“Madelyn.”
I startle and look up. Father is striding toward us. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother needs your help inside.”
I look back down at the paper. I’m able to make out three words. I start to say them, but Father reaches for the paper before I can say anything. “Dad, I’m just going to read it for Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe doesn’t need your help.” He looks angrily at Uncle Joe. “But your mother does. Now go on in.”
I stand still, looking at him, trying to figure out what I did wrong. He holds the paper like it has something bad written on it. I feel my tears about to burst out. It’s his loud voice. I turn and race toward the house.
Mom is stirring something over the stove that smells good. “Mom.” I catch my breath. “Father says you need my help.” I’m able to keep the tears in, but my voice is all shaky.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“He yelled at me for no reason,” I say. Mom turns away from her cooking and looks at me. “Uncle Joe asked me to read something for him because he needs glasses.”
“Hmm, is that so?” A slight smile forms on her face.
“I’m getting better at reading, Mom. I’ve been practicing, and I was just about to read some of the words, and then Father yelled at me that you needed my help.”
“Maddie, honey, I think your father was worried that you might feel awkward or upset trying to read something for Uncle Joe if it was too hard.”
“He didn’t have to yell at me. Besides, I knew some of the words. I saw car-sales-man.”
“Honey, it’s just that he loves you so much he didn’t want you to be embarrassed about not reading all of the words. And I can always use some help setting the table.”
“But he could have let me read some of it. I am getting better.” I count out seven plates and arrange them around the table with silverware. I peek out of the kitchen window and see Uncle Joe and Father still talking, but it looks like arguing.
“How much longer?”
“About ten more minutes. The boys are playing down at the lake. Why don’t you let them know?”
“Okay.”
I go out the back door but find myself drawn toward the voices at the front of the house. I inch closer and hear Uncle Joe, but it doesn’t sound at all like him—it sounds harsh and angry.
“What do you mean she can’t read? She’s in third grade.”
I fall back against the house. I know it’s Uncle Joe, but he has Father’s angry voice. I want to tell him it’s not true, I can read, but my body doesn’t move. It melts into the wood siding.
“Joe, you don’t understand. Something’s wrong.”
No! I scream the word inside my head. I’m ready to run off, but my legs are collapsing. I feel dizzy and wonder if this is a dream.
“Then you’ve got to do something about it.”
Is this Uncle Joe or Father?
“Don’t they have special classes or something these days for kids who can’t read?”
Does he mean me?
“I mean—she’s no dumbass like me. You don’t want her to drop out.”
Finally, my body snaps into action. I take off running down the hill toward the lake where Jack and Danny are throwing stones. I’m breathing too hard to call out to them for dinner. I crumple on the hillside next to the rope swing. I cover my ears and shut my eyes. If only I had read the words faster and showed them both that I can read.
“Maddie.” Rob stands on the stairs leading down to the lake. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I mean yes, but I’ll be okay.”
“It’s time for dinner, did you tell Jack and Danny?”
“No,” I mumble. He takes several steps down the hill and yells out to them. He comes over and holds out his hand. At first, I don’t know what he’s doing, and then I understand, and the warmth of his hand helps me get up.
~CHAPTER 33~
2005
IT’S EIGHT THIRTY when I pull into Milton’s gated parking lot, and I navigate around tight corners, knowing I’ll be lucky to find a spot. I’m used to arriving at seven forty-five, in time for an eight o’clock meeting, avoiding the bulk of teachers and staff. I squeeze my Mazda in between a couple of Subarus, feeling so relieved to have time to myself before stepping into consultation mode or facilitating a meeting. It’s a godsend no SIT meeting is scheduled this morning.
I decide to walk around to the back of the building, avoiding the main office swarming with teachers and parents, and enter through the door by the playground. I notice a few kids hanging on bars and punching the tetherball, waiting for the morning bell to ring. Recess was a favorite time for me. It thrills me that more than three decades later, schools still have tetherballs and bars. I’m not so happy that teachers continue to insist upon students copying words from what’s now a whiteboard.
I unlock the double-paned door and look down a long stretch of hall with lemon-yellow and gray tiles glistening in the bath of fluorescent light. I pause in the doorway of Room 11, and spy Kelly’s lush dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she peers into her computer screen. I proceed down the hall to my small windowless box of an office.
Up ahead, someone is waiting for me. I slow down, considering an about-face out of the building, hoping whoever wants to talk will come back later, giving me the quiet morning I’ve anticipated. I amble forward and recognize the short, small-featured frame. It’s Diane Adams, Grace’s mom.
She spots me and waves with a smile. Her light-blondish hair is tucked behind her ears, and a small shiny patch on her forehead catches the light in an interesting, welcoming way. I’ve wanted to ask her how Grace is doing in the gifted program. Even though Diane works within earshot down the hall, we’re both so busy racing from kid to kid to meetings, we rarely have a chance to catch up.
“Hi, Diane,” I call out. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you for months how Grace is doing.”
