by Carol Cujec
All music brings joy. Except for Tubby Trash Bag jingle.
My stomach churned back and forth with each question, like the time Mason and I rode the teacup ride at the fair when we were five. Violent waves of emotions pulled me in opposite directions and made me want to barf.
A wave of joy—Wheeeeeeeee!
Anger—Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Relief—Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!
Sadness—Ohhhhhhhhhhh!
Guilt—Whoaaaaaaaaa!
Typing had opened a crack in my heart, and a thousand gallons of emotion were ready to spill out.
“What are your feelings on pasta? Red or white sauce?” Mom asked.
I pushed away the keyboard.
“Charity? Are you okay, sweetheart?”
All my hurts piled against the dam ready to burst through. Years of being treated as a nobody. People calling me . . . that word. Years of abuse at Borden. The pain of all the kids left behind. Especially Isabella. And here my parents were asking if I preferred red or white pasta sauce?
These are not the important questions.
Pandora’s box—my mind kept going back to that story from ancient Greece. A woman named Pandora is given a gift by the god Zeus—a box or a jar, depending on which version you read—but she is told not to open it. So really not a gift at all. Zeus had tricked her. He knew she could not resist. When she finally peeked inside, all the evils of humanity escaped into the world—sadness, anger, regret, fear, hate.
Push the pain back inside. Superglue the lid shut!
Too late.
The lid on my Pandora’s box had been ripped off.
My mind flashed to Borden. Sitting there in the musty trailer that’s supposed to be a classroom, being serenaded by ancient Barney videos. Being dragged to the time-out closet.
Page 268: Tasmanian devils fly into a rage when threatened.
So many voiceless kids who will never be heard. So many lives wasting away.
Tasmanian devils growl and screech.
Everyone deserved to be included in the world, to be counted as worthy.
Devils bare their sharp teeth.
Isabella in tears.
They tear apart prey with their powerful jaws.
Frustration boiled in my belly and shot out through my arms, legs, throat.
They devour their prey, bones and all.
Our little celebration turned to disaster.
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.
I dropped to the floor. My arms and legs kicked and swung. My voice howled.
GGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
“Charity, Charity,” yelled Mom. “Please, type with me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.
If only they could hear the screaming in my head.
It’s not fair. It’s not freaking fair.
Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.
Dad got down on the floor with me. “Take some deep breaths, honey. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. We’re here with you.”
You do not understand. How could you possibly understand thirteen years of agony?
Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.
“How can we help you?” Mom yelled over my screams.
Thirteen years in PRISON!
Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.
At last, my arms and legs collapsed. My chest heaved up and down.
Hero waddled over and licked my ear. The tornado had passed. But the sadness was going nowhere.
Dad lifted me onto the sofa. Mom sat down to offer support. Holding up the keyboard, she pleaded, “Talk to us, please. Tell us what you’re feeling. We’re listening.”
Borden I want to go to Borden.
“But it’s Saturday,” Dad said. “Borden is closed today.”
I want to go to Borden.
Eighteen minutes later, we pulled up to the front office, its windows plastered with colorful cardboard tulips. I headed for the gate.
“I’m sure everything is locked tight,” Mom said.
I pushed down on the handle, and the rusty gate squeaked open. I marched across the playground with its shiny swing set and slide where no kids actually played. The playground where I was abandoned for hours at a time.
My body led us to the classroom where three years of my life were wasted, 136 hours and seventeen minutes spent in time out. I charged the door like an angry bull.
KICK, POUND, SLAM, SLAM, POUND, KICK
One strike for every wasted day, every hour left sitting on the grimy blacktop, every hour locked in the time-out closet, every useless test I failed, every “progress” report that made me feel worthless. Every lost opportunity.
KICK, POUND, SLAM, SLAM, POUND, KICK
Mom tried to grab my hands. “Charity, Stop—you’re going to hurt yourself!”
Dad pulled her back. “No, Gail, she has to let it out.”
KICK, KICK, SLAM, POUND, POUND, KICK
“But, Steve . . .”
“Let her be. She needs to do this.”
I beat the door until my hands were throbbing, then fell to my knees breathing hard.
Dad lifted me to stand. I thought he would lead me back to the car. But no. He began pounding too. Mom joined in, their eyes leaking tears. Six feet kicking. Six hands thudding.
We sat on the steps to catch our breath. Mom pulled the keyboard out of her bag and helped me speak my truth.
Three years of prison.
“I know, sweetheart. I know that now.”
You sent me here.
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I know that too. I’m so sorry, so, so, so sorry . . .” Her voice trailed off and we sat in silence.
“All we can do is move forward,” Dad said, “and we will forever try to make it up to you.”
My emotions seethed and growled and gnashed their teeth. Ready to devour me.
Bones and all.
…
Celia came to our house that evening after Mom phoned her about my explosion. She wore a long, slim dress that almost touched the ground. Her cinnamon hair was swept up in a twist held with a golden clip.
