Real

by Carol Cujec

Chances of friendship: zero.

  Page 197: Ocelots are territorial and solitary. Because of their small size, they often fall prey to large cats and snakes.

  I swallowed hard.

  The music started, and Mom pulled me to our seats. I sat between Mom and Dad, a worry-filled girl on a wooden bench, hoping against all probability that I could keep calm.

  I am like Pinocchio sitting on the shelf. Will anyone ever know I have a real heart and can feel it break?

  Charity Case

  My eyes darted from wall to wall, noting all the details of the Chapel by the Sea. Light beamed through stained-glass windows, shining a kaleidoscope on the altar. Every color of dress and suit decorated the long oak benches. We sat near the back, in case we needed to make a speedy exit.

  Mom was already sniffling at the idea of her little sister getting married. “I hope Elvi doesn’t start crying when she walks down the aisle.”

  “Yeah,” Dad whispered, “she’s probably wearing a metric ton of mascara, so it wouldn’t look pretty.”

  He barely escaped Mom’s elbow in his ribs, but I noted the corners of her mouth trying not to smile.

  My sixth sense told me Aunt Elvi felt more pity than love toward me. And it was hard to tell who she pitied more, me or Mom.

  I noted Elvi’s frown whenever Mom had to help me do something.

  Sad to say, I need a lot of help. Many tasks that seem simple are like mountains I struggle to climb. I cannot cut my food or button my pants or go to the bathroom without support. A typical teenager would say my life s-u-c-k-e-d. I do not use that word, even in my head, because Gram does not like it. She sweetly scolds random teenagers whenever she visits Dad’s surf shop. “Honey, we don’t say something sucks. We say it vacuums vigorously.” They do not understand the joke, so they usually stare at her like she is from another planet.

  Me too. I do not understand things sometimes—for example, about Aunt Elvi. (1) Why does she listen to music that sounds like an owl screeching in a bowling alley during a thunderstorm? (2) Why does she bring a black lace parasol when she goes with us to a baseball game? If it rains, the lace will be useless to keep her dry. (3) Why do all her friends have so many skull tattoos?

  I could go on.

  But I understood why Aunt Elvi did not want me at her wedding. She was probably afraid I would mess it up with my icky, yucky, stinky autism. For weeks, she hinted this to my mom. Five days before the wedding, they had a faceoff in our kitchen.

  “You don’t get it! It’s my big day, Gail. I want it to be perfect.” Sitting at the kitchen table, Elvi blew her cat-black bangs out of her eyes, heavy with red eyeliner. She scrunched her mouth into a pucker. With her white-powdered face and blood-red lips, she looked like a vampire from one of Dad’s favorite classic horror movies.

  Elvi is Mom’s youngest sister. I noted that with a slight rearrangement of letters, her name would be Evil.

  Elvi kept complaining while Mom chopped onions for chili. The smell attacked my nose, and my mouth complained with a loud “Arrghhhhhhhh.”

  “You want the fan on, honey?” Mom was pretty good at interpreting my noises.

  My eyes followed the rhythm of the fan blades spinning round and round, round and round. Watching things spin fills my brain with peace.

  My body stood and spun with the blades.

  Spin-spin-spin-spin.

  Even though she’s an adult, Elvi could whine as high as the two-year-old next door when his popsicle dropped on the driveway. “I mean, geez, you’re my big sister. You’re supposed to be up there with me, not babysitting your kid in the audience.” Her squeaky voice scratched my eardrums. I stopped spinning.

  Mom flashed Elvi a look of warning. Her teeth smiled, but she was like a cobra ready to bite. Mom had told Elvi a total of eighteen times, “Don’t talk about my kid right in front of my kid.” Lots of adults do that, though.

  Hypothesis: Because my mouth cannot speak words, people think my ears cannot hear them.

  “We’ve discussed this,” Mom said, smiling in my direction. “I can’t be in the wedding because I need to be with Charity.”

