by Carol Cujec
That’s when my bulldog impulse took over.
I yanked free from Dad’s hand and launched myself.
Page 5: Antelope have acute senses of hearing and smell to detect danger in the open.
To where? I was not sure.
My legs flew me through the crowd.
Page 5: The pronghorn antelope sprints at speeds of 60 miles per hour.
My pink sneakers sprinted over sticky wooden planks.
Get out of my way!
I dodged strollers, knocked into a bench, leapt past a kettle corn cart.
Run, run, dodge, leap, dodge, crash, turn, run.
My eyes spotted a ramp down the side of the pier, away from the chaos. I ran toward it. Then my feet froze. A chain blocked my path. The sign said, “Closed to the Public.”
Keep going, keep moving!
I ducked under the chain and stumbled down the wooden planks toward the docked boats, bobbing up and down, eighteen of them in two rows of nine. Between each boat was a patch of water, dark and shiny as glass.
Fact: I cannot walk on water.
Still, my feet wanted to step onto the glass. Feel the ocean fold around me like a blanket. Water covering my legs and arms, my neck and face, quieting my frantic body.
Keep going. You can do it.
I could easily drop into the water and disappear without a sound. My legs led me to the edge, and my foot reached out above the water. The noise from the polka band seemed miles away. The sun reflected off the black, polished hull of a boat named The Great Escape.
I can escape.
A seagull landed next to me and perched on the wooden post. He stared into the distance.
I am hungry for peace.
My shoelace touched the water. I closed my eyes as my body tilted forward.
A hand grabbed my elbow and pulled me from the edge. A deep voice said, “Whoa! Hold on, my sister.” I turned to see a man with a leathery face and long, gray hair braided behind his back. The sun glinted off a silver dolphin pendant hanging on a cord around his neck. He squinted his wrinkled eyes and smiled at me. “We each have a path and a purpose. Seek yours, my sister.”
In two giant leaps, Dad bounded toward us, breathing hard. He grabbed me with both hands and looked into my face. “Are you okay, Charity? Are you safe? How did you run so fast?” He wrapped me in a tight squeeze. I felt his whole body shaking.
Pops ran up, huffing and puffing. He bent over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “Well, Chipmunk, if you didn’t like the smell of stinky sausages, I couldn’t say I blame you.” He chuckled as he looked up at me.
Mason hurdled over the chain rope and ran up behind Pops. “What happened? Where was she going?”
I turned around to search for my guardian angel, the one who called me his sister.
He had disappeared.
Flavor of the Week: Freedom
“Okay, Chipmunk. Tell me what’s what.”
Thursdays were my favorite. On Thursdays, Dad picked me up from school and took me to Pops’ ice cream shop. Today, as usual, Pops held out three small spoons with blobs of ice cream on them. Perched on a stool at the counter, I took the pale blue sample first and slid the creamy spoonful into my mouth while Pops looked on.
Pops turned to Dad. “Root beer bubble gum. Don’t think that one’s a winner. I can tell from her eyes. Try another, Chipmunk.”
Pops could read my face about as well as Dad could. Why would anyone ever put those two flavors together?
I took the next spoon and let the frosty bite slide onto my tongue.
“Even worse than the last,” Pops said, wiping his forehead with a napkin. “So, chocolate avocado is a definite NO.”
He held out the last spoon. I bit and swallowed. This one had a nutty and cinnamon flavor, like Gram’s pumpkin pie.
Pops nodded.
“Whew, there it is—sweet potato-walnut. That’s gonna be our new flavor of the week. This girl can always pick ’em.”
At Pops’ ice cream shop, I felt like one of those celebrity chefs at a cooking competition. The unspoken rule was no one tells Mom they’re spoiling my dinner.
I looked up to see Aunt Kiki emerge from the back room. “Will that be a cup or a cone, sweetie?” She wore a lace blouse under her blue-striped apron. This was her new job while she adjusted to her new life.
“She’ll have a small shake,” Dad said. “Less chance of spilling any evidence on her shirt.” He winked at me.
