Real

by Carol Cujec

  I patted the shiny cover and spread my hands to the four corners. I lifted the book to feel its weight. We never got our hands on books more than twenty pages long at Borden. I opened it and flipped through the pages, stopping to look at interesting pictures and read a paragraph or two. I had skimmed lots of history books at Gram and Pops’ house (Pops is a big history buff). I could not read them cover to cover since my hands cannot turn pages very well, but I flipped and read, flipped and read enough times to read most every page.

  Ana observed me as I examined the pages and ran my hands over the colorful pictures.

  Flip.

  The Jamestown Settlement.

  Flip.

  Gold in Sutter’s Mill.

  Flip.

  The Battle of Gettysburg.

  Flip.

  The Great Depression.

  I knew about all of these topics. But what did she expect me to do?

  “I can tell by the way you are holding and touching the book that you are a tactile and visual learner. You prefer feeling things with your hands and observing with your eyes.” Ana made a note on her pad.

  For once it was not an F for fail.

  “Which subject would you like to begin with in our tutoring sessions?”

  She tore a small strip of paper from her notebook and ripped it into two squares. On one she wrote history and on the other biology. She placed the two pieces of paper on the table in front of me and repeated her question.

  “Which subject would you like? History?” She tapped the piece of paper that said history. “Or biology?” She tapped the piece of paper that said biology.

  I answered her in my mind.

  Biology. I want to learn biology so I can try to understand my own unique brain.

  How was I supposed to tell her?

  BAM! I hit the table with both fists.

  Ana reached over and held my left hand. “Tap your answer with your right hand. Either history,” she tapped on history, “or biology.” She tapped on biology, then tapped under my right wrist.

  My left hand wanted to get away.

  She repeated, “Tap your answer with your right hand. History or biology?” She tapped each piece of paper and then tapped my wrist.

  Biology! It would be so much easier if you could just read my mind.

  My right hand tapped one, then the other piece of paper. She repeated her question. “Tap your answer with your right hand. History or biology?”

  This time my right hand reached toward her arm and pinched it.

  What have I done?

  She gently moved my arm back.

  “I believe you have a preference, Charity. Please let me know. Tap the subject you prefer.”

  I saw the red mark where I pinched her. I felt terrible.

  I do not think I can do this.

  “You can do this, Charity. Tell me which one. Tap your answer with your right hand.” All this time, her voice showed no sign of annoyance or impatience. I could tell she had no intention of giving up. I repeated to myself her original commands.

  Breathe in light.

  Breathe out darkness.

  Breathe in joy.

  Breathe out fear.

  “Which one would you prefer? History or biology.” She tapped both choices.

  My hand tapped biology.

  Finally.

  “Just to confirm. You are choosing biology?”

  Are you kidding me?

  My hand tapped history.

  More minutes of random tapping passed, my frustration growing with every unwanted tap. I slapped my hand hard on the table, and Ana put her hand on mine.

  She spoke calmly. “We have much to learn from each other. From what I’ve observed today, Charity, it is clear you have sensory movement differences. You do not have full control over your body.”

  No kidding.

  “But don’t worry, Charity. From my studies, and my work with others, I’ve learned ways we can help you—at least a little—gain more control.”

  Breathe out relief.

  She has not given up on me yet. Finally, someone who understands.

  At lunchtime, Ana walked with me to the cafeteria. Jaz wheeled behind us, frowning.

  “Many of the EPIC kids prefer to eat in the classroom,” Ana said. “Personally, I think it is better to get out and see the world a little, don’t you, Jazmine?”

  Jaz answered in a half-whisper. “Sure, if you prefer your mystery meat served with a side of humiliation.”

  Ana loaded my tray with salad, blueberry yogurt, and a square piece of cheese pizza.

  I wanted pepperoni.

  From our corner table, we watched a small army of kids pour in. The noise level rose higher and higher. Even with so much chaos, Ana kept me focused on eating one bite at a time.

  Jaz nibbled a ham sandwich, her head down and eyes scanning the room. My eyes scanned too.

  There he is!

  Mason strolled in, sweeping his surfer hair off his face as he walked by with his tray. He saw me. I know it because he jumped a little. Then he made his way to a long table in the center of the cafeteria. A few kids scooted over to make room.

  My eyes followed him.

  Jaz noticed where I was looking. “That’s definitely the cool kids’ table. Loaded with selfie-obsessed cheerleaders.”

  Hypothesis: Jaz is not a fan of cheerleaders.

  I watched Mason for a few seconds. He looked cool, sat at the cool table with the cool kids, but I sensed he did not belong. Once in a while, he looked up and laughed at something someone said, but mostly he kept to himself.

  Alone in a crowd. That’s how I felt too.

  The two giggling girls from this morning passed by our table. Pink hair, green nail polish, and with them a girl with hair the color of . . . honey.

  Could it be her?

  And freckles on her cheeks . . .

  Grace? My once-upon-a-time-a-long-time-ago best friend Grace?