  The fact that the bridesmaids’ dresses were the color of an orange hazmat suit might have had something to do with it too.

  Elvi kept complaining till her voice reached frequencies only dogs could hear. “But Gaaaaaail, couldn’t you just hire a dang sitter? I mean, even if she doesn’t make a scene, I don’t want Joel’s relatives to feel uncomfortable. They don’t have any . . . retarded people in their family.”

  And there it was. The R-word. Coming from my own aunt.

  That’s when Mom lost it.

  “Listen to me, Elvi.” She pointed the chef’s knife toward her sister’s face. “Don’t you EV-ER call my daughter that. She has more smarts in her little finger than anyone I know. Charity is a member of this family, and she’s been excluded from important occasions more times than I can count. From now on, it’s all of us or none of us.”

  Mom stabbed the knife into the cutting board. “Your choice.”

  Elvi snatched her velvet black purse and marched away. When she reached the door, she turned and hissed, “Fine.”

  That’s why I love my mom.

  Knowing that Mom fought for me to come to the wedding, I felt more pressure to stay in control. Unfortunately, when I am nervous, my unpredictable body usually does the opposite of what I want. And when I am really nervous, my insides boil like hot water in a teakettle until I pop my top in a massive KETTLE EXPLOSION.

  I put my hands on the wooden bench beneath me and felt it vibrate from the church organ playing Mozart, a song called “Ave Verum Corpus,” which means Hail, true body. I first heard this on Mom’s classical music station three years ago—May 4th, to be exact. The chords flowed around my own imperfect body like the swirling, bubbling water of Gram’s whirlpool tub. For a few seconds at least, the music calmed me.

  In front of us sat my cousin Mason and my stylish Aunt Kiki. A tiny purple hat was perched on top of her head. I watched its feathers dance in the air.

  I noted Mason peering at me over his shoulder.

  Apparently, this silly pink dress does not make me look NORMAL.

  Dad handed me my lucky sea glass, made smooth and round by tumbling ocean waves. We found it on the beach last spring, the color of a blue crab among all the brown, boring stones. Rolling it in my fingers kept me from biting my knuckles.

  Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.

  One by one, neon orange bridesmaids drifted down the aisle.

  “Should’ve brought our sunglasses,” Dad whispered.

  Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.

  The music paused. The organist hammered the opening notes for the “Bridal Chorus.” Pounding chords shook the whole church. I covered my ears.

  Everyone looked back to see Elvi wearing a black wedding dress fitted tight to her tiny waist with a ball-gown skirt. I imagined how the silky fabric felt on her skin. Her dark hair was draped over her bare shoulders. A heavy silver necklace sparkled around her throat. She beamed as she marched down the aisle on Pops’ arm.

  She glanced at me for a nanosecond.

  I held my breath.

  I am the statue of a perfectly normal child.

  Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.

  My perfect pose was broken by a man in a frilly black pirate shirt who pushed into our row. His musky cologne made me want to barf my morning oats. Acid gurgled up into my throat as all my senses overloaded.

  I did not want Dad to take me out already. I had to get through this so Mom could give Elvi the tiniest I-told-you-so look at the reception. I breathed through my mouth.

  Stay strong, Charity.

  Once Elvi arrived at the altar, the organ stopped. The whole church got quiet.

  Pin-drop silent.

  My stom
ach tightened.

  Get me out of here.

  Even after so many explosions over the years—in classrooms, movie theatres, grocery stores, restaurants—losing control here would be embarrassing beyond calculation. Elvi’s big day. A hundred people sitting silently. In a church!

  I can do this.

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth, and that silly Pinocchio song played on repeat in my head.

  Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Fact: Wishing upon a star does NOT work. I have tried. And, far as I know, NO one has a magic talking cricket.

  Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock.

  Keep a lid on the kettle.

  Lots of times, I can stay in control. It’s just so much harder when the pressure is high. My meltdown would ruin it for Mom and Dad too.

  We would never be invited anywhere. Ever. Again!

