Different
By Janet McLaughlin
A book by Absolute Love Publishing
Absolute Love Publishing
Different
Published by Absolute Love Publishing
USA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use - other than specific rights afforded the reader through purchase or “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews - without prior written permission of the publisher.
© 2018 Janet McLaughlin
Cover design by Logynn Hailley
United States of America
By Janet McLaughlin
Different
Haunted Echo
Fireworks
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is like raising a child. It’s best done with the help of family, friends, and experts in the field. Especially when that child has special needs. Or the book is about those needs.
Different is such a book. In writing it, I had to rely on lots of people for information and help. But it was family whom I needed the most. They know who they are, and I am so grateful to them for letting me be a part of their lives. I love you all more than you can know.
A huge “thank you!” to my incredible critique group, the SCBWI Skyway Writers. We’ve had members come and go over the years, but the core remains solid. A special thank you for helping with this book to Teddie Aggeles, Susan Banghart, Sandra Markle, and Augusta Scattergood.
Editors have a lot to do with shaping a book. Before I submitted Different to my publisher, I hired a professional editor, and there is none better (in my humble opinion) than Lorin Oberwerger. Thank you, Lorin, for your excellent counsel.
Of course, there wouldn’t be a book available without a publisher. I was blessed to find the extraordinary Absolute Love Publishing. As their name suggests, they look for books that promote good and inspire love and kindness. I am so appreciative of their help and encouragement. Thank you to Caroline Shearer, Sarah Hackley, and Denise Thompson for seeing the value in Different and for your commitment to promoting it.
I’d also like to acknowledge the associations that support Tourette Syndrome research and the local and national groups that offer information and support to families dealing with children with neurological disorders. Listed below are a few of them.
Tourette Association of America
42-40 Bell Boulevard, Suite 205 Bayside, NY 11361
888-4-TOURET
https://www.tourette.org/
They also have an international page:
https://www.tourette.org/about-us/partner-network/international/
Jim Eisenreich Foundation for Children With Tourette Syndrome
Post Office Box 953
Blue Springs, MO 64013
http://www.tourettes.org/index.html
Brad Cohen Tourette Foundation, Inc.
885 Woodstock Road, Suite 430 - #354
Roswell, GA 30075
678-561-BCTF (2283)
[email protected]
http://bradcohentourettefoundation.com/
TICS – Tourettes International Community of Support
https://www.facebook.com/TICS-Tourettes-International-Community-of-Support-1457581287869281/timeline/
Author’s Note
“Are you psychic?” That’s the question I get asked most often at interviews and school visits. It makes sense considering I’ve written two books about a gifted, intuitive teenager. I’m expecting, after the publication of Different, readers will ask “Do you have Tourette Syndrome?” since that’s the neurological condition my protagonist has to deal with.
The answer to both questions is no. I write about a psychically gifted teen because the subject fascinates me. My past experience as a magazine publisher who interviewed many gifted people gave me the background information I needed to make my stories authentic. There is also a plethora of articles, books, and movies about psychic phenomenon making further research easy and fascinating.
Tourette Syndrome, on the other hand, is a lot less understood. There are few articles, books, or movies about it. So where, you might ask, did I get my insights and information?
The answer is both simple and complicated. A family member—I’ll call her Madison—was diagnosed with TS when she was five years old. I watched her grow. Helped in times of crises. Loved and cried with her and her family. In one way, I was part of the experience. In another, I was on the outside, looking in.
What was going on in Madison’s head when she couldn’t walk down the street without stopping and touching the ground every few minutes? When she couldn’t leave a room unless she flicked the light switch on and off at least three times? How did she feel when she lost control and went into a screaming rage? I could only guess.
And that’s what I wanted to contribute to the world with this book. I wanted to let the world know about this neurological condition on an intimate level—what it’s like to actually live with the condition.
When Madison was first diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome our first reaction was despair. What kind of future would Madison have? We read anything and everything we could to try and understand the disorder. What would life be like for her? How would she cope? How would we cope?
We found out quickly that tics are just the physical manifestation of TS. There can also be additional, or what the doctors refer to as co-morbid, conditions that come under the umbrella of the disorder as well.
The most common co-morbid disorders are ADHD and Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Add rage, anxiety, depression, and learning challenges to the list and one can understand the challenges of raising a child with TS, as well as the challenges the child has to face not only in the safe environment of the home but also in the (sometimes) more hostile environment of the classroom.
In Different, Izzy’s issues mimic Madison’s, because that’s what I saw and what I know. Other children with Tourette Syndrome may exhibit different tics and disorders. That’s the nature of TS. My hope is that in sharing this story through Izzy, children with TS and their parents will know that they’re not alone.
