Wilma is standing at the door waiting to greet us. She reaches out, lightly touches Mrs. Babcock’s upper arm, and motions them both to Chase’s poster. I see the first glimmer of a smile form on both Mr. and Mrs. Babcock’s faces. Who wants to attend a meeting to hear that their child has a disability? I feel grateful for Wilma in this moment. I want her to keep showing all the ways Chase is part of this class, that he’s as typical as all his classmates. Before I know it, she is ushering them toward the round table with four chairs.
Wilma sits with a class planner and yellow notepad in front of her. She holds a pen in hand. Mr. and Mrs. Babcock have shifted their chairs slightly closer to one another, maintaining a certain distance from the table. They did not come prepared to take notes. I have a manila folder labeled with Chase’s name tucked under my arm. All eyes are upon me as I lay it on the table and pull out my evaluation report.
I dart my eyes from face to face, looking for contact while holding in mind everything about Chase I have grown to appreciate, hoping his parents glean this from the expression upon my face. Wilma responds in kind; she too has discovered a treasure of strengths. The Babcocks avoid looking at me as if I’m some smooth used-car salesman.
I begin the way I always start these meetings: highlighting the strengths. I sense the Babcocks see my sharing as a gimmick to win them over, but I am being genuine. Chase is brilliant in many ways.
“His art stands out in part because he has exceptional visual-spatial skills. On a test that measures this, he scored better than ninety percent of children his age. Within this skill area, he’s gifted, and you see it in his artwork.” I pause and feel a heaviness that may be impossible to cut through in the next twenty minutes.
“Chase qualifies for special education under the category of specific learning disability,” I say.
Burt flinches. Mrs. Babcock is wide-eyed.
I speak swiftly to reassure them. “Overall, he’s a very smart boy. It’s just that he has a few specific areas of weakness that require special help for him to improve.”
Mr. Babcock becomes fidgety, bouncing his right leg while his left hand taps on the stationary leg. His wife speaks up. “We’ve always been told the problem is that he’s not paying attention, not that he has a problem with learning.” She glares at Wilma, who avoids eye contact.
“When a child struggles with reading or writing,” I say, pausing to take in a slow, one Mississippi, deep breath, “it’s only natural for them to avoid these difficult tasks, and this avoidance looks as if they’re not paying attention.”
Mr. Babcock clears his throat. His left hand now grips his thigh, squeezing. I’m helpless in stopping this surge of uneasiness. His voice is halting as he speaks. “You’re right about one thing—he’s smart. And I won’t allow the school to be putting him in no special-ed class. They did that to me. Put me in with a bunch of hoodlums and hicks. There’s no way I’m going to allow any of you to do that to my son.”
He stands up. Mrs. Babcock springs to her feet and lightly touches his arm.
“Burt, let’s give the psychologist a chance to share her findings. We don’t have to agree . . .” She looks over at me, and I notice Burt studying me and I’m worried there’s not a thing I can say to change his mind.
“You’re right. You don’t have to agree,” I say in a voice contrived to be pleasant in an effort to cover a desperate plea. “And no one wants to take Chase out of Ms. Jenkins’s class. He qualifies for some extra help in the resource room, but let’s come back to that.”
Mr. Babcock mumbles something under his breath and sits back down.
“Mr. Babcock, I would never recommend that Chase be placed in a special education classroom. I just want him to receive specialized help. He needs this. So he can learn to read.” He maintains eye contact, so I continue. “You’re right, special ed has had some problems in the past.” I pause; “some problems” is definitely putting it mildly. “But it’s changing. Things are better these days.”
“You need to understand.” He breathes heavily and breaks eye contact, focusing somewhere beyond the rows of desks and the gleaming whiteboard. “I won’t have my boy go through what I did.” He pushes his chair back but stays sitting down with arms crossing his chest.
“Things are different.”
“Well, I sure as hell hope they are. All special ed did for me was give me a label—reading retarded. They never did teach me to read. I finally had enough of their bullshit and dropped out when I turned fifteen.”