  GRACE?

  On impulse, my body sprang out of my seat.

  My brain hollered stop! But my feet ran to her. My legs jumped. My hands clapped.

  Her face looked at me, horrified. She shrank backward as if I might bite.

  She does not even remember me.

  My heart snapped in two. That did not stop my stupid legs from jumping higher . . . my stupid hands from clapping harder.

  Kids turned to look. They laughed. Grace covered her mouth. Her friend with green nails pulled her away as if she was a hero rescuing Grace from an oncoming train.

  I am in hell.

  Ana’s hands on my shoulders turned me back toward our table. She sat me down, and kids went back to eating pizza and staring at their phones.

  I tried to calm down.

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  Alone in a crowd. How is it possible to feel so alone in a cafeteria of two hundred kids?

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  Page 38: Cows have best friends and become stressed when separated.

  Jaz blew air out of her lips. “Sorry, kid. Like I said, a side of humiliation served fresh daily.”

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  The three girls passed by again on their way out. Pink hair looked at me and leaned in toward her friends. “Can you imagine going through life like that? Hashtag tragic.”

  Green nails shook her head. “I’d rather die.”

  Grace kept walking.

  So much for old friends.

  A Warm Hornet Welcome

  Dad hung up the phone with a giant grin. So annoying at times like this. “Congratulations, Charity, you’re now officially a Hornet.”

  It was all Celia’s fault.

  She suggested I join some sort of extracurricular activity t
o interact more with what she called the neurotypical students. I love that word: neurotypical—as opposed to normal. It means they have typical brains that work in ways people expect. Me, on the other hand, Celia said I have a differently wired brain. Sounds so much better than abnormal, impaired, or worse: that word. Do people think Stephen Hawking had a typical brain? He could not control his body either, but he taught the world so much.

  When Dad heard Celia’s suggestion, he jumped into action. A friend of his is the coach of the girls’ basketball team. With one phone call full of charm, I was on the team as an “unofficial participant.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Even though Dad had taught me how to shoot a basketball, I was in no way coordinated enough to play on a team. That did not stop Dad.

  Nothing ever does.

  Wednesday afternoon, Dad closed his surf shop early to take me to practice. The gym was a sea of bobbing ponytails and dribbling balls that made the whole room rumble in a nonstop earthquake.

  Fifteen girls, fifteen balls, too many dribbles to count.

  My feet pranced in nervous circles.

  Jump-hop-leap-skip.

  Dad strolled up to Coach George, his old surfing buddy, and slapped him on the back. Coach smiled with big, white teeth. He smiled a little less each time he looked over at me.

  Hypothesis: Dad did not tell Coach about my unpredictable body.

  I could not be angry. My dad was the only person in the world who thought I was perfect just as I was.

  Jump-hop-leap-skip.

  Then Coach slapped Dad on the back and called out, “Girls, this is Charity. She will be joining us as a very special member of the team.”

  There is that word: special. How I hate that word. Charity, the charity case.

  “Her Dad was a legend on the court in his day.”

  Dad shook his head. “Yeah, about a thousand years ago, George.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “He’s being modest, girls,” Coach said. “Anyhow, please give Charity a warm Hornet welcome.”

  Jump-hop-leap-skip.

  That does not make sense. Hornets are not warm. Hornets STING.

  Page 101: Hornets release more venom in their sting than any other stinging insect.

  A few girls clapped politely, but the look on everyone’s faces said Whaaaaaaat?

  Jump-hop-leap-skip.

  “Let’s get started, girls.” Coach clapped his hands and began practice, leaving me to watch. Girls dribbled the ball through a zigzag of orange cones and shot free-throws.

  I recognized a few of them, including Grace and her two friends. The girl with pink hair was called Lilly. The one with green nails was Darcy. They had already given me a Hornet welcome—I still felt the sting.

  Dad kept looking at me and giving me thumbs up, but I sensed his growing frustration. After about fifteen minutes, he decided we should join in the drills with him as my partner.

  The girls were working on passing, so we lined up with them, and he passed me the ball. It sailed past me and hit the coach.

  “Sorry,” Dad yelled.

  Come on, Dad. What were you expecting?

  We moved to the sideline to practice dribbling.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  I liked dribbling the ball in one place.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  I could do that all day.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  Of course, Dad insisted I dribble and run at the same time.

  Why must you torture me?

  Every five seconds Dad had to fetch my runaway ball. A couple of the girls laughed at him after the third time.

  This isn’t working.

  I walked in circles holding my hands over my ears.

  Circle, circle, circle.

  Their staring eyeballs pounded me like basketballs to my head.

  Circle, circle, circle.

  Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.

  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  My scream echoed off the walls of the gym.

  Balls stopped bouncing. Everyone stared. Darcy and Lilly giggled.

  Dad led me to the bench. “Let’s take a rest, Cherry Girl.”

  I breathed hard. Why could he not see how embarrassing this was? I stood to leave, but Dad pulled me back on the bench.