Aunt Kiki struggled to scoop the ice cream, her gold bangle bracelets not making it easy. Then she fumbled getting the scoop into the shiny metal mixing cup. I watched the ice cream drop to the floor.
“Oops. There goes another one.” She shrugged and then so did I.
Shrug. Shrug. Shrug.
Pops raised both eyebrows and whispered to Dad and me, “Third time today.” Then he turned to Kiki. “You need some help, dear?”
Kiki smiled, “No, no. How will I learn if I don’t practice?”
After slurping down every drop of my shake, I rose from the counter and wandered into the back room.
“Can I help you get something, sweetie?” Aunt Kiki looked nervous, but I knew what to do. I picked up a big package of napkins and brought them to the counter next to Dad. While Dad and Pops chattered, I lined up the napkin dispensers on the counter, all ten of them in a row like an army of silver, rectangular robots. I stuffed just the right number of napkins in each one. Not so much that the napkins stuck out and made the robot too fat. The right amount. Then I put all the dispensers back on the tables where they went. The whole time, Aunt Kiki stared at me in amazement, like I was an Olympic ice dancer doing back flips and camel spins.
“What in the world? How did she learn to do that?” Kiki asked Pops.
Pops seemed surprised by the question. “I taught her how. She’s a smart cookie, you know.” He put his hand on one of my robots. “Filling napkin holders, that’s nothing. Last week, she helped me sort coins to take to the bank. She arranged them in piles faster than I could count.”
“But I thought . . . I thought . . .” Aunt Kiki’s eyebrows squished together so tightly that a line appeared on her forehead.
Pops put his hand on her shoulder. “Well, dear, you thought wrong.”
The bell on the door chimed, and Mom stumbled in with teary eyes, walking like she were in a dream. She rushed toward me and wrapped me in a tight hug, a mommy cocoon. “I’m so sorry!”
My sixth sense felt a surge of sorrow churning inside her.
Dad put an arm around her shoulder. “Gail, what’s wrong?” He led her to a stool.
Mom sat at the counter, and Aunt Kiki brought her a glass of water. Mom took a sip with shaky hands and swallowed hard. She looked at me. “I went to Borden after school today to talk to your teacher, Mr. Toll.”
Mr. Toll was officially my teacher, but he never spent much time in the classroom. He was always off doing “administrative duties,” which must be code for reading the paper and eating powdered donuts in the lounge, which is what I saw him doing every time I walked by.
I squeezed my fists tight, fearing the worst. Did he tell her I was a failure? List all the dumb “assessments” I could not pass? Did he describe my “uncooperative behavior”? I was 100 percent sure he did NOT tell Mom about Miss Marcia stealing my lunch money or locking me in the time-out closet or leaving me to sit outside on the blacktop for hours at a time. Anything Mr. Toll had to say about me would be diagnosis: disaster.
Pops’ sweet potato-walnut shake churned in my stomach.
“I didn’t have an appointment,” Mom continued.
She spoke like a person in shock, like someone who had just witnessed Bigfoot battling the Abominable Snowman in the middle of Main Street.
Did Mr. Toll say I was too special even for Borden? What could be worse than Bord
en? Maximum security prison?
My body shivered.
“I wanted to talk to Mr. Toll . . . ask about Charity’s behavior in school . . . tell him about her mood changes.”
My heartbeat doubled.
He LIED to you! They are hiding the TRUTH!
The ice cream shake flip-flopped in my stomach. I pressed my lips together and willed it to stay down.
“When I got to the school, no one was at the front desk, so I walked directly to the classroom.”
What? Did they stop you? Did you make it past the NO-PARENT zone?
Everyone gathered closer to hear Mom’s words.
Mom continued. “The classroom that is always so spotless and cheerful every year for parents’ night . . .”
Did you SEE it? DID YOU SMELL IT?
