaders.”
“Hey, you wanna hear a joke? You wanna hear a joke?” A boy appeared behind us with a huge smile and fast-blinking eyes. “Okay, okay, your mama is soooo fat. How fat is she? Well, she is soooo fat that you took a picture of her a month ago and it’s still printing because she’s so fat it uses a ton of paper. Ha!”
“Charity, this is Peter. He loves to tell jokes.” Jaz rolled her eyes.
Peter told ten more jokes in a row without coming up for air—some knock-knocks, some about farts, some about why something crossed the road, and a few more about my mama being sooooo fat. Jazmine put her hand on his arm. “Thanks, Peter. I think Celia needs to talk to Charity now.”
Jazmine held my hand and led me away, but my mind was already on overload. All the new faces . . . new sounds . . . new smells . . . everyone so kind . . . speaking to me as if I was a real human being . . . with a brain!
This place was 100 percent the opposite of Borden. So why was I panicking?
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
Do I even belong here?
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
My success will open doors for other students.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
But what if I do not succeed? My failure will close doors for other students.
Panic twisted and squeezed my chest.
Mom is royally right to worry. This will never work.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
“I think Ana will be your aide,” Jaz said. “She’s an awesome teacher.”
Yes, but I am sure she cannot perform miracles.
CRASH.
I flung the fidget to the ground and fear flew from my throat. OOOOWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAH!
Kids covered their ears and stared in shock, but my voice had to escape. My legs had to jump. My arms had to shake.
I.
Am.
Doomed.
Two slender hands wrapped around mine.
“Yo
u are safe here, Charity.”
Velvety—that’s how I would describe her voice—like the tenor sax solos on Dad’s jazz CDs. I looked into her face—a sweet smile and caring, green eyes framed by short, black bangs. Her words, spoken with a delicate accent, cast a spell.
“Let us slow down your breathing. Breathe in with me.”
She closed her eyes, still holding my hands. My voice quieted.
“Breathe in light.”
I heard her inhale, long and slow, deep into her chest.
“Breathe out darkness . . . Shhhhhhhhhhh . . .” She released her breath through her lips.
“Breathe in joy. Breathe out fear. Shhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .
“Breathe in peace. Breathe out anxiety. Shhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .”
My breath fell in line with hers, and my jumping-bean heart calmed.
“I am Ana.”
My fear, the panic I lived with every day, growled inside my head, but her words tamed the beast.
How did she do that?
My sixth sense kicked in—I could feel her peace flow through my veins.
She stared into me and nodded. Could she hear my thoughts pounding inside their prison?
“We will find a way to let your mind express itself,” she said.
Acceptance. Complete acceptance from the first minute. So different from how most new people react to me. They get stiff. They back away—like maybe I am contagious—and usually talk about me as if I am not there. Or they talk to me as if I am three years old.
Ana led me to a table. “Let’s get started.”
She helped me sit in a chair next to a wall, and she sat next to me.
Maybe my pounding body can settle here.
Next, she handed me a book. Not a picture book for first graders, an actual junior high history book with a map of the US on its cover. Her only command was, “Take a look at this, Charity.”
What? You do not want me to touch my nose? Write the letter A? Try to tell a cow from a sailboat? If this is a test, I am not sure what I am supposed to do.
Automatic fail.