by Carol Cujec
Ms. Beckett came up to Ana. “Can I ask you a few quick questions about our new student?”
“Of course,” Ana said. “I’ll be back in two minutes, Charity,” she whispered.
My nervous body rocked back and forth.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
Rachel fiddled with her sparkly yellow bracelet and snapped her bubblegum—watermelon flavor, I think. Her head tilted toward me. “Is she supposed to participate?”
Maybe because I was not looking at her, she thought I could not hear her. I focused on my puzzle. Or at least tried to.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
“She is participating,” Lilly said, twirling her pink hair. “Can’t you see she’s deep in thought?” A sneezelike giggle burst out of her nose. She and Rachel covered their faces.
My neck burned hot.
“Could we get back to the discussion?” Stuart sounded annoyed. “Alex, what do you think about question one?”
Alex, who was staring at me, turned to Stuart and scratched his arm. “Um, what was the question?”
Both girls crumpled into another giggle fit, and I realized my lips were scrunched into a duck face. By now, half the class stared. Lilly’s friend Darcy, sitting across the room, mimicked my face and made the whole class laugh. My entire body burned. My hands hit the table.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Keep it together.
Ana returned and put her hand on my back. “Breathe in, Charity.”
Ms. Beckett marched over. “Lilly, Rachel, you need to come with me. Now.” She pointed to the door. The girls rolled their eyes and got up to leave.
Even with them gone, I trembled on overload.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
“Breathe, Charity,” Ana said.
Too late.
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.
My legs launched me from my chair. I knocked over the table, sending hundreds of puzzle pieces flying. A few kids screamed.
Ana pulled me out of the room, leaving behind a small disaster as the Queen of Hearts scribbled furiously in her notebook.
Off with her head!
…
The phone rang five minutes after Mom and I got home from school. I heard only Mom’s end of the conversation. I knew it was Jergen.
“Yes, but I assure you this was not violent behavior . . . but I find it difficult to believe that any student was injured . . . but you promised a one-month . . . but . . .”
Mom put the phone down and sat several minutes with no expression. I sensed she was trying to stay calm.
“Apparently, one of the students claimed they were injured by you today.”
My mind flashed to Mason’s bloody face.
How could he?
“A girl in your English class says she was struck by a falling table. Mr. Jergen will be discussing your placement with the superintendent tomorrow.” She held my hand and kissed my forehead. “We will fight this, sweetheart. We won’t give in so easily.”
Her tiny voice made me think she already had.
My Rebirth Day
“Come on, Charity, let’s get out of the car. Stand up, please.” Mom touched my legs to unfreeze them like Ana taught her. I climbed out, slow as a sloth.
This is the last place I want to be.
Two days ago, practically no one knew who I was. Now that hurricane Charity had struck twice, I was legendary.
Not in a good way.
Once we got to the EPIC room, Celia pulled us into her office along with Ana and sat me in one of her red plastic chairs. Three adults stood over me. Their nervous energy flowed through me like electricity, with Mom emitting about a thousand kilowatts.
Celia knelt down eye to eye with me. “Charity, querida, what happened yesterday was part of your adjustment. You are getting used to a completely new environment. And from what I heard, your outburst in English class was provoked by some thoughtless girls.”
“And I should not have left you,” Ana said, leaning over Celia. “We know you are still struggling to control your body.”
“Was a student injured? Who filed a complaint?” Mom asked. Her voice grew higher with each word and scraped my ears.
High pitch sounds = torture.
Celia sighed. “A girl named Darcy Warner. Her parents do a lot of fundraising for the school, so they have Mr. Jergen’s full attention.”
I could not believe it. Darcy was sitting in front of the room when I exploded. She could not have been hit by the table. Probability: ZERO.
I pounded my fist on Celia’s desk.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Words clogged my throat.
I want to tell you. I need to tell you.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Mom put her jittery hand on my arm. “I know you’re upset, sweetheart. But you have to stay calm.” She was the last person to talk about staying calm. I wanted to scream.
Darcy is lying! She’s lying!
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Let me talk this once. Just one sentence!
Ana’s hands squeezed my jittery shoulders in a rhythmic pattern, and we began our breathing exercise.
“Focus, Charity. Reach into your spirit. You have the power to control your emotions.”
Breathe in peace.
Why does she hate me?
Breathe out anger.
I never did anything to her.
Breathe in forgiveness.
Breathe out anger.
My thumping heart slowed.
“What happens now?” Mom asked.
Celia ran her fingers through her cinnamon hair. “Short term, Mr. Jergen may attempt to suspend Charity. His assistant, Rose, is probably filling out the paperwork as we speak. Apparently, she witnessed the event from the back of the classroom.”
Rose—the Queen of Hearts!
“Long term, he’ll request another placement for Charity, like—dare I say it—Pine Valley.”
Gulp.
My hands flapped in frustration.