  “Just a few more minutes, Cherry. When you’re part of a team, you have to stick together.”

  I wanted to scream at him.

  Can you not see I am not part of this team?

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  “Good work, girls. Form a circle.” Coach waved his hand for the girls to come over.

  He did not motion for me to join. Dad, of course, pulled me over anyway and a few girls made room—lots of room. As usual, my weirdness made them uncomfortable.

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth. Rock, rock, rock.

  Everyone put their hands in for a closing cheer. My arm did not want to join. Thankfully, Dad did not force it.

  “Goooooooooo Hornets!”

  Girls dispersed to waiting parents, and Coach George patted Dad on the shoulder. “Hey, Charity did a great job today. She’ll make a terrific team mascot.”

  Rock, rock, rock.

  “Mascot?” Dad took a step back.

  “Well, sure, Steve. I thought she could put on the hornet suit and do some funny moves on the court, make some silly faces like she’s doing now. It’ll crack everyone up.”

  Translation: I am a joke.

  I was puckering my cheeks in a fishy face. Not helping Dad’s point.

  Rock, rock, rock.

  Coach’s smile faded when he saw Dad’s expression. Dad did not get angry often, but when he did, watch out.

  “We have a serious misunderstanding here, George.” He pulled Coach aside, but my supersonic ears still picked it up. “We wanted Charity to play on the team, not be a clown.”

  “Well, exactly what did you have in mind? I’m sorry, Steve, but this isn’t the Special Olympics.”

  Dad’s face burned hot. “You corn-fed fool. You didn’t even give her a chance!” He turned to me. “C’mon, Charity.” Dad took my hand and pulled me toward the exit.

  We stopped mid-court, and Dad turned around and hollered at Coach.

  “Take a look at this, George.”

  Dad handed me a ball.

  “Shoot, Cherry.”

  I launched the ball.

  Swoosh.

  It went in. Same as it usually does when we shoot hoops Saturday mornings. My arms automatically know what to do. If I stopped to think about it, I would probably not be able to do it. One of the few times my brain and body work together—like when I am biking or swimming.

  Coach George stood frozen with his eyebrows scrunched together as we walked out.

  Two points for Dad.

  On the way home, Dad asked, “How ’bout a chocolate shake with extra whip to make us feel better?”

  I smiled inside, and Dad pulled up to Pops’ ice cream shop. As usual, Pops greeted me with a spoonful of my flavor of the month. Dad ordered the peanut butter-banana shake—Pops called it the Elvis—and got me my usual chocolate. I really preferred strawberry, not that I could tell anyone. The creamy, cold drink almost made me forget the embarrassment of basketball practice.

  Almost.

  The door jingled as a group of girls entered.

  Grace and her two friends, Lilly and Darcy.

  I choked on my shake, and Dad patted my back. “Whoa, slow down, honey.”

  Please do not let them see us.

  My bad luck, Dad spotted them with their ice cream cones looking for a table—how could anyone miss Lilly with her pink hair?

  “Would you Hornets care to join us?�
��

  Dad, how could you?

  The girls stared at him for a second.

  “Uh, sure,” Darcy said.

  They pulled up some chairs. Lilly grinned in our direction before turning to her friends and launching into a conversation about some pop star. Together but separate, same as at practice.

  Dad heaved a sigh. Even his positive attitude was taking a hit tonight.

  “Girls, Charity can’t talk, but she can understand and maybe react to your conversation. Wanna give it a try?”

  I wanted to cry. My jittery feet tapped the tile floor.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Dad, you cannot force kids to be my friends.

  Darcy looked confused. “Uh, give what a try?”

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “Try including her in your conversation. It would mean a lot to her to be included.”

  I wanted to crawl under the table. The girls all stared at the floor.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Grace looked at me and cleared her throat. “Charity, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you the other day in the cafeteria.”

  What’s happening here?

  Grace turned to her friends. “Charity and I were in the same preschool like a million years ago.”

  Dad smacked his forehead. “Well, diggity dog! You’re little Gracie? You’re the girl who used to come over and . . .”

  “And make mud pies in the backyard . . . yes, nice to see you again, Mr. Wood.”

  Like me in the cafeteria, Dad could not contain his excitement. He jumped up and gave Grace a big hug.

  Not only did she remember me, she admitted it in front of her friends.

  Lilly and Darcy looked on in shock.

  “You remember the princess costumes, Charity?” asked Grace.

  I managed a smile and a nod. Lilly and Darcy gasped.

  My chair scraped the floor. I needed to move, jump, fly.

  Dad took my cue. “Well, girls. We’ll have to continue the conversation later.” He walked me to the door.

  Grace called after us. “See ya tomorrow, Charity.”

  “Do you think she actually understands us?” whispered Lilly. “Hashtag totally tragic.”

  Lilly’s words did not hurt me this time. My mind focused on Grace. She knew me. She remembered me.

  And for a few seconds, I felt less alone.