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  Page 259: The great white shark has sharp, triangular teeth to tear up flesh.

  The lace on my collar bit into my neck. My hands shook. They begged to rip off this cupcake dress and run out the door in my underwear.

  The pastor began with a prayer. His voice sounded like a lullaby. “Heavenly Father, we pray for your presence here as we gather to unite this man and woman in holy matrimony.”

  I prayed too. Or tried to. My silver sandals tap-danced on the stone floor.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Mason peered at me again.

  Stop! Not you too!

  My mind wandered back to the sandbox, our faces smudged with peanut butter and blackberry jam. I scooped sand into buckets while Mason planned the castle layout. “Fill it higher, Charity. Right to the top. Then I’ll put water in, and it’ll be cement for our tower.”

  Cousin = friend. I thought that was the rule.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Not anymore.

  He looked back again. His eyes were hot laser beams. They shrank me to a puny guppy.

  Stop staring!

  I see all the pity-stares. I see them even when people think I am not looking.

  Define pity: A poison offered to another person as if it were a gift of pure gold. People feel better about their own lives by looking down on mine. That’s my definition, not Webster’s.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked.

  Even she could not predict that I would not last five minutes. Pity poisons bubbled up inside me like steam rising in Gram’s copper teakettle. My mind tried to turn off the heat, but my hopeless body continued to percolate past its boiling point . . . KETTLE EXPLOSION, coming fast.

  Probability: HIGH.

  The pastor’s voice droned on and on. My thumping heart set off a tremor inside my chest. Stronger and stronger. A magnitude 8.6 earthquake.

  Page 111: The heart rate of a blue-throated hummingbird can reach 1,200 beats per minute.

  My hand squeezed the sea glass tight. My fists beat my shaking legs.

  Stay still! Stay still!

  I gulped hard.

  You got this . . . you got this.

  Dad’s voice called from a million miles away. “Let’s take a little walk, Cherry Girl.”

  Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  My hand yanked free from Dad’s and hit Aunt Kiki in the head. Her feathered hat flew off like a tiny frisbee. She shrieked. Dad scrambled to pick it up.

  When he moved, my body bolted into the aisle, jumping and clapping. My brain told my body to stop, but somewhere the wires short-circuited. My body did not obey.

  Jump, clap, jump, clap.

  I screamed at myself inside my head.

  Stop now! Sit down! You are ruining everything!

  For everyone!

  Forever!

  My legs jumped higher.

  What a relief to move. I could jump to the clouds.

  Misfire! Misfire! Why can’t my neurons talk to my muscles?

  Jump, clap, jump, clap.

  Mason’s eyes popped out of his head.

  You wanted something to look at? How is this for you?

  Mom tried to grab my elbow.

  Hard to catch a moving target.

  Jump, clap, jump, clap.

  Page 83: A tree frog can jump 150 times its own length.

  I begged my mouth to stay shut, but I could not breathe. I gripped my neck. Could not get air . . . into . . . my lungs. Then I breathed in sweet oxygen and exhaled . . . an ear-smacking scream.

  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  All eyes on me. Elvi’s white face somehow now red as a baboon’s butt.

  I tumbled down the aisle. My pink underwear in full view.

  Could this get any worse?

  At last Dad scooped me off the floor and flew me out superhero style. My voice moaned like a humpback whale.OOOOWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAH!

  Page 312: Whales communicate using a complex language that scientists cannot yet understand.

  Mom ran out the door with us and turned to offer an “I’m sorry” nod to all the guests. I did not look at them, but I knew they were shaking their heads and whispering, “Those poor parents are saints.”

  My name is Charity, and I am a charity case, someone that other people pity.

  It’s right there in the name.

  Bert and Ernie

  My parents are as different as Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.

  Mom, she is Bert—a whopper worrier and as serious as long division. Her brown, flowing hair is always sensibly ponytailed, and by the end of her busy day, half-fallen in her face. Her green eyes focus like a four-eyed fish on her multiple tasks of helping me while still looking after Dad, our dog Hero, and the brick cottage we call home, exactly 0.3 miles from the bay.

