She looked confused. I searched around for the right words to explain what I meant. I wanted her to understand that music was colorful when I heard it. I finally realized that even Mrs. V couldn’t figure out everything in my head.
We kept going.
Sometimes she’d play hip-hop music, sometimes oldies. Music, and the colors it produced, flowed around her as easily as her clothing.
Mrs. V took me outside in all kinds of weather. One day she actually let me sit outside in the rain. It was steaming hot, and I was sticky and irritable. It must have been about ninety degrees outside. We were sitting on her porch, watching the storm clouds gather. She told me the names of all the clouds and made up stories about them. I knew that later she’d have the names of every kind of cloud on word cards for me.
“Big old Nimbus up there—he’s black and powerful and can blow all the other clouds out of the sky. He wants to marry Miss Cumulus Cloud, but she’s too soft and pretty to be bothered with such a scary guy. So he gets mad and makes storms,” she told me.
Finally, old Nimbus got his way, and the rain came down around me and Mrs. V. It rained so hard, I couldn’t see past the porch. The wind blew, and the wet coolness of the rain washed over us. It felt so good. A small leak on Mrs. V’s porch let a few drops of rain fall on my head. I laughed out loud.
Mrs. V gave me a funny look, then hopped up. “You want to feel it all?” she asked.
I nodded my head. Yes, yes, yes.
She rolled me down the ramp Dad had built, both of us getting wetter every second. She stopped when we got to the grass, and we let the rain drench us. My hair, my clothes, my eyes and arms and hands. Wet. Wet. Wet. It was awesome. The rain was warm, almost like bathwater. I laughed and laughed.
Eventually, Mrs. V rolled me back up the ramp and into the house, where she dried me off, changed my clothes, and gave me a cup of chocolate milk. She dried off my chair, and by the time Dad came to pick me up, the rain had stopped and everything was dry once more.
I dreamed of chocolate clouds all night.
CHAPTER 7
When I sleep, I dream. And in my dreams I can do anything. I get picked first on the playground for games. I can run so fast! I take gymnastics, and I never fall off the balance beam. I know how to square-dance, and I’m good at it. I call my friends on the phone, and we talk for hours. I whisper secrets. I sing.
When I wake up in the morning, it’s always sort of a letdown as reality hits me. I have to be fed and dressed so I can spend another long day in the happy-face room at Spaulding Street School.
Along with the assortment of teachers we’ve had in room H-5, there have been more classroom aides than I can count. These aides—usually one guy to help with the boys and one lady to help with the girls—do stuff like take us to the bathroom (or change diapers on kids like Ashley and Carl), feed us at lunch, wheel us where we need to go, wipe mouths, and give hugs. I don’t think they get paid very much, because they never stay very long. But they should get a million dollars. What they do is really hard, and I don’t think most folks get that.
It’s even hard to keep good teachers for us. I guess I don’t blame them for leaving, because, like I said, we’re a tough bunch to handle sometimes.
But once in a while we get a good one. After squeaky Mrs. Hyatt for kindergarten and game-show Mr. Gross for first grade, Mrs. Tracy breezed into our room for second grade.
She figured out I liked books, so she got some earphones and hooked me up with audiobooks on CD. She started with baby stuff, like Dr. Seuss, which my father and I had read when I was two, so after I tossed those on the floor a couple of times, instead of punishing me, she figured out I needed something better.
I listened to all of the Baby-Sitters Club books and those goofy Goosebumps books. She asked me questions after each book, and I got every single question right. Things like, “Which of these helped to solve the mystery?” Then she’d show me a pebble, a starfish, and an ink pen. The pebble, of course. She’d cheer after we’d gone through the questions and then hook me up to another book. That year I listened to all the books by Beverly Cleary and all the books about those boxcar kids. It was awesome.
The next year it all unraveled. I know teachers are supposed to write notes to the next teacher in line so they know what to expect, but either Mrs. Tracy didn’t do it or Mrs. Billups, our third-grade teacher, didn’t read them.