Flap, flap, flap.
“Which means we don’t have much time,” Ana said.
“What can we do?” Mom’s voice screeched at the pitch of a high G.
Flap, flap, flap.
“We’d like to try something that may help Charity communicate and allow her to participate in classes,” Celia said. She looked at Ana, who nodded. “It’s a support technique that may allow her to type like Julian does. We need to give Mr. Jergen some evidence that this school can benefit you.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom looked confused.
“Charity, you know Julian, right? Julian has, over time, been able to learn how to type independently using a tablet and predictive text.”
I thought of Julian’s beautiful words to me. I esteem you . . . You have treasured qualities. But I could never do what he does. It took me forever to tap a stupid piece of paper—biology or history.
Mom shook her head. “No, unfortunately Charity has never been able to type before. We’ve tried many times. She doesn’t have enough control over her hands.”
“Exactly,” Celia said. “We’ve been working with Charity on that, but I’ve invited a former professor of mine, Dr. Sarah Peterman, to help us. She’s taught me and other educators and speech therapists some techniques to help people like Charity gain more control.”
Hypothesis: One more test for me to fail.
We spent the next hour hiding out in a library study room (where Jergen could not easily find us) waiting for this new Thinker to arrive. Celia ignored her buzzing phone.
“Mr. Jergen will need to sit tight,” she said.
A tall woman burst through the door wearing a dress with a gold belt that reminded me of Wonder Woman. She hugged Celia, and in a laughing voice asked, “How’s my favorite teac
her?”
Celia whispered in her ear. “We don’t have much time, Sarah. Mr. Jergen may come in at any moment with suspension papers.”
Sometimes I wish my hearing was not so awesome.
Dr. Peterman sat beside me and laid her soft hand on mine. “I’m so happy to meet you, Charity,” she said. Her kindness flowed through me. From her large bag, she took an iPad and propped it up on the table in front of us. Next came a keyboard.
“Now, Charity, I am going to sit here by your side and steady your right arm until I feel you point to the letter you want with your pointer finger.”
An eager audience—Mom, Ana, and Celia—sat silently behind us.
“Just relax and take a deep breath, my dear,” Dr. Peterman said.
Breathe in hope.
Breathe out fear.
She held the keyboard up with her right hand and steadied my jittery right arm with her left hand. “Let’s start with something easy. What’s your favorite food?”
I looked at the keyboard and spotted the letter I wanted to type. Words pounded inside my brain. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. My shirt tightened its grip on my throat.
Breathe in hope.
I lifted my arm and took aim.
Breathe out panic.
My pointing finger pushed forward to touch a key.
p
“What’s next?”
P for panda.
I could sense Mom holding her breath. I tried to keep going.
p . . . p . . . p
This isn’t working. I am stuck on the first letter.
“Keep going, Charity,” Dr. Peterman said. “What’s the next letter?”
Favorite food . . .
Page 208: Pandas eat bamboo.
Her questions encouraged me to move to my next target.
i
One letter at a time.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
How many ticks of the clock would it take to type one letter?
z . . . z . . . z
“Is there more?” she asked.
Breathe in hope.
Breathe out despair.
Giant pandas can eat 600 bamboo stems in one day.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
At any moment Jergen might find us.
After what seemed like forever, I looked up at the screen and saw the letters my finger had typed.
pppizzza
Dr. Peterman pressed a green button, and a mechanical voice spoke my messy word. My one word. My first word.
Mom gulped air as if she was coming up from drowning.
“Excellent,” Dr. Peterman said. “Let’s try another question. Do you have a pet? Y for yes, N for no.”
I reached my finger.
y
“What is your pet’s name?”
Each letter seemed like an impossible target. But Dr. Peterman supported me, and I moved my finger to the different keys.
H . . . e . . . r . . . o
A sigh or maybe a sob escaped Mom’s lips, but I forced my eyes to stay on the keyboard. After about four more questions and answers, my body still cooperated, but my hand was starting to shake.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Charity,” Dr. Peterman said. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”
A handful of typed words would not convince Jergen that I could handle this school. It was not enough to prove I was not brainless like people thought. If this was my only chance to stay, what I typed next would be the most important words of my life.
I knew what I wanted to say. My first words—at age thirteen—had to count. With each letter, tidal waves of emotion traveled from my brain, out through my right pointer finger—decorated coral pink with Mom’s nail polish.
My forehead dripped sweat, as if I were running a marathon instead of typing slower than a snail on a keyboard. When I finished, everyone stood to look at the screen. Dr. Peterman read my words out loud.
I am intelligent.
“Yes, Charity. Yes, you certainly are.” Dr. Peterman nodded at the spectators.
I turned to see a fourth person had joined the audience, his mouth wide open.
Mr. Jergen.
He stared at my words. “Well, would you look at that.”
Celia and Ana leapt up and tackled me with hugs and kisses.
