Cancer. A word that feels foreign in my mouth, one that I’ve heard about but never experienced. One that seems far away, like you’ll never be affected by it, until you are. I know Mom is sick, but her diabetes is manageable, for now at least. Cancer is a whole different thing.
I don’t know what to do, but I remember the last time I felt upset and Ms. Luna had sat down right next to me. It had made me feel better, not so alone.
So I sit down right next to Travis, the bully, the kid who’s made my life hard on purpose for the last few years. I hug my own knees to my chest.
“I’m sorry, dude. I know what it’s like to have a sick mom.” He doesn’t look up. I know he knows; the story of my mom and the ambulance has made its way through the entire school.
“It sucks,” he says.
“Yeah. It really sucks.” I must be feeling extra brave or extra stupid because next I ask, “And, your dad’s been hitting you, too, huh?”
He won’t look at me, but nods. “He’s really sad about my mom. And he gets mad sometimes about it.”
I hand Travis some toilet paper to wipe his eyes and nose and he takes it without saying a word. His face has softened though. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to beat me up anymore.
“I hope it gets better,” I say. It’s the only thing I can think of, and I’m surprised, because I actually mean it.
He nods, but says, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know. I’ll still mess up your face if you say anything.” He’s frowning at me, but I can tell his heart really isn’t in the threat.
“Yeah, dude, I get it.” Then I leave the bathroom and head back to the cafeteria where my friends are waiting.
My classmates and their parents are filling up plates and cups and standing in groups while they eat. Mrs. Parkman and the other teachers wander around, chatting with each family.
I slide into the group with Mom, who is standing with Kyla and Denzel and their parents.
When Mrs. Parkman comes over, I don’t hear what she says to Mom because I’m opening up my anthology for the first time. She has written a long, personal note in the front cover, which I save to read later, and then flip through and see everyone’s writing, all typed up. Some are even illustrated.
Mine is the last one; she put them in the order we read them at our big share day, I guess. It’s cool seeing my name under the title, at the top of all the words I wrote, the ones I put together from a collection of random thoughts and ideas on a bunch of sticky notes. The weight of it in my hand feels nice, like a real book. And tucked right in the middle is my Smoldering Red poem, along with the stories I eventually wrote about Mr. Reeves and about Mom.
Just like Mrs. Parkman promised, the back page and cover are littered with sticky note compliments. She taped them down so they won’t come loose, and I spot Duke’s right away. When you spend the year reading someone’s stories and poems, it’s easy to pick out their handwriting. The sight of the notes makes me smile, but I save those for later, too. I feel like I need to be alone when I read them.
Mrs. Washington takes Mom back to work. She squeezes me goodbye and says she’ll see me tonight with one of those big Save More pizzas. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
After all the parents leave, we go around collecting signatures in our anthologies and yearbooks, everyone signing their name on their piece of writing. I feel like a real writer, signing all these books. A few of us leave the cafeteria to help Mrs. Parkman clean her room and tidy the classroom library. I can tell by the way everyone moves—slowly and deliberately—that they aren’t ready for the year to be over either. Every other year I’ve been in school we couldn’t wait to leave, the hallways a stampede of wild animals when that final bell rang. But now, we all hang back, getting her classroom “just right,” and when the bell does ring, nobody makes a move to the door.
This says more about Mrs. Parkman than it does about us.
I can hear a few girls sniffling. Kyla and Jolie share one last hug. Mrs. Parkman comforts Marisa, whose family is moving all the way to Oklahoma, so this is her last day with us.
The hallway outside the classroom gets noisy all of a sudden; the rest of the seventh graders are emptying their lockers and saying goodbye to friends. We let them leave in loud waves first, and then we line up with our things to say goodbye to Mrs. Parkman. I pretend like I’m looking for something before getting in line so that I’m last. When I get to Mrs. Parkman, I give her the biggest hug I can and say, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, Dragon. This has been a great year; one I’ll never forget.” She doesn’t say anything else; she doesn’t need to. I nod and try to hide my own tears as I walk out of the classroom for the last time.
Denzel is waiting for me to walk to the bus with him. Mr. Mark spots me in the hallway and says, “See you soon, buddy!” and I find myself glad I have one more year at Piney Woods Middle. I climb the steps to the bus right behind my sister, and Denzel and I take our usual seats.
The last thing I see as the bus pulls away is Mrs. Parkman and Mr. Mark standing there waving at me.
All of a sudden, it’s over.
My last day of seventh grade.