I cringe. He continues to cast his gaze forward beyond the room.
“I’m so sorry.” I try to catch his eyes, but he looks away. His fair complexion, the way he moves his mouth . . . images of Uncle Joe bubble up. He has no idea how sincere I am. “Teachers these days are more skilled,” I say. “Children who struggle with reading do learn to read. In fact, I know an adult who struggled with reading as much as Chase does. She was able to get help and went on to get a PhD in education.” I wait, but no one seems to have heard what I just said. I glance at the clock; soon the morning bell will ring.
Mrs. Babcock gives a quick sigh, glances at her watch, and then, directing her focus to Wilma, says, “Well, I’m not so sure this isn’t an issue of Chase choosing to play around instead of paying attention.” She flashes her eyes at me and says, “Besides, like you said, he’s a very smart boy.”
I’m now certain Wilma, during the fall and winter conferences, went on and on about his not paying attention, just like she had during the SIT meeting. My irritation toward her returns, especially since she’s remained quiet this entire meeting.
I look directly at Mrs. Babcock, who has no problem maintaining eye contact, and say, “That’s exactly why it’s so important we give him the help he needs to learn to read. He is smart, and because he has a hard time making sense of the printed word, he finds ways to be distracted.”
Burt Babcock’s eyes remain focused elsewhere, and his leg is once again bouncing. I’ve lost an opportunity to reach him. I turn toward him anyway.
“He doesn’t need to be placed in a special-ed class. He just needs special help with reading.”
Burt behaves as though he hasn’t heard. He stands up, this time with unmistakable intent; his wife follows him to the door. Wilma and I remain sitting, caught off guard. He turns and says one more thing.
“We’re not going to be signing no special-ed papers. I don’t want him going through school with some idiotic label. He deserves better.”
In stunned silence, I blink hard and try to look unconcerned, but as silence lingers, guilt finds a noose in Burt’s bitter words, pulling into a knot. I can’t stop myself: Would it have been different if he’d known I was once a Sparrow?
~CHAPTER 42~
1967
PAULETTE never gets to school early; she doesn’t have to since she lives in town and walks to school. I’m always a good fifteen or twenty minutes early, and usually I play on the bars before going in. I’m about to grab a big ring and swing across like a monkey when I can’t believe my eyes. I blink and see Paulette standing over by the jungle gym talking to Bobby. She’s shoving her glasses up her nose and nodding her head as she chats away.
“Go!” shouts Jason in my ear. I fling myself forward and grab the next ring but keep my head turned toward the jungle gym. Why is she here talking to Bobby? By the time I reach the end, I know. Blabbermouth Paulette couldn’t wait. She had to tell him that she knew.
The bell rings. I race toward class, acting as if I saw nothing. Paulette slides in next to me and takes out her plastic pencil case. I turn toward her, wondering if she noticed I had seen her talking with Bobby.
“Bobby’s not fessing up,” she mumbles. I ignore her and she continues. “I decided to warn him that I knew; that way, he wouldn’t get in as much trouble with Mrs. Zinc by telling himself instead of me tattling.”
“But maybe he really didn’t take it,” I say. Now she gives me “the look.” I drop my gaze to the empty paper on my d
esk.
“I saw him sneak in. I was walking with Mrs. Zinc helping her with duty when I noticed him going back into the school.”
My heart speeds up. I need to say what I need to say. It’s worse than jumping off the dock into the ice-cold lake upon a dare. I squeeze my eyes shut. I have to do this.
“Paulette, I know who took the book, and it wasn’t Bobby.” She stares at me with eyes that slice like a knife. Her face looks confused; I can tell she has no idea that it’s me I’m talking about. I start copying the letters from the board onto my lined paper. My hand is shaky. I have no idea what words I’m writing.
“What do you mean?”
I wish it were recess. I’d run away. I look up with nothing to say.
“Whoever it is, you had better tell Mrs. Zinc soon, or I’ll let her know that you know and won’t tell.”
