We entered the hallway and I caught a deep breath of fresh air as the third graders headed outside to recess. My legs felt stronger and I stood up straight. Mr. Hudson dropped his hand and strolled alongside me like we were good friends taking a walk together. “Isn’t this weather something else?” he said. “Did you hear the thunder last night? It woke my dog and she started howling.”
I smiled. It felt good to smile even if I felt miles away.
We stopped in front of Mrs. Nelson’s door. “Counselor,” it said under her name, and I thought of Dr. McKillip.
Mr. Hudson tapped on the door, then pushed it open. The room was crammed with stacks of books and piles of stuffed animals and puppets. The walls were filled with yellow, orange, purple, and green posters with sayings like “Free to Be Me” and “Let Me Grow in Peace.”
Mrs. Nelson looked up from her worktable and set her paintbrush in a glass jar filled with purple paint. Her shiny black hair swept across her shoulders as she stood up. She smiled, her mouth still morning fresh with pink lipstick. I wondered if she had kids and if they got to tell her how they felt.
“What can I do for you two?” she asked cheerfully.
Mr. Hudson put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Hope isn’t sure if she’s sick or not, so I thought maybe you could talk to her and see if she needs to go home.”
“No!” I practically shouted, then lowered my voice. “I don’t need to go home.”
Mrs. Nelson looked at Mr. Hudson, her thin black eyebrows raised like McDonald’s arches.
“You came at just the right time,” she said. “I could use your help with our pledge signs.”
Hands & Words Are Not For Hurting stretched across the top of a long piece of white paper. She’d just started the Pl of Pledge.
I will not use my hands or my words for hurting myself or others. The words floated easily through my mind. They should after six years. Six spring open houses when Mrs. Nelson urged parents and kids to take the pledge, then paint their hand purple, press it to the white paper, and sign their name alongside. Mom figured she’d done it once, so she didn’t need to purple up her hand every year.
By the end of the open house, the hallways were filled with purple hands and names. The tiny kindergartner hands were so cute with their names spelled with backward letters and long, squiggly tails coming off y and g, looking like polliwogs.
Mr. Hudson had slipped out of the room and I wondered what I was really doing there.
“Why don’t you start at one end of the sign, and I’ll work at the other.” Mrs. Nelson handed me another jar of purple paint and a brush. “We’ll meet in the middle.”
I nodded, dipped my brush in the paint, and followed the pencil-drawn I.
Mrs. Nelson smoothed the paper at the far end of the table and began writing backward. She didn’t break the silence, leaving just the sound of our brushes dipping and tapping against glass, then swishing across dry paper. Quiet is nice. It lets your mind rest.
“So, Hope, how’s school going for you?” I guess counselors can’t go forever without asking questions.
“Okay, I guess.” I kept my eyes on the purple w, trying for even curves.
“You guess?” She kept her eyes down, too. “Are you looking forward to Outdoor School?” She moved her paint jar closer to the middle.
“My mom says I can’t go.” The words sunk in and my stomach rolled. Not go to Outdoor School? Miss the experience of my life? Even snakes? I saw Mr. Hudson the first day of school, peering into our eyes and hissing the word.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Nelson, as calm as if she were asking why I didn’t like cooked carrots.
I shrugged. I knew the answer, but could I tell her? I liked Mrs. Nelson, but I’d already told Brody about Mom. Did I really want the whole world knowing? I concentrated on finishing will. “I have headaches.”
“So your mom is afraid to let you go because of your headaches?”
“She doesn’t care about my headaches.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No.”
“What does she care about?”
“How much things cost.”
“She’s a single parent, isn’t she?” Mrs. Nelson painted away, her questions as smooth as her beautiful brush-strokes.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember your father?”
“He left us when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Mrs. Nelson drew the H on Hurting. I was impressed she could lean her letters together while going the opposite way, like I was always amazed the way Mom could back our car down the driveway and turn into the street just by looking in the rearview mirror.
“How long have you had the headaches?”
I thought for a moment. “All this year, I guess.”
“What do you do for them?”
“I wear a mouth guard thing at night so I don’t grind my teeth.”
“You’re grinding your teeth?” Mrs. Nelson set her brush on top of her jar and turned to me. I looked up to see her troubled eyes and pressed pink lips.
“Is that Mr. Hudson giving you too much work?” She tilted her head to one side.
“Not really.”
“Are you worried about junior high next year?”
“No.”
She stared out the window, like the secret answer to my headaches was floating around the playground.
“What about your friends?” Mrs. Nelson’s forehead wrinkled. “Any problems with —”
“It’s my mom,” I blurted. “We don’t get along.”
She stepped toward me and reached out her hand, covering my paintbrush hand, soft and warm like a mitten. “I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?” She didn’t even notice she’d made me wiggle the y tail.
I stared at her hand.
“Do you know that a lot of students come and talk to me about their parents?”
“No.” My eyes stayed on her hand.
“Some kids feel unsafe at home. Some parents yell or scream, hurt others in the family, or throw things, and students come in and share their concerns with me.”
I set the brush on my jar and she cupped my empty hand in both of hers.