I flip open my anthology and read:
Dragon,
I’m so proud of all you accomplished this year. You opened up to me and your classmates, told us your stories and listened to ours. Your writing came so far; you worked so hard. I know it’s tempting to think that you could only do these things because of our classroom, the special bond we formed, and your classmates who cheered you on, but I want you to know that while our classroom and this particular group were something special, so are you. No one in here could have made you write like you did. You decided to do it. You pushed yourself. You pulled down some of those walls that separated you from everyone. I guess what I’m trying to say is that you are destined for great things, Dragon. And nobody will be able to stand in your way. You just keep that fighter spirit, and it won’t matter who your teacher is or what school you are in. All that will matter is that you have your own voice and your own words. I can’t wait to see you around next year, doing even more great things.
Most sincerely,
Mrs. Parkman
Denzel’s cool enough to look away as I read. Mrs. Parkman’s letter doesn’t make me sad, though. Instead, I feel a spark of hope for the next year, a feeling I’ve never before felt on the last day of school.
I shouldn’t be surprised that she basically read my mind. I had been thinking that this year was a once-in-a-lifetime school year, lucky, a fluke.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be, though.
I hope she’s right, but I guess that part’s up to me.
Author’s Note
In My Storied Year, Dragon and a few of his classmates talk about having dyslexia. Dyslexia is a learning disability that affects people’s ability to read and write. It is fairly common, affecting between 5% and 10% of Americans.1 Children with dyslexia typically struggle more than their peers as they learn to read. Other literacy activities like listening comprehension, spelling, and writing can also be more difficult for these students, despite the fact that most have average to above average intelligence.2
As a classroom teacher, I always had one dyslexic student every year, and more often I had three or five. I found that in general, my dyslexic students were very bright and eager to learn. Many of them, by the time they got to me in the 4th grade, had already developed coping skills that were helping them to be successful students. With proper accommodations like the use of technology and audiobook offerings, dyslexic students are able to do anything other students do, even if it takes them a little bit more time.
What I want middle grade readers to know is that dyslexia is completely normal. Chances are at your school, there are quite a few dyslexic students in your classes, whether you know about it or not. Dyslexic students may sometimes be bullied for their tendency to read and complete work at a slower pace, but they are just as capable
as anyone else. And they need friends and teachers to cheer them on just as much as any other kid. Everyone, no matter who they are, deserves to feel safe and encouraged in their classrooms, and we can all play a part in that.
1 https://www.webmd.com/children/understanding-dyslexia-basics
2 https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/dyslexia/symptoms-causes/syc-20353552
Acknowledgments
This book is a result of life lessons and learning and hard truths and lots and lots of love. It would not have been possible for me to write Dragon’s story without having experienced the teeniest bit of it myself as a teacher working with low-income students. One year in particular, I will never forget sitting around a meeting table in a conference room with tears streaming down my cheeks because I was so frustrated with a certain student and my inability to help him. But my principal, assistant principal, school counselor, and teaching partner-in-crime were in it with me—all the way. And together we learned how to help this child manage his emotions, at least while he was in our care. So, thank you Gary, Kim, Lindsay, Heather, and the many students who taught me valuable lessons over the years about what it means to be human and the power that our stories hold. You’ll remain an important part of my life story and my ever-expanding worldview. Always.
Thank you to my first readers: Mom, Aunt Heather, Aunt Lucy, Ashley, Megan, Heather H., Jillian, and Kristy. You all filled me with such encouragement while also pushing me to make this the best book it could be. Also—young writers—heed this advice: find yourself a group of writers who build you up and help hone your craft. To Jillian, Marie, and Dorothy: thank you for your patience. I love reading your words as much as I love getting feedback from you about mine, and I love that we are literally spread all over the world but stay connected through our stories and our positivity. And to Erica, my life-long friend and blogger extraordinaire: thank you for teaching me how to use my words well.
Thank you to Joyce and Eddie at Abydos, and to Joanna and Kristy and Heather and Brandi for showing me that I was a writer, and for teaching me how to awaken my students’ inner writers, too.
A huge thank you to my agent, Amy Brewer, and the whole team at Metamorphosis. Amy, you took a chance on a brand-new, nervous and bumbling stay-at-home-mom author, and you helped transform my writing in a way I will never be able to properly thank you for. Thank you for always being excited to read what I’ve written and always promoting your writers.
To my Fawkes Press team and new family, I am so grateful for you. Twyla Beth, I cannot fully express my thanks for your constant encouragement, your constant words of advice, your friendship, and your editing expertise. I feel so blessed to know you and work with you. Jodi, you are an amazing woman, leading this publishing house and all of us well. My Storied Year couldn’t be in better hands.
And lastly, thank you to my family. My mom, dad, and sister Anna have cheered me on from the very beginning, never doubting I could actually write a book and get it published. To Hesston, my love, thank you for being patient when the writing frenzy takes over, when I wake in the middle of the night with a new thought that I have to record right then or lose forever, when I take over the kitchen table with page after page of edits. And finally, to my babies, McKinley and Bradley—the loves of my life, the joys of my heart. You are why I pursue this passion, so you can have a mom who is full of life and creativity.
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My Storied Year Page 17