“Paulette, please. Please wait. The person who took it plans on giving it back. I know it.”
“Why won’t you tell me who?”
“I will, but not today. If you keep it a secret, I promise to tell you.”
The morning recess bell sends me galloping off for upper field, as far from Paulette and the others as I can get. I gallop like a horse, and when I’m out of breath, I walk the fence that divides our school playfield with the neighbor’s cornfield. Soon I hear breathing behind me and the clicking of a stick running along the chain-link fence. I flip around and see only Bobby. He drops his stick. We quietly eye each other the same way we do across the tetherball pole.
“Madelyn?” He says my name as if he isn’t sure whether he can ask a question, nervous-like. Usually, he runs in a pack. I know he’s figured it out.
“What?”
“I saw you leaving Mrs. Zinc’s classroom during recess time a few weeks ago.”
“I know. I had to get something.” And then, without planning to, I say more. “You had to get something too, because before you saw me, I saw you leaving after getting something from Mrs. Zinc’s desk.”
“You were hiding?”
I nod. “But I wasn’t spying or anything. I just needed to get something.”
“Mrs. Zinc’s book?”
“Maybe. But you also needed something.” We fall into a silence, and I notice he still has the Band-Aid on. “Bobby, my uncle Joe works for your dad. He told me about . . . your finger. Is it getting better?”
He wiggles it and gives a slight smile. “Yeah. Does your uncle tell funny jokes and have short hair that’s sort of blond?”
“Yep, that’s him, Uncle Joe. And he has a tattoo on his arm. He’s really strong.”
“Yeah, I know him. He’s nice.” This makes me grin. Bobby’s the only one at school who knows my uncle Joe.
“Bobby, I took the book.”
“I figured.”
“I’m only borrowing it.” I notice he’s not scowling or making a face at me. “I’m practicing my reading with it.”
“Cool.”
“I told Paulette I know who took it, and I told her it wasn’t you.” I see his face relax. “I said to her if she kept her mouth shut for a few more days, I would then tell her who took it. Because I know I need to give it back, but I’m not quite ready.” I pause, wondering if it’s safe to tell him about my discovery of hidden chapters and that’s why I need to wait. “So, you don’t have to worry about getting in trouble.”
He shifts uneasily from one foot to another. And then I remember that he was sneaking around in Mrs. Zinc’s class too. I look right at him.
“So, what were you doing in Mrs. Zinc’s class?”
“I took something. I was borrowing too.”
“I know.” But I don’t know what. So I give him a look the way Paulette does to me, to see if he’ll just fess up.
“Flash cards. I like to study flash cards.”
“Bobby, I can make you flash cards.”
“But I like flash cards that have answers on the back.”
“If you slip Mrs. Zinc’s flash cards back into her desk, I promise to make you some. I’m good at numbers.” Not so good at letters.
“Cool.” He gives me a smile and turns toward the school. He looks back at me and calls out, “I promise I won’t tell.”
“Me either,” I yell, and we race each other from upper field down to the school. I could have won, but I let him.
“Let’s start with our Read It book,” Mrs. Ellen says, holding it up. “Today, we’re going to discover the different sounds that letter o makes when it’s right next to another o. Remember loose caboose?” A vague memory of a silly poem she had recited brushes through my mind.
“Say with me, ‘It’s loose, the wild caboose, and clever goose.’” After repeating three times, Mrs. Ellen pauses and then asks, “What sound does two o’s have together?”
As if I just saw something really cool, I call out, saying, “Ooh.”
Next, there’s a list of words in the Read It book that look to be more difficult than what Mrs. Zinc has us Sparrows read. But knowing about loose caboose, I read word after word, letting the sounds slip effortlessly from my mouth: smooth, spoon, pool, harpoon, raccoon.
“Look at this group of words. They also have two o’s in the center, except they don’t belong to loose caboose.” Mrs. Ellen reads the first word, book, which I sort of recognize, and knowing the sound in the middle makes the rest of the words easy to read: cook, crook, look, shook, wood, stood.