“Thank you for coming,” Dad said. “Hope we didn’t wreck your night out.”
“I am glad you called.” Celia sat next to me on the sofa and wrapped me in a hug. My stiff body melted into her.
“Querida.” She smelled of lilacs tonight. “Tell me what you are feeling.”
Mom sat beside me so I could communicate. Dad and Celia watched the screen patiently while I pecked letter by letter.
My broken heart is filled with too many hurts. Anger bubbles to the surface.
“You are right to be angry.” Celia squeezed my hand. “After everything you have suffered, I would worry if you were not angry. But anger is easy. What do you do about it? That is the important question.”
I knew the answer. Celia waited patiently as my fingers reached and tapped, reached and tapped each key. Dad read each sentence out loud as I typed.
I cannot have peace until the kids are safe. Borden closed.
Seeing the words in writing felt freeing. My wish floated from my spirit into the world.
Celia nodded. “Then you have a mission. And it is an important one. I can help you craft a letter to the district superintendent about Borden Academy.”
I have a mission.
I typed more. Reach, tap. Reach, tap. Reach, tap.
But who will listen to someone like me?
“Querida, most people who changed our way of thinking were not rich and powerful. Consider the heroes painted on the walls of our school—Gandhi, Rosa Parks, Malala. It was their message that had power. Speak from your heart and people will listen.”
I have a mission.
&nbs
p; Breathe in hope.
Breathe out fear.
Why is it so hard to breathe out fear?
Celia leaned closer. “What else can we do to help you heal?”
I thought a minute.
I want a real education.
Celia held out her fist for a bump. “Then it is time you got one.”
Coming Out Party
Gram and Pops insisted on it.
A party in honor of my first words. Instead of our usual Sunday barbecue, Gram put together a feast of all my favorite foods—French toast, mashed potatoes with gravy, carrot soup, pepperoni pizza, and strawberry shakes.
The appetizer—sour gummy worms.
Before we ate, I had to endure a half hour of people hugging and sniffling every time I typed a word.
I am grateful for my family.
“Thank the sweet Lord our precious girl has found her voice,” Gram sang out as if she was in church.
Aunt Kiki smudged her coral lipstick all over my cheeks. “Sweetie, I just knew there was more, I just knew it. I could feel it, I tell you. Mason, can you believe it? Well, can you?”
Mason stood there watching me, his head jutting forward like a longnecked turtle. “Wow . . . I thought . . . I thought you were gone. But now . . . this is . . . wow.” He sniffed and wiped his nose.
It was Aunt Elvi I was worried about. She sat there, a frozen statue with no expression. I noted her face, usually pale, but now white as an arctic fox.
Gram finally unfroze her. “Say something, Elvi!”
Gram’s words unleashed a river of tears. Mom ran over and held her tight, but Elvi broke away.
“No, no, I don’t deserve any hugs. I’m so stupid . . . how could I have been so stupid?”
Aunt Kiki grabbed a tissue to mop up the black mascara flowing down Elvi’s cheeks.
Gram led Elvi to sit across from me. Elvi could barely look at my face.
“I’m so sorry, girl. I had it wrong all this time . . . and I was a total brat to you. All I can say is I’ll try to do better.” She wiped her nose on her velvet sleeve. “If you could give me another chance?”
Pain still boiled in my soul, but hearing Elvi ask for forgiveness released some of that pain into the air, like the steam rising off the pot of Gram’s carrot soup. Mom supported me to speak as Elvi watched and sniffed.
Regret wastes precious time. Only forgiveness brings peace. Forgive me for the wedding.
Elvi shook her head. “No, no. After everything I did, everything my dumb mouth said without thinking. I had it coming, girl. That and worse.”
“Enough of this,” Pops said. “Our chipmunk has had enough of you ladies blubbering. Time to eat.”
Mason held out the bowl of gummy worms and my hungry hand dug in.
This Is Only a Test
Fact: I hate tests.
Imagine failing every test you ever took. Even when you knew all the answers. Even when the questions were ridiculously simple, like “What is 2 + 1?” or “What letter begins the word alligator?”
When I could not get the answers right, Thinkers assumed my mind was deficient. It never occurred to them my body was to blame.
I hate tests.
Ana set up my keyboard in a library study room for peace and quiet. Even with the door shut, my ears picked up whispers outside, and my nose detected fish sticks cooking in the cafeteria.
“All questions are multiple choice. There are four sections—math, reading, history, and science,” Celia explained. “I will display each question on the monitor and read it to you out loud.”
My body shifted in the hard plastic chair.
Did Mom put sandpaper in my shirt today?
I scratched my neck.
Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch.
“Querida, relax. This is just to determine if you need tutoring in any subjects before we create your new schedule.”
Probability of failing: unknown.
Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch.