I love that, despite everything, this child’s overall brilliance is recognized. Late last spring, Geraldine Bronson, supervisor for the highly capable program, invited me to join the final round with the selection committee. Evidently, the director of special services made it clear they needed a psychologist on board. Among the candidates being considered for the district’s gifted program was Grace. Her verbal, visual-spatial, and creativity aptitudes soared above all the other candidates. Their concern: weak reading and writing scores. I reminded them that she has a disability, and as a federally funded program, there can be no discrimination. Grace is an example of double exceptionality: she is gifted and dyslexic. They’d need to make accommodations.
Standing in front of Diane, it occurs to me she most likely has not placed herself on my office stoop anticipating my desire for an update about Grace.
“Actually, Grace is why I was hoping to see you this morning.” She doesn’t have the usual sparkle in her eyes. “Dr. Meyers.”
“Diane, really, just call me Mary.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s an ongoing feud. I open the door and motion for her to enter my office.
“Dr. Meyers,” she starts in again, earnestly, and settles down into an elementary-sized school chair. She looks more serious than I’m used to seeing her. Diane is one of the most upbeat people I know. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure do.” I take a seat across from her, also in a child-sized chair. “So, what’s up?”
“Grace is struggling in the gifted program. It’s breaking my heart, her taking it all so seriously and . . . it’s not working.”
“Not working?” My voice is thin and frail. I feel something inside me start to crumble.
Diane nods. “She thinks she doesn’t fit in, and I don’t blame her.”
Please, no, I plead to a long-forgotten saint. I tighten my stomach, not wanting to hear what Diane is about to say.
“She’s frustrated trying to get her ideas down on paper. Her spelling’s so atrocious, she can barely read what she writes.”
“The books they assign are all beyond her reading level, and she’s spending every second of free time trying to show that she’s as good as the others.” Diane sighs. “It’s so painful to watch. She rarely lets me help her.”
I see Grace’s determined face boring into a page of words, trying desperately to unlock the meaning. She’s much smarter than I ever was. She has every right to be in a gifted program.
“Does . . . does she want to continue in the program? I mean, she wants to, doesn’t she?”
“You know Grace, she never gives up.”
“Right. She’s very determined.”
“But it’s tearing her apart. I’m not sure what to do. I think she’d be better off back in the regular program.” Diane gives me a pleading look. Oh God, Grace needs to know what she’s capable of, that someone does understand.
“Dr. Meyers,” Diane says. I look up, and blink away the wetness that has filled my eyes. “It’s not that bad. Really, it’s just, I’m wanting to make a plan for next year—are you okay?”
I stand up and grab a tissue. “It’s allergies. Spring. Have you talked with—”
“Geraldine, yes. Her only response was this is how we do things. Grace does well with the class discussions. She’s good at answering questions.”
Dammit all. I’ll go talk to her myself. “Do you mind if I talk with her teachers?”
“I don’t think it’ll do any good. Grace hates to be isolated. In fact, she doesn’t want to go to the resource room anymore.”
My heart speeds up. “Would you like me to talk with her?” I whisper.
“I know how busy you are, but yes. I’m her mother. She no longer listens when I tell her how smart she is. All she knows is that she doesn’t fit in with the other gifted kids.”
I can tell her otherwise. I can share that it’s possible to move beyond this. For a blessed moment, I’m at complete peace with the prospect of sharing the truth about myself with Grace. More than at peace, the bright aura of rebirth flirts with me. Grace would understand.
I breathe in deeply, and in my mind I see an image of a nine-year-old with bangs and hair chopped just below the ears. She’s smiling. I shake my head and gaze back at Diane, who now has the sparkle back in her eye.
“I know you’ll say the right things to her.” The possibilities of what I might share with this child practically bring me to tears, and I nod in agreement.
Diane glances at her watch. “Oh my gosh. I told Kelly I’d show up early to set up a new workstation.”
She rises out of her child-sized chair, and reality slaps me silly.
Of course, anything I say to Grace about myself will be shared with her mother. And from there with Kelly. And after that, it might as well be the entire school district. Never again will I be able to walk down the halls without wondering who knows the truth: I’m a Sparrow in disguise.
“Diane,” I call out. My heart is now beating like a flock of captured geese. I’m standing up, and I’m wondering if I moved too fast as I need to sit down before I faint.
“Dr. Meyers?” She looks concerned.
I swivel my adult-sized office chair around and collapse into it. “I may have spoken too soon. I’ll try and see Grace, but . . .” I motion behind me to the stack of file folders next to the computer monitor on my desk. “Spring is always the busiest time for me.” What in God’s name was I thinking?
“Thank you so much,” Diane says, as if she did not heard my last two sentences. “I understand how busy you are. I really appreciate this.” I do my best to form a smile, and my stomach begins to twist.
“Diane, you’re an incredible parent. Grace is lucky to have you.”
“And sometimes it takes a village.”
I make an effort to smile back, ignoring the ache in my heart. I can’t give Grace what she needs.
~CHAPTER 34~
1967
“I KNOW YRAM,” Alice says as she turns away from me toward the sink to start the dish water. I step closer; she looks familiar. She faces back to me. “We all know about her. She’s known as the cruel fairy.”
“That’s not true!” I shout back.