Mom snapped her head toward Dad and spit out her words rapid-fire. “Steve, I tell you it was a pigpen—filthy, stinking, full of broken toys and . . . and . . . not a place of learning at all. Nothing but scribbles on the chalkboard. Puzzles with missing pieces—wooden baby puzzles—were scattered on the floor along with mismatched Legos . . . and . . . and shoeboxes of broken crayons and dried-out markers. And a closet . . . a storage closet . . . labeled ‘TIME OUT’ in big, red letters.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it.”
Dad’s face turned white, Mom’s red.
“It made me so angry!” She pounded her fist on the counter.
SHE KNOWS? SHE FINALLY KNOWS?
Now I was the one in shock.
Big tears welled in Mom’s eyes. “I took out my phone to take pictures of this so-called classroom. That’s when Miss Marcia burst in and started yelling at me. She said I wasn’t allowed to be there. That I had no right to take pictures. Then Mr. Toll came in and threatened to report me to the police for trespassing. So I yelled back at them. ‘What kind of classroom is this? How could you possibly lock kids in storage closets for time-outs? I should call the police on you!’ And Miss Marcia said, she actually said, and I quote, ‘You don’t get it, do you? These kids are lost causes. Your kid was sent here because no other school wants her.’”
Mom put her head in her hands and inhaled like she was catching her breath. Aunt Kiki handed her a napkin from the dispenser. Mom blew her nose and continued. “Well, I don’t want to tell you how I responded, it may have included a few four-letter, pardon-my-French words, but the last thing I said was ‘Charity will never set foot in Borden Academy again. Just you wait until I tell the district what kind of school you’re running here.’”
Mom dabbed the tears on her cheek and squeezed me tight again.
Even without a red cape, Mom did a pretty good job of kicking butt.
In my mind, I heard the squeak of an iron jail cell door opening wide.
Freedom? Is it possible?
My mind could hardly soak it in.
A tidal wave of emotion crashed inside my chest, and my entire ice cream shake spewed onto the floor.
Barbecued
Mason slinked into Gram’s kitchen and stacked four cheese-loaded crackers into his palm, probably hoping to make a quick getaway before someone spoke to him.
“Good news, Mason.” Mom put her arm around his shoulder. “Charity might be going to your school in a few weeks.”
Mason’s pale face turned even whiter, but he just stared straight ahead and said, “K.”
Page 239: Startled rabbits freeze to assess the danger then run away.
“That will be fun, won’t it, sweetie?” Aunt Kiki, in a teal pantsuit, smiled big. “You two could eat lunch together.”
Poor Mason. Hard enough being the new kid at his school. Having me there would be like diagnosis: explosive diarrhea.
Mason glanced toward me. I sat at the table tapping my fingers to the song in my head—Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—and munching my cracker in rhythm.
Tap, munch, tap, munch.
He ended the conversation by ducking outside.
“Public school?” Aunt Elvi stood in the doorway making her pity face. “Seriously, Gail, how’s this gonna make any difference?”
Aunt Kiki whispered, “Come on, Elvi, be sensitive.”
Mom clenched her jaw. “Don’t start with me, Elvi. I’ve tutored Charity at grade level since she was three. She’ll be able to understand. I know she will.”
Elvi shook her head. “When are you gonna wake up, Gail?”
“Stop talking like that in front of her,” Mom hissed.
Elvi put her hand on her hips. “Get real, Gail, what makes you think she understands a word we’re saying? I wish she did. I wish to heck she did, but she doesn’t.” Elvi turned to me and smiled. “Charity, honey, blink twice if you understand what I’m saying. Just blink twice.”
Everyone stared at me.
Of course, my eyelids did not obey.
Elvi went up to Mom and held both her hands. “Look at me, Gail. This isn’t gonna work. You’ve been killing yourself for years and nothing works. Not only are you wasting your life, you’re torturing the poor kid.”
Mom looked her in the eyes. “You don’t understand because you’re not a mother yet, Elvi. Just wait. There’s nothing you won’t do for your child.”
Elvi huffed a big sigh and held up her hands. “You’re killing me, Gail. Literally killing me.” She turned and walked away.
At least they were talking again.
“When will she start?” Aunt Kiki asked, smiling, as if the previous conversation never happened.
