Window Boy

by Andrea White

  bright sky press

  2365 Rice Blvd., Suite 202 Houston, Texas 77005

  Box 416, Albany, Texas 76430

  Text copyright ©2008 Andrea White

  “The Lessons of Classroom 506,” The New York Times. September 12, 2004 ©Lisa Belkin

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,

  including information storage and retrieval devices or systems, without prior written permission

  from the publisher, except that brief passages may be quoted for reviews.

  10987654321

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in Publication Data

  White, Andrea, 1953-

  Window boy / by Andrea White.

  p. cm.

  Summary: After his mother finally convinces the principal of Greenfield Junior High to admit him,

  twelve-year-old Sam arrives for his first day of school, along with his imaginary friend Winston Churchill,

  who encourages him to persevere with his cerebral palsy.

  ISBN 978-1-9339779-14-4 (jacketed hardcover: alk. paper)

  1. Churchill, Winston, Sir, 1874-1965–Juvenile fiction. [1. Churchill, Winston, Sir, 1874-1965–Fiction.

  2. Cerebral palsy–Fiction. 3. People with disabilities–Fiction. 4. Imaginary playmates–Fiction.

  5. First day of school–Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W58177Wi 2008

  [Fic] – dc22

  2008000492

  Book and cover design by Cregan Design,

  Ellen Peeples Cregan and Marla Garcia

  Edited by Lucy Herring Chambers and Nora Krisch Shire

  Printed in China through Asia Pacific Offset

  Andrea White

  To my friend, Maconda, on the occasion of her birthday,

  With special appreciation to

  Franci Crane, Elena Marks, Sis Johnson and Michael Zilkha,

  And with gratitude to Lisa Belkin for her inspirational article.

  “We’re all worms, but I do believe I am a glowworm.”

  -Winston Churchill

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Afterword

  Notes

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  As always, Sam Davis, age 12, is staring out his window. It’s a double-sided picture window, shaped like a basketball court: rectangular, with a line down the middle. The blue drapes are pushed to one side, leaving him a clear view of Stirling Junior High.

  If it weren’t for the rutted field between them, Stirling Junior High would be in Sam’s backyard. The school, a flat building, stands adjacent to a concrete playground with a metal roof and an outdoor basketball court. In his eagerness to get as close as he can to the court—and to basketball, the best game in the whole world—Sam is resting his forehead against the glass.

  When he sneezes, Sam’s head rears back. His wheelchair slips forward, and he bangs his head against the glass.

  “Sam, don’t lean on the window.”

  His caretaker’s footsteps sound behind him, and Miss Perkins takes his hand. She claims that she’s an “older young woman,” and when Sam looks at her, he thinks: it’s true. Her gray hair and white nurse’s shoes are old, while her clear eyes, strong body and unlined skin are young.

  Sam and Miss Perkins are alone again tonight. Sam’s mother is eating at her favorite Italian restaurant: Fred’s. Although Sam would like to go, he’s never been to Fred’s. Too many stairs. He has to content himself with the long skinny breadsticks that his mother brings home.

  “Are you ready for bed, Sam?” Miss Perkins asks.

  Sam could speak if he weren’t feeling lazy. Instead, he looks down with his eyes. This means no.

  “O.K.,” Miss Perkins says. “Do you want me to read to you?”

  Sam looks up: yes.

  “I got a new book from the library about Dwight D. Eisenhower. Do you want to try it or keep reading about Winnie?” Miss Perkins asks.

  “WWWWiinnnie,” Sam says. Winnie is their nickname for Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill.

  Miss Perkins’ tread is light as she walks away. When she returns, Sam knows she will be carrying a medium-sized, blue book: My Early Life by Winston Churchill.

  When Miss Perkins first started reading about Winston Churchill, Sam felt resentful. Sam thought he was just an old man with baby-pink skin who liked cigars. The Prime Minister of England, the man who fought Hitler during World War II—what did Winston Churchill have to do with him? But as his caretaker read about the boy Winston Churchill, Sam began to listen.

  Young Winston Churchill was inventive; he built elaborate forts. He was brave; once Winston jumped off a bridge and fell thirty feet. He was also mischievous. At school, angry at being scolded, Winston kicked, stomped and tore his headmaster’s straw hat into pieces. Sam doesn’t know what a bad fall feels like, but he understands how it feels to be angry. And he used to have temper tantrums all the time. There is just so much other people don’t understand.

  One night, as Miss Perkins’ soft English voice was rolling over him, putting him to bed, her words took on a quality almost as if Winston himself were calling him through time—speaking directly to Sam.

  When Miss Perkins put down the book, Sam thought about the fact that Winston Churchill, a great orator, had stuttered as a boy. Since Sam didn’t talk well either, he was curious. In his mind, he asked: How?

  To Sam’s surprise, Winston Churchill answered, I practiced, old chap.

  That’s when Sam learned something very important. Although the voice was in his own head, he didn’t know what the voice was going to say next. The voice was like a friend.

  As Sam waits for Miss Perkins to return with the book, he keeps his eyes fixed on the basketball court, hoping. Just past the circle of light thrown out by the crooked lamp post, there in the shadows, he spots movement. Often, a boy named Mickey— Mickey Kotov—comes out on the court at night, always alone.