“Yes, it is. She does things that make children get in trouble with their parents.”
I stare at her. I don’t like her. “You’re wrong. That’s a rumor. Yram only does good.” I run out of the kitchen to the dining room and look for Ethan. The air is thick and damp, puffing dread into my lungs. I see a shadow and think of the hope snatchers. Maybe they aren’t invisible. I start to race across the room, but I can hardly move. The shadow lifts from the floor and shapes into a human body. I can’t help but look, and when I do, he sprinkles dust in my eyes, and I know for sure: I’m just like Alice. I can’t read, I’m not smart, and I too will flunk.
“Madelyn, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you getting started?” Paulette asks. She’s halfway done writing the stupid sentences from the chalkboard. I wish I could have stayed in bed all day like Ethan. Last night’s dream fills my mind. I can’t read the book, and I can’t read any of these words. I look over at Paulette. Can she see that I’m going to flunk? “You need to try first and then I’ll help,” she says.
“I am. I’m just tired, that’s all.” I stare down at the empty paper. All I need to do is to get at least one sentence written down.
I sit up and begin copying the letters: uncledob cameto visitus lastnight. This is an easy one to fix. I cross out the first letter and write U and then put a period at the end. Paulette leans over and looks at my paper.
“Madelyn, that’s supposed to be a b not a d. It’s Uncle Bob, so you need to make the b capital too.”
Hmm. If I had known that word was uncle, I could have figured that out on my own. I write the next line, letter by letter. It doesn’t matter to me what the letters say; it’s something stupid. I move my body to block Paulette from seeing my work and telling me how to do it right, because I really don’t care.
I’m so happy to be resting my head against the bus window with nothing to do except wait to be dropped off at home, where I will see if I can find another hidden chapter with a few words I can read. Today was long and boring. I would have liked to see Mrs. Ellen. She’s so different from Mrs. Zinc. My head vibrates against the window, and the bus noise of voices and clanking blends together. Suddenly, I’m hearing Uncle Joe telling my father something about having special teachers for kids who can’t read. I yank my head off the window and sit up straight. That must be why I’m sent to Mrs. Ellen. I’m someone who can’t read.
I’m slow getting off the bus. Jack and Rob are walking together, talking about the go-cart Uncle Joe is helping them with.
Danny hangs back with me. “I can tell you don’t want to race.”
“That’s right. I don’t feel like it.”
“Can you tell me more from the hidden chapters, how Mary breaks the spell?”
I fall into step with him, and before I even think about it, I respond.
“First of all, remember, Mary’s good at reading.”
“Of course. Anyone who can read backwards must be good.”
“That’s right. So she thought it would be pretty easy to break the spell. All she needs to do is teach Alice—who is not in Wonderland—to read. Besides, Mary likes to teach other kids. She’s even thinking she might be a teacher someday. Not a bossy one, like her friend Paulette, or my teacher Mrs. Zinc, who is sometimes crabby, but a fun one who teaches kids who need help with reading. So anyway, to her, this seems easy.” I take a deep breath. Danny looks wide-eyed, believing all of this. “But she had no idea how tricky and creepy the hope snatchers were. This part is scary. Are you sure you want to hear it?” I slow down my walking, letting Jack and Rob get further ahead.
“Of course. I don’t ever get scared.”
“Okay.” I want to say that it’s a nightmare, but Danny will just argue about dreams not being real. “Mary tells Alice—”
<
br /> “Who’s not in Wonderland.” Danny grins.
“Danny, don’t interrupt. Are you sure you want to hear?” I ask. He nods, so I continue. “Mary says to Alice that she knows all about Ethan, that he’s invisible because of the spell, and she knows how to break it. She’s sure Alice will trust her. But instead, Alice argues and says, ‘Ethan’s invisible because Yram made him that way.’ She then repeats the rumor—do you remember the rumor?”
“Yeah, it’s what Zerko and Zilla said, that she’s a cruel fairy.”
“Well, Alice believes this because of the spell. She also believes she can never get better with reading because she thinks she’s not smart. And this is what makes the hope snatchers feel like they’re in charge. When Mary tries to tell her none of this is true, that Yram is a good fairy, Alice won’t believe her, and Mary gets upset and loses her temper. She decides to leave and go talk to Ethan about this. And that’s when it gets all scary.” I pause and get my thoughts together. I shiver, remembering how scary it was in my dream.
“Okay, I’m ready to hear about it.”
I stop walking, take a deep breath, and allow the nightmare to come back. “She’s mad, so she starts to run out, and all of a sudden, she feels cold air and pinpricks on her skin. She grabs her coat.”
“She wears a coat like you?”
“Yep. Lots of kids do. So she stops and pulls her hood up. It gets all dark, but the darkness is really a huge shadow that has fallen over her, and even though she wants to run out, she can’t move. She stands and looks at the shadow, and it turns into the shape of a man. She stares at him, and his eyes are emerald green. She looks inside them, and it’s really a hope snatcher. He sprinkles dust into her eyes, and all at once, she forgets how smart she is. All she remembers is when she was little and made lots of reading mistakes.”
“Oh no. Now she can’t save Alice.”
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 17