As Madison grew, along with the challenges, we found the hope and joy that we thought we had lost. Children are resilient. Sometimes more so than their parents. And, as Izzy comes to realize during the course of the novel, everybody has issues. Maybe she isn’t so different after all.
Janet
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
About Janet McLaughlin
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Prologue
I was five years old the first time I tried to jump out of a moving car. All I’d wanted was some french fries from McDonald’s. Mom said no, it was too near dinnertime. I started to kick the back of her seat. When that didn’t work, I screamed until my throat hurt, but Dad still wouldn’t stop. I was just a kid throwing a fit, right? You don’t give in to that kind of behavior.
But this time was different. This time I totally lost control. Still screaming, I slipped out of my booster seat and unlocked the car door. I almost had it open by the time Mom reached back and grabbed me. I know for sure I would have jumped if she hadn’t stopped me.
I’d had fits before, but nothing like that one. My parents knew something was seriously wrong. They took me to one doctor after another until they finally got a diagnosis.
Now, eight years and tons of medications later, I hardly have fits anymore. But my life is far from normal. Tourette Syndrome is not easy on anyone. Not on the person who has it, her family, or her friends. Sometimes I wish I could cut open my head and pluck out whatever it is that makes me tic, call out, or obsess about, well, most everything.
I know my parents love me. They tell me I’m special all the time. But I don’t want to be special. I want to be like everybody else. I want to be normal.
Chapter 1
“Isabella Palmer. Please come to the administration office.”
I glance up at the intercom on the classroom wall, imagining my name hanging there in bright red letters, blinking: Isabella Palmer. Isabella Palmer.
At school, I mostly try to stay invisible but now everyone is staring at me. Waiting for me to do something stupid like touch my cheek to the desk. Or make a loud, grunting noise. Or shout out, “I have a doctor’s appointment!” Which is true, but who cares?
Clamping my lips tight, I concentrate on not letting my tics take over. After I pack up my stuff, I tap, tap, tap my desk and make a quick exit, not looking at anyone except Abbie. She waves and smiles. It helps to have at least one good friend I can rely on.
When I get to the hallway, I let loose with the tics. I touch the floor, the wall, then the floor again. Next, I let out the grunt that’s built up in my throat. It’s kind of loud, but the hall is empty. No one’s around to hear. I grunt again and revel in the squeaky sound my sneakers make on the linoleum floor as I start to walk. I rub the soles into the floor and make them squeak louder.
I feel better now, but I’m super annoyed at Mom. If she’d waited for class to be over like I’d asked her to, I could have met her at the school office and not gone through all that embarrassment. But no, she had to be early. I should have figured. She’s paranoid about being on time for everything. Especially doctor’s appointments.
About halfway down the corridor, I spy a guy wearing a bright yellow shirt slip into Mrs. Morgan’s room. Jamie Barnes has a shirt on today that exact same color. I always notice what Jamie is wearing. I notice everything about Jamie. When he’s just gotten a haircut. When he’s late for class. When he looks sad. He looks sad a lot.
If it really is Jamie, what’s he doing sneaking into Mrs. Morgan’s classroom? I know for a fact it’s empty after sixth period because I’ve hidden out there a couple of times after really bad tic episodes.
Gathering up some courage, I tiptoe up to the door and peek in the window. The classroom looks empty. Where did he go?
I can’t stop myself. I lightly tap, tap, tap on the door. Frightened that he may have heard, I pull back, lean against the wall, and listen for footsteps. Silence. I take a chance and peek again.
Standing there, staring back at me from the other side of the glass window is Jamie Barnes! I freeze, unable to move or breathe. He doesn’t move either.
“Izzy!”
I jump at the sound of my name echoing off the empty corridor walls. When I glance down the hallway a familiar figure is standing there, waving at me. Mom.
“Hurry!” she yells. “I don’t want to be late.”
When I turn back to the window, Jamie is gone. Where is he? And what was he doing all that time in Mrs. Morgan’s room?
Before she can yell my name again, I run to meet her. Now the squeaking sneakers that mark my progress down the hall annoy me. Can Jamie hear them? He knows where I am, but where is he? I glance back once but the hallway behind me is empty.
My heart pounds in my chest. I was face to face with Jamie! Only a pane of glass separated us. I’ve never been that close to him before. We’ve never really talked to each other. It’s a one-way crush. I’m not sure he even knows who I am.
All the way to the car Mom chatters away, hardly taking a breath. She talks about how Friday traffic always seems worse than the rest of the week. About how rude it is to be late for appointments. It’s when she starts talking about my meds that I tune her out. I’ve told Mom before how much I hate taking the medications. They make me gain weight, and they make me tired. But I’ve given up arguing about it. She’ll just bring up the jumping-out-of-the-car thing. It’s a no-win.