Mrs. Billups started every morning by playing her favorite CD. I hated it. “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider”— all sung by children who could not sing, the type of music grown-ups think is all kinds of cute, but it’s awful!
Mrs. Billups put it on—at full volume—every single morning. Over and over and over. No wonder we were always in a bad mood.
Once she had the tin-pan band on, Mrs. Billups went over the alphabet. Every single day. With third graders.
“Now, children, this is an ‘A.’ How many of you can say ‘A’? Good!”
She’d smile and say “good” even if nobody in the class responded.
I wondered if she would teach able-bodied third graders the same way. Probably not. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
“Now let’s move on to ‘B.’ This is the letter ‘B.’ Let’s all say ‘B.’ Good!”
Again to silence. She didn’t seem to care. I glanced with longing at the books on tape and the earphones, which had been shoved into a corner.
One day I guess I’d had enough. Mrs. Billups had expanded from saying the letters to making the sound of each one.
“Buh!” she said loudly, spitting a little as she did. “‘Buh’ is the sound of the letter ‘B.’ Let’s all say ‘buh’ together, children.”
Then Maria, who is always in a good mood, started throwing crayons. Willy began to babble. And I bellowed.
I may not be able to make clear sounds, but I can make a lot of noise.
I screamed because I hated stuff that was just plain stupid.
I screeched because I couldn’t talk and tell her to shut up!
And that made me cry because I’d never be able to tell anybody what I was really thinking.
So I screamed and yelled and shrieked. I cried like a two-year-old. I would not stop.
Then my tornado explosion took over. I flailed and jerked and basically spazzed out. I kicked so hard that my shoes popped out of the foot straps on my chair. That made me tilt to one side, and I screamed even louder.
Mrs. Billups didn’t know what to do. She tried to calm me down, but I didn’t want to be calmed. Even the aides couldn’t stop me. Jill and Maria started to cry. Even Ashley, dressed all in yellow that day, looked upset. Freddy spun his chair around in circles, glancing sideways at me fearfully. Carl hollered for lunch. Then he pooped in his pants again. The whole class was out of control. And I kept screeching.
The teacher called Mrs. Anthony, the principal, whose eyes got wide as she opened our door. She took one look at the situation and said tersely, “Call her mother.” She could not have left more quickly.
A moment later the teacher had my mother on the phone. “Mrs. Brooks, this is Melody’s teacher, Anastasia Billups. Can you come to the school right away?”
I knew my mother had to be worried. Was I sick? Bleeding? Dead?
“No, she’s not ill. She’s fine, we think,” Mrs. Billups was saying in her most professional-sounding teacher voice. “We just can’t get her to stop screaming. She’s got the whole class in an uproar.”
I could picture my mother on the other end of the line trying to figure out what was going on. Luckily, it was her day off. I knew she’d be there in a few minutes. So I gradually calmed down and finally shut up. The other kids quieted down as well, like somebody had clicked the off switch.
“Old MacDonald” continued to play.
My mother arrived faster than I thought possible. When I saw her jeans and dirty sweatshirt, I realized she’d dropped everything and jumped in the car. She ra
n over to me and asked what was wrong.
I took a few deep, shuddering breaths, then I pointed to the alphabet on my talking board and screeched some sounds of frustration.
“This is about the alphabet?” my mother asked.
Yes. I pointed, then pounded on the answer.
She turned to Mrs. Billups. “What were you working on before all the screaming started?”
Mrs. Billups replied, in that superior tone that teachers dressed in nice red business suits use when they’re talking to mothers with dirty shirts on, “We were reviewing the alphabet, of course. The sound of the letter ‘B,’ if I recall. I always start with the basics. These children need constant review because they don’t retain information like the rest of us.”
My mother was getting the picture. “So you were going over the ABCs?”
“Correct.”
“It’s February.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“School started in August. You haven’t gotten past the letter ‘B’ in six months?” Mom was balling and unballing her fists. I’ve never seen my mother hit anything, but when I see her doing that, I always wonder if she might.
“Who are you to tell me how to run my class?” the teacher asked angrily.