“Do you feel unsafe at home?”
My eyes went to the window and I studied the third graders swinging and climbing monkey bars and chasing after soccer balls. They seemed happy. Here, anyway. But what about after school, at home? Did they feel safe? Did I feel unsafe? I never thought Mom would hurt me, like burning me with a cigarette like some mothers do. I just felt sick to my stomach whenever I had to go home. Not even Turtle or my closet seemed to help much anymore.
I sighed and looked back at our hands, then at Mrs. Nelson’s eyes. “My mother says I’m stupid. And — a dumb shit.”
Mrs. Nelson’s jaw clamped tight. She’d better be careful, I thought, or she’d need one of those plastic mouth guards. She squeezed my fingers so hard I thought they’d never move again. Dropping my hand, she moved to her desk and sat in her chair. She pulled an orange chair close and patted the seat. “The pledge signs can wait.”
She looked out the window again. “Hope, you remember my visit to your classroom?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you know about hurting words?”
“Yes.”
“That they’re abusive words?”
“Yes.” I didn’t think this was a quiz, but I wondered where Mrs. Nelson was going with all her questions. I studied her desk covered with yellow, green, and pink Sticky Notes, lots of them with quotation marks, some with book titles and page numbers. One quote hung crooked from the edge of her computer screen: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent — Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“Does anything else bother you at home?” I’d never seen Mrs. Nelson so serious, and I’d never had this much attention from her. I figured I should try to help her out. I read the quote on her pencil cup: “Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity �
�� doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Over and over again. Was I going insane? Maybe so.
“I can’t seem to do anything right. I try over and over again but there’s always something wrong. I don’t do it fast enough or slow enough or good enough.”
She glanced at the worktable. “See our sign?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I could have started at the beginning or at the end or in the middle and it would have come out basically the same. Then you came along at just the right time and we started at opposite ends and worked toward each other.”
I wondered what this had to do with my mother.
She smiled — finally — then turned in her chair and leaned forward facing me, her arms resting on her legs. “There are many different ways to do the same thing, Hope, and usually they’re all just as good. Always keep an open mind about that, would you?” Her strong eyes didn’t budge from mine.
I nodded.
Her eyes softened and she spoke slower. “Hope, what do you wish for? How would you change your life if you could? What would make you really happy?”
My skin tingled, my stomach churned, and my heart beat faster. I felt lighter with each question and wondered if I was about to take off flying, maybe to that tropical island. Any wish I wanted… to go to Outdoor School, of course… no more headaches… no more stomachaches… to live with Tyler, Anita, and Ruthie… peppermint candy… free to say what I wanted to say… freedom… yes, freedom would make me very happy.
Something broke free inside me, spilling from my eyes, shaking in my voice. A cry rose in my chest and I covered my face with my trembling hands. The muffled words fell in pieces from my lips, through my fingers, breaking apart in the air, “I — want — someone — to — love — me.”
I felt arms around me, lifting me gently to my feet; and soft hair against my wet cheeks; a light, sweet whisper in my ear, “It’s all right, it’s okay”; and a gentle sway back and forth, back and forth.
Mrs. Nelson would probably have kept whispering and swaying all day, but I finally wiped my eyes and sat back in my chair. She patted my knee and waited.
“I’m okay,” I said.
She nodded, then cleared her throat. “Hope, if there’s any way you can talk to your mother about hurting words, about verbal abuse, it might help.” She reached for a pink Sticky Note pad. “Remember, we’ve practiced Statements,” she said as she wrote out an example: “I feel _____ when you _____, and I wish you would _____.” She handed me the reminder note. “Look your mother in her eyes when you talk to her.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good luck, Hope. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Thanks.”
We stood up and she put her arm over my shoulder while walking me to the door. “I feel good,” she said, “when you come see me, and I wish you would do it more often.”
CHAPTER 26
“I” Statements
I found a pen by the phone and a piece of flowery stationery in Mom’s desk. My gut shuddered, but my fingers clenched the pen, found the strength, formed the letters, felt the relief: “I feel sick when you are sarcastic and I wish you would say what you’re really thinking.”
Then I set the table with our pretty yellow place mats and matching napkins. I put the silverware out just the right way, with the fork on the left and knife and spoon on the right. I made a pitcher of lemonade and put ice in the glasses and put the note on Mom’s place mat.
The note was gone when I returned to the kitchen for dinner. Tyler was washing his hands in the sink. Grass and mud stains covered his baseball uniform.
“You’re not supposed to crawl to the bases,” I said.
Tyler casually turned, then flicked his wet hands in my face.
“Tyler!” I wiped my face on his jersey and pretended to blow my nose.
He grabbed my wrists and yanked me toward the living room.
“No fighting,” warned Mom, setting our plates on the table. “Time to eat.”
I glanced around the kitchen, straining to discover even a hint of the flowery note. I tried to sneak looks at Mom’s face. She was being way too cheerful, which made me way too nervous.
I suffered through leftover meat loaf and was about to clear the table when she cleared her throat. “Anyone know where this came from?” She pulled the missing note from under her place mat and tossed it onto the table.