“Izzy, are you listening?”
“What? I mean, yeah. Lots of traffic. Good thing you’re early.”
Mom shakes her head. “Nice try. Your eyes were glazing over.”
I shrug. “Sorry.”
“It took you long enough to get down that hall. What was so interesting in that classroom?”
Before I can answer, Mom drops her purse and everything spills out, including her keys. By the time we gather everything up and get it stuffed back into her bag, she’s forgotten about her question and starts in on my meds. Again. She’s, like, obsessed with them.
I let my mind drift back to Jamie. Not just because he is one of the cutest guys in my class. Not just because he has the deepest, darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Not just because he’s tall and totally gorgeous. Well, okay, maybe that. Just a little. But really I’m curious about what he was doing in Mrs. Morgan’s room. And why he’d risk getting in trouble doing it.
I think I’ll talk to Abbie about it on Monday. Maybe she can help me figure out what’s going on.
Chapter 2
Mrs. Morgan doesn’t look happy today. Usually, she’s smiling and cheerful, but now she’s leaning against her desk, arms folded, lips clamped tight. After we’re all seated and quiet, she starts pacing.
“Everyone turn to the white sideboard and tell me if you notice anything different.”
Everyone looks. No one answers.
“Let me be more specific. Is anything missing?”
I notice a blank space on the otherwise totally covered board. What was there before? I can’t remember. Amy Robins, who doesn’t miss anything, puts up her hand.
“Yes, Amy?” Mrs. Morgan says.
“Wasn’t there a circus poster in that blank spot? I remember because I don’t like circuses. They creep me out.”
“‘Creeping out’ aside, yes, there was a poster there. It was very special to me. I got it when I was a child, and I’ve displayed it in every classroom that I’ve taught in. It went missing sometime between last Friday and this morning. I just want it back. If someone in this classroom stole it, please return it to me. No questions asked.”
My eyes open wide as I remember Jamie slipping into Mrs. Morgan’s empty classroom last Friday. When I glance his way, he’s not looking at Mrs. Morgan. Instead, he’s focusing on something on his desk, like it’s the most important thing in the world. His neck and cheeks are turning redder by the minute. That had to be what he was doing Friday in Mrs. Morgan’s classroom. Stealing that poster. But why? It doesn’t make sense. Who would want an old circus poster anyway?
I don’t want to rat on him, but I have this awful urge to raise my hand and tell Mrs. Morgan about what I saw. My arm is halfway up before I manage to pull it back. I sit on my hands, press my lips tight together, and take a deep b
reath through my nose. I. Will. Not. Say. Anything.
Stupid Billy Parker, who sits behind me, hits me on the back of my head with a spitball. I grab it and throw it on the floor. He laughs and whispers so only I can hear him, “Go ahead, retard. Raise your hand. Say something dumb.”
A loud, grunting sound escapes from my throat. Mrs. Morgan looks my way.
I really don’t want to but I can’t stop myself. My arm shoots up in the air, waving like a flag on a windy day.
“Isabella Palmer,” she sighs as she says my name. “Do you have something to add?”
I glance at Jamie. Now his face is white like there’s no blood in him at all, and he’s biting his bottom lip.
“Ummm. Sorry. No.” I swallow another grunt that’s begging to come out.
Mrs. Morgan looks away and stupid Billy kicks my chair and laughs! The kids sitting around us start to snicker. Mrs. Morgan walks over to us, sees the spitball on the floor, and hones in on Billy.
“That’s enough!” she says. “Bullying will not be tolerated in this class.”
Billy goes all wide-eyed. “I didn’t do anything, Mrs. Morgan. Someone else must have thrown that.”
This is not good. Billy will get even by being twice as mean to me. I wish she’d just ignore it and let it die out on its own.
Mrs. Morgan shakes her head, like she’s disgusted with all of us, and walks back to her desk.
“Put your books away and take out a clean sheet of paper. I’m giving you all a pop quiz.”
Everyone groans and books slam shut as Mrs. Morgan starts writing on the board.
While I wait for her to finish, I glance over at Jamie. He’s staring at me. Heat starts to build up in my chest. It creeps up my face and onto my ears. I break out in a sweat, which just adds to my embarrassment.
Jamie narrows his eyes and frowns. I bite my lip to keep from saying his name, but I can’t stop staring back.
“You have 20 minutes to finish this,” says Mrs. Morgan. “Not a second more.”
Some of the students complain, and I take advantage of the noise, turning my head and whispering, “Jamie stole the poster,” just loud enough that it blends in with the grumbling. Now that I’ve said it, the tension that’s built up in my body releases. I can focus on the paper in front of me.
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