  Page 73: The four-eyed fish has large, bulbous eyes divided into two parts that allow it to see above and below the water surface at the same time.

  No matter what the Thinkers said, Mom and Dad always believed I could learn. Mom was a second-grade teacher before I came along. She gave up her twenty-five students to focus all her energy on me, her class of one. The two hours before dinner she called homework time. I never got actual homework from school. They assumed I could not learn anything beyond “Cows go moo! Pigs go oink!” Every afternoon, though, Mom sat next to me at the kitchen table, laying out supplies.

  Crayons, pencils, flashcards, puzzles, books.

  Then she would wrap a slender arm around my shoulder and steady my fingers to hold a pencil and draw letters. Our hands and arms worked in rhythm, like Olympic ice dancers.

  “Keep going. Eyes on the page. You can do it.”

  Even when I just sat doing a puzzle, Mom played educational TV shows, science shows, math videos. Aunt Elvi always had her pity look when she saw me watching videos on deci-mals or atoms or volcanoes. “C’mon, Gail, what makes you think she gets any of this?”

  Mom stared her flat in the eyeballs. “What makes you think she doesn’t?”

  Homework was not just for home. Wherever we went, Mom toted a beach-bag-size purse full of activities so we could play matching games or look at flashcards in waiting rooms, restaurants, or between therapy appointments. In the car, she played audiobooks, and my hungry brain took in the data as eagerly as our bulldog, Hero, gobbled up liver treats.

  By age three, I could read, thanks to Sesame Street and Mom’s daily homework sessions. Mom would have been properly proud if she knew. I read signs and labels, newspaper headlines, and every book I could wrap my tiny hands around. My fidgety fingers liked feeling the pages—and tearing them sometimes too. Sad to say, that made Mom put most books on a high shelf after reading them to me. The Amazing Kids’ Animal Encyclopedia was the first book she let me keep all to myself.

  I clung to it like a life preserver.

  Mom did everything sh
e could to teach me, even though she had no evidence that it was sticking in my head. Sitting right next to her, with no way to communicate, I felt we were a million miles apart.

  Define frustration: Being told to do the same thing over and over and not being able to do it even though I really, really want to, even though I understand how to, even though I did it once last week—but getting my body to cooperate was like teaching a hippo to tap dance.

  …

  Dad, he is like Ernie from Sesame Street. Happy and carefree. To him, I am just right.

  “We could be twins,” he jokes whenever our faces smush together for a selfie.

  He was a little right. We both have blue eyes ringed with specks of grasshopper green. He calls me Princess Charity or his Super Cherry or Cherry Girl, and he never treats me like I am “special.”

  “There’s no such thing as failure, only opportunities to learn.” That’s his annoying attitude even when my body is a jiggly mass of cherry Jell-O. “Don’t give up! Let’s try it a different way.”

  More than once, he has proved my messy body could learn. His lessons started when I was two.

  According to the “Developmental Milestones Checklist” that Mom laminated and posted on the fridge, I was supposed to be able to throw a ball by age two. When I could not do it, she panicked. Big time.

  That’s when Dad became my coach.

  Dad was a basketball star in high school. “You were born to play ball, Cherry Girl,” he told me. “You’re gonna be our little hoop master.”

  He started off by rolling a Nerf ball. I grabbed it and drooled on it, and Dad waited and waited . . . and waited some more until I finally rolled it back.

  After a week of rolling, we moved on to throwing and catching. Starting off with our hands almost touching, he tossed me the ball. I watched it hit my belly and drop to the floor.

  “C’mon, Super Cherry!” he cheered.

  He placed my hands out in catching position.

  “It’s the fourth quarter and we’re down by two. You gonna let ’em win?”

  I probably lost about a thousand imaginary games before finally, he threw it, and I . . . caught it! Dad jumped and whooped all over the living room. Hero—he was just a puppy back then—barked in celebration.