Tyler read the message, then looked at me. I had no idea what to do next. Mrs. Nelson! I clamped my cold hands together in my lap and tried to look Mom in the eyes, my whole self pleading for her understanding. The wall clock ticked loudly. I slipped one thumb inside my entwined fingers and squeezed it as tight as someone getting a group hug.
“Well,” said Mom, picking up the paper, “whoever you are, I feel you’re too sensitive when I talk to you and I wish you would take a joke.”
Tyler took the note from her hand and glanced at my once-confident words. “Sarcasm isn’t funny, Mom.”
She snatched the note back, crumpled it, and tossed it on her dirty plate. “Now I feel I want to clean this kitchen and I wish you would help me.” She laughed and stood up.
Tyler mouthed to me, “Hang in there.”
My body cautiously relaxed. I was relieved I didn’t get lectured, but was I losing my mind? Was I really too sensitive? Maybe I did need to lighten up. Was she teasing or was she serious? All I knew for sure was my head ached. Again.
CHAPTER 27
Choices
I struggled with my idea ever since Mr. Hudson reminded us of the extra credit. Just the thought of talking in front of the class gave me the jitters, but maybe, just maybe, the extra credit, plus Mr. Hudson’s something special, would change my mother’s mind about Outdoor School.
I finally decided after Mr. Hudson had talked about control. “Everyone wants to be in control — nations and neighbors, lovers and leaders, mothers and grand-mothers, doctors and” — he gave us a little smile — “teachers.”
He wrote control on the whiteboard.
“There’s good control,” he said, facing us, “when people have choices and can pick the path of greatest advantage. There’s also bad control, when people cross the path and become demanding, critical, and abusive of others. Somehow they seem to think they’re more important than you.
“But,” he said, pointing his finger at us, “you don’t have to be an abuser; you can choose not to take that path. Nor do you have to be the victim. You always have choices, and the most important one is how you react. You can choose to be strong or choose to give up. You have to tell yourself, ‘I am valuable. I am worth saving. I can be free.’
“Remember, you always have a choice over what’s up here.” He pointed to his head. “And what’s in here.” He touched his heart.
I felt Mr. Hudson’s words all the way down to my feet. No one whispered or wiggled in their seats, so maybe they were feeling his words, too.
“The Hands and Words Are Not For Hurting Fledge is about good control,” said Mr. Hudson, raising his right hand. Don’t forget to take the pledge again at spring open house and encourage your family to take it, too.”
I wish.
It wasn’t until the end of the day, when we were putting our chairs on our desks, that I approached Mr. Hudson. “Uh, Mr. Ii, I’ll do an extra-credit report.”
He must have been shocked because he just looked at me for a few seconds. Then he quickly gave a thumbs-up. “Good for you, hope. How about tomorrow, or is that too soon?”
I swallowed. “It’s okay.”
When Mom came home that evening, I met her at the back door and helped with the Bi-Mart bags.
“I’m doing an extra-credit report tomorrow.”
Silence.
“That means I have to get up in front of the class and —”
“I know what it means.” Mom pulled out dish soap and coffee filters from the paper bag.
I gripped the back of a chair. “Since I’m getting e
xtra credit, um, could I” — I paused, then whipped out the words — “could I go to Outdoor School?”
She stared at me, her arms filled with toilet paper and napkins. “Think about it, Hope. What did I tell you?”
I zoned after think about it. That told me all I needed to know, but it was too late.
“Answer me, Hope. What did I say?”
My mouth rescued my mind. “You said not to ask.”
That evening I sat at my desk with paper, pencil, and pink Post-it notes. I stared at Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. How had I gotten the nerve to do a class presentation? 1’d even stopped by Next to New to borrow a few things. Anita and Ruthie were all over me, asking about my life, my mom, and saying they were so sorry about the dress business. They, too, hoped the extra credit would change her mind about the store and Outdoor School.
Deep breath. You can do it. Control, Hope, control.
I began flipping through Anne’s diary, remembering names and faces, strict schedules, skimpy meals, secret visits.
I reread sections, jotted notes on Post-its, and tagged pages. Then I drew a star, colored it yellow, and cut it out.
That night I dreamed again about the Goodnight Moon bunny. This time I was trying to rescue him. “Oh!” he said as I tiptoed into the room. “Hush!” shouted the old lady in the rocking chair. The bunny pretended he was asleep, then when she wasn’t looking, he whispered, “Save the mouse,” pointing to the bookshelf. I pointed back at the bunny. He shook his head and pointed sharply to the mouse that was leaning way over the edge of the top shelf. I slipped quietly behind the old lady’s rocking chair while the kittens were busy wrestling yarn balls. With a quick snatch, the mouse was in my pocket, and I was out the door.
“Fifteen minutes, Hope, until your presentation,” said Mr. Hudson.
In the girls’ bathroom, I took off my jeans and pulled out a gray-and-white-striped dress from the Next to New bag. It was too big, going way past my knees, which was perfect. I found the rope-like belt and tied it around my waist. The shoes were mixed — one black and one brown.
Call Me Hope Page 10