“Well, we’re still not sure they’ll accept her,” Mom said. “If I could bribe someone, I would.”
For the past two weeks, Mom argued with district administrators. They were the ones who kicked me out of public school in the first place and pressured my mom to put me in Borden. My mother, who could hardly bring herself to send back a bowl of soup with a fly swimming in it, roared into the phone every day.
“Ashamed, you should be ashamed! How can you call Borden a school? I can’t believe you would let this abuse continue. You don’t care what happens to these kids as long as they’re hidden away where you can’t see them.”
I imagined Mom as a Marine drill instructor screaming at the top of her lungs. Drop and give me fifty pushups, you useless maggot! You worthless pile of cat puke! You miserable excuse for a school administrator!
“We are fully prepared to sue for damages unless our daughter is admitted to a public school. That is her legal right. And she needs a full-time aide to support her. Hiring an aide costs a fraction of the tuition that the district doled out to send her to that prison.”
A real public school with actual learning? With actual teachers who teach? The idea excited me. It also terrified me. Equations filled my head.
Public school = learning.
Learning = hope.
Friendship potential = zero.
Embarrassment opportunities = infinite.
I imagined the jokes, the insults, the snickers every time my legs stumbled down the hall. At least at Borden our strangeness was shared.
And how could I move on with sweet Isabella still stuck at Borden?
Dad strolled into the kitchen. “Come on, Cherry. Let’s get you a hot dog with extra grease.”
After dinner, I wandered the garden counting ladybugs on Gram’s bright yellow marigold flowers—there were eighteen last week. Elvi and her new husband, Joel, sat in the grass staring at the orange sky. I noted her dazed look, the look grownups get after a few adult beverages. The disaster of the wedding streamed in my mind, big as an IMAX film.
Elvi laid her head on the fresh-cut lawn, her tattooed arms folded behind her neck.
Joel smiled at me. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” When I didn’t answer, he turned to Elvi. “You think she understands anything we’re saying?”
“Gail seems to think so, but just look at her
. What do you think?”
Joel observed me hopscotching through the grass with flapping hands. “Geez, tough stuff.”
Elvi kept talking to Joel like I was not even there. “If we have kids, babe, we gotta pray we don’t get dealt a bad hand same as Gail and Steve, you know? I mean, I’ve been tellin’ her for years—for yeeeeears—to put that poor girl in a home. Gail spends every minute of her life runnin’ around takin’ care of that kid. Of her life! When is she gonna face reality? I mean, would the kid know the difference?”
Pity poisons bubbled up inside me. I wanted to cry, but instead my body jumped and clapped.
I begged for words.
My ears work. My brain understands. Can’t you see I am a REAL PERSON?
Jump, clap, jump, clap.
Aunt Elvi kept talking like I was invisible, like I was a five-foot-three fig tree. “I’m gonna talk to Gail about it again. Sooner or later, she’s gonna have to face facts. I mean, now that Gail took her outta school, this would be the perfect time.”
The Interview
“He just wants to meet you and say hello.”
Mom tried to sound calm, but she was dusting the same cabinet for the third time, so I knew this was more than saying hello. The principal of Lincoln Junior High was coming to check me out.
Translation: He wanted to see how big a mess I was, maybe hoping to get rid of me before I set foot in a classroom.
I have spent my entire life being tested. After every test, the Thinkers put another label on me, and their conclusion is always the same. Diagnosis: idiot. Except they use more technical terms.
Their labels do not define me. They only limit me.
Mom sat me at the dining room table to work on one of my 200-piece puzzles—a flock of red cardinals perched in a snowy birch tree. Maybe she thought this would impress our visitor.
Probability: low.
Dad was in his usual aloha mood, cracking pistachios and handing me a few at a time. I munched the salty seeds while separating red puzzle pieces into a pile.
1, 2, 3, 4 . . .
I liked following a certain order based on colors and patterns. For this puzzle, mostly red pieces, then mostly blue, then mostly white—birds, then sky, then snowy birch tree.