Mom sat in her chair and let loose a sea of tears. After a few moments, she stumbled to her feet and wrapped me in her arms. “I can’t believe it . . . my Charity, my precious Charity.”
“Well, now,” Jergen said, “given this new development, I will . . . speak with Darcy’s parents and see if they will dismiss their complaint.”
Translation—I am still a Lincoln student. For now, at least.
For the next hour, Dr. Peterman worked with Mom and Ana, showing them how to support me, how to keep me going, how to be patient while I chose the letters I would type.
Then Celia ordered us to go home and let it all soak in. “This changes everything, querida.”
She was royally right. I smiled. At least I think I did—I am never sure without a mirror.
Today should be my new official birthday. My rebirth day.
First Words
“I can’t believe it, Charity. All this time, we could have been communicating with you. I mean, really talking.”
Mom and I drove straight from school to buy a portable keyboard to connect to her iPad so I could type my words at home.
Mom sniffled the whole way. “Oh, my goodness, I have so many things to ask you—so many things I’m sure you want to tell us too. When I think of the wasted years . . . the time you suffered at Borden . . .” She inhaled deeply. “My precious girl.” She turned to look at me. “My sweet, smart girl.” She reached over to squeeze my hand. “I guess we can’t dwell on lost time. We can only be grateful you finally have a voice.”
Is it possible to feel every emotion at once? That’s how it felt inside my mind as I stared at passing cars. Joy, anger, relief, triumph, sadness.
Fear.
Would I finally be seen as a real person? Was I Alice waking up from her dream?
Mom did not call Dad to tell him the big news. When we made it home, we got right to work practicing typing. My sixth sense felt my mom’s jitters, which spilled over onto me. My finger hit more wrong keys.
Can I still do this?
Thank goodness, the technique actually worked. Sitting side by side on the sofa with Hero at our feet, Mom supported me as I typed a message for Dad. After a day full of excitement, each letter was a struggle, but I did not want to stop.
Dad strolled in at 5:25 p.m., as usual, smelling of fish and coconut sunscreen.
“Steve, Charity has something to tell you.”
He took in the scene, and focused on the keyboard in our lap. Mom pressed a button, and it played my prepared message.
Dad, you are my best friend. Thank you for believing in me.
He looked confused. Then Mom held my right elbow as I typed the final line.
I love you.
Dad shook his head and tears welled in his eyes. “Is this . . . is she . . . you mean she can finally . . .”
He ran a hand through his hair and let it sink in. Then he started blubbering. “Charity . . . Cherry Girl . . . holy crickets.” He wrapped his arms around me and Mom. “This is a dream come true!”
I am supposed to feel happy too, right?
Googolplex words all crammed themselves at the door trying to shove their way out. Some of them were screaming mad.
I pushed those words back.
…
In class next day, Jazmine, Peter, Julian, Skyler and the other EPIC kids crowded around to “hear” me talk with Ana supporting me.
Ana read my message to the group.
Tha
nk you for accepting me even before I had words.
Skyler gave me a mega-hug. “I knew you could do it, Cherry Tree,” she said.
Julian typed me a message on his tablet.
“Your soul is now freed to tell its truths.”
I envied how his aide did not have to support his arm anymore. Ana said his independent typing came after years of practice.
“Wow,” Jaz said. “Compared to you typers, most of us talkers sound like mindless parrots.”
Julian typed his response.
“For us, each word is a gift.”
Mr. Jergen came to see me type again.
Hypothesis: He wanted to make sure it was not a fluke.
“I am indeed sorry I misjudged you, young lady,” he said. “I look forward to hearing more from you.”
Sounded like he really meant it.
Pandora’s Box
Mom tangoed into the kitchen Saturday morning all excited to ask, “What do you want for breakfast, sweetheart?”
Wow. No one ever asked that before. So many possibilities came to mind.
“How about some of my special power oatmeal?” She held the keyboard and steadied my eager hand to type.
I hate oatmeal.
Mom looked surprised. “What?” She laughed. “Well, I guess I owe you about a thousand apologies for that. What would you like?”
I typed the first thing that came to mind.
strawberry shake.
Mom yelled toward the next room. “Steve, you need to run to the store for some ice cream!”
Dad strolled in, wiping his face with a towel. “Ice cream at 9 a.m.?”
“This girl wants a strawberry shake, and she’s already waited thirteen years for it.”
That morning, the three of us slurped shakes for breakfast with extra whip. The whole time, Mom and Dad grilled me with questions—favorite foods, books, clothes, TV shows—those million little things that families already know about each other.
“What’s your favorite color?”
I love all colors. But never dress me in pink again.
“Wow—you’ll need a whole new wardrobe, then.” Dad laughed.
“How about favorite music?” Mom asked. “You’ve been putting up with my corny country tunes for years now. Here’s your chance to complain.”