  Suddenly, Mickey dribbles the ball into the light. Mickey is small. Maybe as small as Sam, although Sam looks smaller, crumpled in his wheelchair. Watching Mickey run around the court so fast, Sam wishes again that when his brain got damaged as he was being born, his legs hadn’t become useless sticks. It’s O.K. that talking is difficult for him. But basketball players need to run.

  Sam has a secret. He dreams of playing basketball exactly like Mickey. But he wouldn’t want Mickey’s life. Sitting at the open window this past summer, he’s learned more about Mickey than his name. Mickey
has a father who screams at him.

  “Mickey, stop hiding. Come hooome.”

  “Mickey Kotov, yoour’e the vorst boy that God ever made.”

  “Mickey, I need your help with the plumving.”

  Mickey jumps, and a ball arcs against the dark sky. The window is shut tonight, but it doesn’t matter. In his mind, Sam hears the whoosh of the basket. He wants to yell for Mickey. To cheer, “Yeah. Good basket.” But Miss Perkins settles into the chair next to him and interrupts his daydream.

  “Anywhere?” Miss Perkins asks.

  “Surre,” Sam says.

  When Miss Perkins opens the book and begins with the story of Winnie failing another exam at school, her voice is confident and strong, but Sam is too excited to listen.

  Tomorrow, Sam thinks. Tomorrow is my first day of school. Why I might even meet Mickey!

  ***

  On the bus heading home to her apartment, Miss Perkins sits down next to a man wearing an army shirt and camouflage pants. A patch covers one of his eyes, making the other appear especially dark and fierce. The Stirling Sun newspaper rests on his lap, with the date facing her: October 3, 1968.

  Miss Perkins was born in 1918. It’s hard for her to believe it’s already 1968. “I’m only 50, but I’ve seen so much in my life,” she muses out loud.

  The soldier says, “I know what you mean.”

  “I was born in England. But I came to America after the Second War. Lived here for almost twenty years. I work for a woman who has a crippled child,” Miss Perkins tells the soldier.

  The soldier nods.

  “Sam’s got cerebral palsy,” Miss Perkins continues. “He’s stuck in the wheelchair all day long. But he’s a beautiful boy.” She sighs, thinking of Sam tonight, lying in bed, his dark hair against the white pillow and a crooked grin on his face

  “I’m sure,” the soldier says.

  “His mum loves him. I know she does. Her husband left her when she refused to give up the boy. She won a lot of money from the lawsuit. Enough to pay me all these years, yet she seems to have run through most of it. My grocery budget is half of what it used to be.”

  “Lots of people got their troubles, but they don’t talk about them,” the man says.

  “I’ve taught Sam to say about two hundred and fifty words. He’s learned to write, too… Well, really I write, Sam just points at letters. But he can read. That’s why I insisted that he has to go to school. His mum argued with me. She said, ‘Miss Perkins, I’m afraid that a tough kid, one of those neighborhood boys, will hurt Sam.’”

  In the midst of her musings, Miss Perkins’ gaze falls on the black patch covering the man’s eye. She wonders if he’s in pain. “So how were you injured?”

  “Vietnam,” the soldier answers gruffly.

  “I was a Londoner during World War II,” Miss Perkins tells him. “I saw a lot that I don’t want to remember. We used to sit in the kitchen next to our old wooden wireless. In those days, we never knew when a bomb was going to fall. Our wireless made Churchill’s voice sound sort of scratchy, but he got his message across. He never gave up, and neither did we.”

  “Please,” the soldier interrupts. “I would like…”

  But Miss Perkins is wound up. “I’m no coward.” She straightens her shoulders. “We British know how to fight. I don’t understand these kids who are protesting the Vietnam War.”

  “Ma’am, excuse me.” The soldier signals towards the aisle. “Long day.” He mumbles something about a headache.

  Miss Perkins angles her knees to allow the soldier room to hurry out. He dares to plop down in an empty seat in front of her.

  She stares at the back of the soldier’s head. Despite all this talk in the ’60s about peace and love, people used to be friendlier, Miss Perkins thinks.

  The bus stops at Chestnut Street and 14th, and the door opens. Several long-haired hippies wearing ragged T-shirts jump on. The last person to enter is a woman holding a baby.

  Miss Perkins moves to the window to leave an aisle seat open. As she had hoped, the woman sits down next to her. Her tiny mouth completes the triangle of her high cheekbones. She holds an infant who is wearing an adorable smocked pink dress.

  “How do you do?” Miss Perkins asks hopefully.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Sam finds himself facing the narrow field. He barely notices the tin cans rusting in the sun, or the newspaper pages lying half-embedded in the dirt. On the other side lies his dream: Stirling Junior High.

  Miss Perkins stands behind him, gripping his wheelchair. Even though his chair is good and steady, Miss Perkins and Sam have never crossed a field like this before. Sometimes, even sidewalks are hard for them—like the patch of rotten concrete in front of the barber’s shop. Although the field’s grassy edges and dirt center look treacherous, this is their only route. By road, Stirling has to be almost a mile away.