“Now, it’s detective time. What do you notice about these words besides that same sound?”
“They end in k or d.”
“Good observation, Sherlock. So, if there are two o’s ending with a k or d, this is what you say to remember the sound: ‘I am a good cook.’” Mrs. Ellen giggles. “The truth is, I’m not a good cook.” She winks. “When you see the double letter o, what will you do to remember the sounds?”
“Loose caboose or good cook.”
“Perfect.”
“Mrs. Ellen, can you teach me to read some really big words?”
“At the rate you’re learning, it won’t be long until we start working with two- and three-syllable words.”
“Wow,” I whisper, even though I have no idea what a “silly bull” is.
“Are there some words you have in mind?”
I think of the really long word inside the cover of The Fairy Angel’s Gift that Miss Stanley read. “Congratulations.”
“That indeed is a very long word.” She smiles and then repeats it slowly, clapping to each part. “Five syllables. Notice I clapped five times?” She does it again and makes me clap with her and count. She then writes the word on a fresh notebook page of my Read It book and underlines the last group of letters. “If you learn the special sound of letters t-i-o-n, you’ll be able to read lots of long words. How about we work on this next time?”
Before I can stop myself, I clap.
I sit with The Fairy Angel’s Gift on my lap, leaning against my bed and looking out the window. I’m wearing the same jeans I wore when Father talked about the acorn. I reach in and pull it out of my pocket. He’s right. It seems impossible this seed can turn into the tree I’m now looking at. How does that happen? I study the acorn more closely than ever. I don’t see the secret. I reach around and place the acorn under my pillow and return to looking at words. Together, the entire book, page after page, seems like the grown-up oak tree, so huge compared to the few words I’m learning. This makes me sad. I have to give the book back, and I’ll never get to read all the words. I turn to the first page inside the cover and look at the blue cursive writing. Mrs. Zinc’s mother gave it to her. My parents would never give me a book like this because they know I could never read it.
I dive under my bed and grab my notebook where I try to write stories that are later hard to read. I’m going to start my own Read It book. I’ll need to work hard since I don’t have much time. I start by writing the words I know: fairy, angel, gift, once, upon, time, Ethan, change, form, believe. I pause, and the sadness lifts. I know more words than
I thought.
I’m half running toward the rope swing, and I can hear Danny’s light feet following behind me.
“Maddie,” he calls out, breathless. “Is Mary learning enough to break the spell yet?”
I pause, turn toward him, and say, “It’s harder than she thought.” I sprint ahead and grab the thick rope. Letting my hands slip down to the knot, I fling myself off the sloping hill. Two rounds and Danny is now sitting on the ridge waiting. I let the rope dangle, and join him, feeling calm inside with each deep breath.
“What did Dad mean when he said you have a special teacher?”
“Danny, it’s not what you think.”
He looks pleadingly at me. I jump up, grab the rope, and swing around a couple more times. He doesn’t budge.
“It’s really nothing. It’s just something I do to make Mrs. Zinc happy.” He doesn’t say anything. “There’s this new teacher who wants to practice teaching, and Mrs. Zinc asked me to help out. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So, you want to hear more about hidden chapters, right?”
“Right.”
I take a deep breath and get back to feeling calm. “Even with Teacher Elly, Mary keeps doubting, because the hope snatchers put lots of sand in her eyes. So when her teacher started teaching about big words—”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like reading the word congratulations. Guess how many syllables that has?”
“I don’t know. What’s a syllable?”
“All big words have them, and this word has five, which means it’s really long and hard. Mary could, of course, read this word and other big words, but she didn’t believe it.”
“Oh.”
“So, what happens is, she feels so scared about flunking, I mean failing, that she runs out on her lesson. And this makes her feel like a failure even more. It’s just what the hope snatchers knew would happen. So she wanders around, not sure what to do, and she ends up back in the Forest of Wisdom.”
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 21