Page 210: A parrot can use tools such as sticks and old feathers to scratch itself.
In my mind, I heard Pops delivering his favorite saying in that deep, crackling voice of his—“Better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you’re a fool than open it and remove all doubt.”
For me, keeping my mouth shut meant keeping my hands off the keyboard.
No. I have to do this.
Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch.
Time for silence is ended.
I have a mission. I need to prove to Jergen that I can be included in real classes. That all kids can be included.
My hummingbird heartbeat raced when Celia read the first question.
“A water tank can hold fifty gallons. What flow rate, in gallons per second, is required to fill the tank in twenty seconds?” She read all the possible answers. “Now choose answer A, B, C, D or E.”
My pupils zeroed in on the letter B. Ana held my elbow as I pushed my finger toward the target.
“B—is that the answer you would like?”
I typed Y for yes.
Their eyes—Ana’s olive green and free of makeup, Celia’s dark and painted with teal eye shadow and mascara—gave no hint of whether my answers were correct or incorrect.
Darn them.
For each question, my mind searched my brain for a corresponding memory from the color-coded folder in my head. It flashed through years of homework with Mom, books read to me, television documentaries, radio interviews, scrolling news updates at the bottom of the TV screen, years of pulling books off shelves in Pops’ study and hungrily flipping through pages.
“How did the reign of Alexander the Great most affect Greece?”
The answer is B.
B is for Baboon.
Baboons live in groups of up to one hundred members.
“At which location is Earth’s magnetic field the strongest?”
C is for Camel.
Camels can survive seven months without drinking water.
“Which of the following factors would most likely cause a hurricane to decrease in strength?”
A is for aardvark.
Aardvarks have long, sticky tongues to catch insects.
“Which of the following is a property of CO2 gas?”
E is for Emu.
The emu, Australia’s largest bird, stands six feet tall.
“Let’s take a short break,” Ana said after the first hour. “Maybe get you something to eat or drink.”
No, keep going.
Each question left me hungry for the next one. My body worked best when the gears of my mind were turning at full throttle. I continued for a second hour, then, after a brief walk, a third hour until my pointer finger became stiff, and my eyes blurred.
“Querida, you are finished,” Celia announced.
Worn out, I sank into the chair and went limp like a wet rag. Then I nudged Ana so I could type one more word.
Trash
Ana ran for the trashcan, and I barfed up the entire egg and cheese omelet Dad made me for breakfast.
Back in the EPIC room, Skyler held my hand while Celia graded the test. “I’m sure you did awesome, Cherry Tree.”
I watched Celia through her office window, silver glasses perched on her nose, checking each response sheet against the answer key. Check, check, check.
Is a check good or bad? Why is it taking so long?
After half an hour, she came out, shaking her head.
“I checked your answers twice, querida.”
Skyler squeezed my hand tighter.
“You got a 96 percent. Let’s get you a new schedule!” Celia and Ana whooped and jumped in the air.
Breathe in joy. Breathe in freedom.
“We will need to find the best way to support you in each cla
ss,” Ana said, “but prepare to get your real education.” She sat next to me and held the keyboard. “Tell us what you are feeling, Charity.”
I wanted to say I was feeling joyful, but that was not true. Ana steadied my arm so my finger could type the truth.
I am nervous. I still cannot always control my body.
Celia smiled and took off her glasses. “Querida, did I ever tell you about my brother Marco?”
She put her hand on my arm and sighed deeply.
“Marco was born without the ability to use his muscles. I was eight years older, so I was a second mother to him.”
Celia paused and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “We knew he had a short time with us, and my father always wanted to keep him at home where no harm would come to him. He thought Marco’s life would be easier away from pitying eyes of neighbors and strangers on the street.”
I understand. Pity shrinks me into a puny tadpole.
Celia nodded and smiled with a faraway look. She was seeing into the past.
“It was my mother who insisted my brother go to school and do everything his little body could. She saw his eyes grow wide every time he spotted a dragonfly floating above our garden. She saw his lips smile every time he heard music.”
Celia’s voice became shaky. Ana put an arm around her shoulder.
“My Marco, mi corazón, he left us when he was only ten years old. My mother shed no tears, at least not in front of me. She said, ‘He is in heaven now, telling everyone all the wonders of his tiny life.’ It was Marco who led me to teaching. I thought if I could help all children experience learning with his same sense of wonder, well . . . my life would be well spent.”
Celia peered into my eyes. “Querida, it is your choice whether to fully participate in this school. I am certain you will learn from it, no matter what the outcome.”
I reached for the keyboard and Ana supported me to type. With each exhale, I breathed out more fear.
I have a mission. I will not waste my chance. For Marco.
Slam Dunk
“How ’bout a strawberry shake for my star athlete?” Dad waltzed into the kitchen Saturday morning, his usual perky self. “You’ll need your energy for shooting hoops at the park.”