  “We can do this,” Miss Perkins mutters to herself.

  Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the school’s green, wooden double doors. Most public buildings have stairs that bar his entrance. But the doors of this one-storied school appear to welcome him.

  “Let’s go,” Miss Perkins mutters as she starts across the grass.

  Sam begins bouncing up and down. His insides feel like he’s swallowed one of those Mexican jumping beans that a man on the corner of Third Avenue and Elm Street sells along with spicy peanuts.

  Sam tries to distract himself from the creeping nausea. He thinks of Winnie. Stiff upper lip, old chap. Sam hears Winnie’s cheerful voice in his mind. You don’t want to get sick on your first day of school.

  Winnie’s words remind Sam of the purpose of this choppy ride. Sam is going to have a teacher, Mrs. Martin. And be with other kids. Not just kids on television, real kids who play basketball, chew gum and eat ice cream cones. He is going to have schoolbooks.

  At this moment, Miss Perkins hits a big bump. Sam’s wheelchair rears, and his teeth chomp down on his tongue. He won’t say “Ouch,” because Miss Perkins might stop. He doesn’t want to be late for his first day of school. Tears spring to his eyes, and his mouth tastes faintly metallic, and sweet at the same time. He puzzles over the taste, and then he realizes that it’s blood. He’s never swallowed his own blood before and finds the act alarming.

  You can’t spend all your life wishing for the experiences that other kids have and then complaining when you have them, Winnie says. Sam imagines his friend’s voice often as a lecture.

  My tongue doesn’t work that well as it is, Sam tells Winnie.

  Well, you didn’t bite it off, did you? Winnie retorts.

  Before Sam can answer, the wheelchair jolts again, and Sam looks up. To his surprise, he notices that while he’s been arguing with Winnie, they’ve made progress.

  We’ve almost reached the dirt, Winnie points out. His tone is one of proud accomplishment, as if he himself is responsible.

  Sam reminds himself that although Winnie can be a pest, he can also be a good friend.

  When the wheelchair clears the grass, something wonderful happens. The journey becomes easier. Not as smooth as carpet, but the baked dirt is less bumpy than Sam’s least favorite surface: rotten concrete.

  “I told you we could do it,” Miss Perkins says, after she catches her breath, and Sam knows that she has been worried, too. “Now, if only school will go as well. I wonder if you’re on the sixth grade level.”

  Sam can’t wait to find out either. Miss Perkins has been teaching him since he was three, and Sam’s afraid that he is hopelessly behind.

  “Your mother promised Principal Cullen that I would stay with you,” Miss Perkins continues.

  Public schools aren’t required to accept kids in wheelchairs. Sam’s mother had to meet with the principal many times before he agreed that Sam could attend. This is why school has already begun.

  “I couldn’t bear to be apart from you anyway. So Abigail Perkins is going back to school, too!”

  Miss Perkins has told Sam
all this and more several times already. He knows that talking is just her way of comforting herself. He guesses that, like him, she has an uneasy stomach and sweaty palms.

  “Maybe, you shouldn’t talk that much at first. Give the kids a chance to get used to you.” Miss Perkins laughs. “Come to think of it, I should button my lips, too.”

  Sam smiles at the idea of a quiet Miss Perkins.

  Sam doesn’t wear a watch, but the swarm of kids on the school grounds lets him know that the opening bell has not yet rung. His cousins from California have warned him about the bells, and he is prepared for a sharp sound to pierce the air at exactly 8:00 a.m.

  The school is built on top of a small rise, and Miss Perkins groans from the effort of pushing him uphill. Sam feels for his caretaker and wants to help her, but he can’t concentrate on Miss Perkins’ predicament. Soon, they will reach the concrete sidewalk that winds past the basketball court. He longs to see the bent basketball rim and the crooked light post up close.

  Yet when Miss Perkins reaches the top, he barely notices the geography of the playground. As if a television and radio were blaring at the same time, Sam is met by a jumble of laughter, conversation, footsteps, shouts and cries. This noisy confusion is the vibrant life that he has always imagined happening outside his apartment. Almost as exciting as the State Fair that he and his mother visited once with its cotton candy and clowns.

  Kids in all sizes and shapes and with different hair colors race around him. They smell of sweat, hair oil, tennis shoes and gum. Except for the rare occasions when his San Diego cousins visit, Sam is seldom in the presence of other kids. Now he is surrounded by them and enthralled by their perfect strides.

  Like Sam, a few of the boys sport white T-shirts under their button-down cotton shirts. Yet, while many of the boys are dressed in blue jeans and tennis shoes, Sam is wearing khakis and loafers. Most boys’ hair touches their collars.

  I’ve got to let my hair grow, Sam thinks. What for? He asks himself. To fit in, I’ll need more than long hair.

  A girl passes so close to Sam’s wheelchair that he could reach out and touch her. Sam is afraid that this girl is taller than he’ll ever be, even when he grows up. Her long blonde hair is pulled back with a red bandanna. He winces when he notices the silver braces railroading her teeth. Miss Perkins says that he’s lucky that he has perfect teeth because braces hurt.