“And who are you to bore these children with mindless activities?” my mother snapped back.
“How dare you!” the teacher gasped.
“I dare anything for my daughter,” Mom replied, her voice dangerous, “and for the rest of these children!”
“You don’t understand—,” the teacher began.
Mom interrupted her. “No, Mrs. Billups, it is you who does not understand!” Mom looked like she was trying to calm herself down, because she then said, “Look. Have you ever said to yourself, ‘If they show that stupid commercial on TV one more time, I think I’ll just scream’?”
Mrs. Billups nodded slowly.
“Or, ‘If I have to sit five more minutes in this traffic jam, I’ll simply explode’?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she admitted.
“Well, I think that’s what happened to Melody. She said to herself, ‘If I have to go over those letters one more time, I’ll just scream.’ So she did. I really don’t blame her, do you?”
Mrs. Billups looked from my mother to me. “I guess not, now that you explain it that way,” Mrs. Billups finally said, her voice now as calm as my mother’s.
“Melody knows her alphabet, all the sounds of all the letters, and hundreds of words on sight. She can add and subtract numbers in her head. We discussed all this at our last parent conference, didn’t we?” I could tell my mother was trying to control her temper.
“I thought you were exaggerating,” the teacher said. “Parents are not always realistic when it comes to these children.”
“If you call them ‘these children’ one more time, I might scream,” my mother warned.
“But Melody does have mental and physical limitations,” Mrs. Billups argued, trying to put Mom in her place, I guess. “You have to learn to accept that.”
And the fire was back. “Melody can’t walk. Melody can’t talk. But she is extremely intelligent! And you better learn to accept that!” Mom spat out.
The teacher backed up an inch or two.
“Didn’t you read her records from last year?” Mom demanded. “Melody loves listening to the books on tape.”
“I try to approach each child with an open mind and not be influenced by other teachers. All the records are in a box someplace.”
“Maybe you should find that box,” my mother said, her lips tight.
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Billups countered.
“Maybe that’s your problem!” Mom replied with a grin. Then she tilted her head and turned toward the CD player. “Oh, one more thing. May I see that wonderful CD you’re playing?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Billups said, smiling a little. “The children love this.”
“Do they?” Mom asked.
The teacher lifted the disc from the player.
Twinkle, twinkle, silence.
Willy sighed out loud.
Mom took the CD, dug down in her purse for a moment, gave Mrs. Billups a five-dollar bill, and deftly snapped the disc in half.
“That music was cruel and unusual punishment!”
Freddy and Maria cheered.
Gloria whispered, “Thank you.”
For a moment I almost felt sorry for Mrs. Billups. She looked so confused. She just didn’t get it.
Mom walked over to the sink in our room, turned on the warm water, and soaked a stack of paper towels under the faucet. She came back to me and gently wiped my face with the warm, soggy wad. Nothing had ever felt so soothing. She then brushed my hair, adjusted the straps and buckles on my chair, gave me a quick hug, and went home.
Mrs. Billups quit her job after spring break, so we ended up with a series of subs till the end of the year. I think she had figured it would be easy to work with people who were dumber than she was.
She was wrong.
CHAPTER 8
For a long time it was just me, my mom and dad, and my goldfish, Ollie. I was five years old when I got him, and I had him for almost two years before he died. I guess that’s old for a goldfish. Nobody knew Ollie’s name but me, but that’s okay. Ollie had been a prize from a carnival Dad had taken me to, and I think Ollie’s life was worse than mine.
He lived in a small bowl on the table in my room. The bottom of the bowl was covered with tiny pink rocks, and a fake plastic log sat wedged in the rocks. I guess it was supposed to look like something from under the sea, but I don’t think there are any lakes or oceans that really have rocks that color.
Ollie spent all day long swimming around that small bowl, ducking through the fake log, and then swimming around again. He always swam in the same direction. The only time he’d change his course was when Mom dropped a few grains of fish food into his bowl each morning and evening. I’d watch him gobble the food, then poop it out, then swim around and around once again. I felt sorry for him.
At least I got to go outside and to the store and to school. Ollie just swam in a circle all day. I wondered if fish ever slept. But any time I woke up in the middle of the night, Ollie was still swimming, his little mouth opening and closing like was he trying to say something.
One day when I was about seven, Ollie jumped out of his bowl. I had been listening to music on the radio—Mom had finally figured out I liked the country-western station—and I was in a good mood. The music was sounding orangey and yellowish as I listened, and the faint whiff of lemons seemed to surround me. I felt real mellow as I watched Ollie do his thing round and round his bowl.
But suddenly, for no reason I could figure, Ollie dove down to the bottom of his bowl, rushed to the top, and hurled himself right out of the bowl. He landed on the table. He gasped and flopped, and I’m sure he was surprised he couldn’t breathe. His eyes bulged, and the gills on his side pulsed with effort.
I didn’t know what to do. He’d die without water— really fast. So I screamed. Mom was downstairs, or maybe outside getting the mail, but she didn’t come right away. I screamed again. Louder. I cried out. I yelled. I screeched. Ollie continued to flop and gasp, looking more desperate. Ollie needed water.
I howled once more, but Mom didn’t come running. Where could she be? I knew I had to do something, so I reached over to the table and stretched out my arm. I could just barely touch Ollie’s bowl. I figured if I could get the fish wet, at least a little bit, I might be able to save him. I hooked my fingers on the edge of the fishbowl, and I pulled. Water splashed everywhere—all over the table, the carpet, me, and Ollie. He seemed to flop a little less for a second or two.
And I kept wailing. Finally, I heard my mother thundering up the stairs. When she came through the door, she took one look at the mess and the dying goldfish and shouted, “Melody! What have you done? Why did you knock over the fishbowl? Don’t you know a fish can’t live without water?”
&nb
sp; Of course I knew that. I’m not stupid. Why did she think I’d been screeching and calling for her?
She scurried over to the mess, scooped up Ollie, and gently placed him back in the bowl. Then she ran to the bathroom, and I heard her running water. But I knew it was too late.
Either because of the time out of the bowl or because the bathroom water wasn’t the right temperature, Ollie didn’t survive.
Mom came back in and scolded me once more. “Your goldfish didn’t make it, Melody. I don’t get it. Why would you do that to the poor little fish? He was happy in his little world.”
I wondered if maybe Ollie wasn’t so happy after all. Maybe he was sick and tired of that bowl and that log and that circle. Maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. I feel like that sometimes.
There was no way I could explain to Mom what had happened. I really had tried to save Ollie’s life. I just looked away from Mom. She was angry, and I was too. If she hadn’t been so slow, Ollie might have made it. I didn’t want her to see me cry.
She cleaned up the mess with a sigh and left me with my music and an empty spot on my table. The colors had vanished.
It was a long time before I was ready for another pet. But on my eighth birthday my father brought a big box into the house. He seemed to have trouble holding on to it. When he set it on the floor in front of me, out exploded a flash of wriggling gold fun. A puppy! A golden retriever puppy! I shrieked and kicked with joy. A puppy!
The clumsy little dog raced around the room, sniffing in every corner. I watched her every move—loving her right away. After exploring every table leg and piece of furniture, the puppy stopped, made sure all of us were watching, then squatted and peed right there on the carpet! Mom yelled, but only a little. That’s when the dog knew she was in charge.
She checked out Dad’s bare toes, but she stayed away from Mom, who was trying to soak the spot out of the rug with paper towels and that spray stuff she uses in the kitchen. Finally, the puppy circled my wheelchair around and around, like she was trying to figure it out. She sniffed it, sniffed my legs and feet, looked at me for a minute, then jumped right up onto my lap like she’d done it a million times. I barely breathed, not wanting to disturb her. Then, wow, wow, wow, she turned around three times and made herself comfortable. I think she made a noise like a sigh of satisfaction. I know I did. I stroked her soft back and head as gently as I could.
Out of My Mind Page 4