Real

by Carol Cujec

  5, 6 . . . this one has equal red and white . . . it goes in its own pile . . .

  Mom glared at Dad as she swept pistachio shells into her hand.

  43 shells, 86 half shells . . . 7, 8, 9 . . .

  “Can we keep this room clean for five minutes?”

  Dad exhaled, preparing for Mom’s eruption. “Relax, Gail. You’re only making everyone more nervous.” He shot me a goofy smile.

  “Charity’s suffered enough, Steve. They have to let her in.” Mom polished the television screen with a lint-free rag. “Charity, you deserve the same opportunities as every other student.”

  Yes, but other students can talk and have bodies they can control . . . 35, 36, 37 . . .

  “All we can do is hope for the best,” Dad said. “And if it doesn’t work out . . .”

  Mom threw the rag on the floor. “If it doesn’t work out, then that’s it.” Her voice got higher. “The next stop is . . .” She paused and looked at Dad like she might throw up. “PV,” she whispered.

  I knew exactly what she meant. Pine Valley Developmental Center.

  The last time we went there, I almost did not come home. The thought made me want to throw up too.

  …

  I was eight years and fifty-three days old. My parents had fought to get an appointment with some superstar neurologist after a nightmare week of my body going berserk and me not sleeping.

  When I do not sleep, nobody sleeps.

  We walked in looking like zombies and were led to a

  refrigerator-cold exam room, where we waited for twenty-four minutes. Mom and Dad did not speak. The buzzing fluorescent lights grew louder every minute. My worried legs kicked the metal exam table beneath me.

  Bang-bang, bang-bang.

  Dad helped me down and held hands to jump with me, singing a peppy Beach Boys tune. “And we’ll have fun, fun, fun . . .”

  Hop-hop right foot, hop-hop left foot.

  We were still jumping when Superdoc burst through the door without knocking. He raised one eyebrow, and Dad lifted me back onto the table. No time for chitchat. Same as all the Thinkers before him, he treated me as if I were a dog that could not be trained. He adjusted his glasses and started giving commands. I’m not sure what he had for lunch, but his breath smelled of stinky garlic and every few minutes, he let out a low burp.

  “Stack these cups.” [Burp.]

  There were six cups in bright colors, and I knew how he wanted me to stack them—so that they nested one inside the other, same as the beautiful Russian dolls Gram kept in her dining room cabinet. But my hands decided to line them up alphabetically, according to the name of each color: blue, green, orange, purple, red, yellow. He marked his clipboard. From his standpoint, I was sure that was a failure.

  “Come on, Charity. You can do this, sweetheart. Like you do at home all the time,” Mom said, rubbing my back.

  “Please do not assist your daughter, Mrs. Wood.” [Burp.]

  He pointed to the chair. That was his command to Mom.

  He turned back to me. “Jump,” he ordered.

  You saw me jumping a minute ago. You know I can jump . . . just not on command.

  “Touch your nose.”

  How does touching my nose prove anything? It does not show what’s inside my head.

  With each failed task, he marked his clipboard. My heart beat faster. My feet begged to run, but he was blocking the door. Nowhere to escape. I was a laboratory rat too dumb to get through its maze.

  “She’s actually very coordinated when she plays with her dolls.” Mom sounded desperate now. “She can comb their hair and dress them and put on their tiny socks and shoes.”

  The doctor poked and tapped me with his little rubber hammer.

  Page 240: Rats have strong teeth that can chew through cinderblock, glass, wire, and lead.

  I wish I were a rat so I could chew through these walls.

  “She can put together 200-piece puzzles all by herself,” Mom added as the doctor pinged a tuning fork and twirled it around my head.

  My head did not turn toward the sound. Failure.

  “Draw a circle,” he said, holding out a crayon. [Burp.]

  Great. Some days my hands are as coordinated as lobster claws. This was one of those days.

  My right hand reached.

  Got it.

  My fingers gripped the thin cylinder. This was the hardest of all his orders. I thought maybe if I could draw this circle for him then it would cancel out the other failures. This puny crayon, this three-inch stick of bright orange wax could determine my future.

  My beating heart knocked on my chest.

  Mom had spent hours practicing letters with me. This was just an “O.” The letter “O.” O as in Octopus. An animal so much smarter than anyone could guess by looking at it.

  Page 198: Highly intelligent, the octopus can navigate through mazes, open jars, and use coconut shells to create shelters.

  He held out a small notepad. Holding on tight with my fist, I lifted the crayon. The orange—burnt sienna, actually—wax touched the page. Mom and Dad held their breath.

  A tiny line.

  I can do this.

  An arc.

  Keep going!

  Then CRACK.

  The sound of the crayon breaking in my grip was like a piano falling from a tall building and smashing onto a concrete sidewalk. I opened my hand and watched the pieces fall in slow motion onto the floor.

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

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  My swinging hands struck the doctor’s arm and knocked his clipboard to the floor.

  He backed up to the wall as if I were some rabid dog. Dad put his arms around me and held me. He pulled me gently onto his lap and Mom stroked my hair.

  “Charity, you’re okay, sweetheart,” she chanted. “You’re okay, you’re okay. We are here with you.”

  I sucked in air and puffed it out through my lips.

  Suck, puff, suck, puff.

  The doctor bent down to pick up his papers. Then he scribbled his diagnosis on the clipboard right in front of me.

  Moderate to Severe Intellectual Disability

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wood, based on her files and my observations, Charity needs the type of support offered by a residential facility before her outbursts end up hurting herself or others.” He rubbed his arm where I had hit him.

  Residential facility? He wanted to take me away from my family? Make me live in an institution?

  I breathed harder because I knew he was right. I lived in terror every day that I would hurt myself or someone else. I hoped Mom and Dad were not remembering the times I darted into the street. Or the time I knocked down Gram when she was helping me put on shoes. Or the times I poked, pushed, or grabbed one of my classmates. I was only trying to play with them. I never wanted to hurt anyone.

  Suck, puff, suck, puff.

  The doctor’s voice sounded grandfatherly now. “I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to give round-the-clock care to a child who can hardly feed or dress herself.”

  Mom stared into space.

  I could not believe my parents were listening to this Thinker talk about sending me away.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Wood, you’ve lasted longer than most parents in your situation. You are only two people. At Pine Valley, we have a regular staff of twelve to supervise the residents, help them participate in recreational activities, and look after their every need.”

  Mom’s eyes overflowed and leaked onto my cheek. Dad clasped her hand. The doctor was wearing them down. My worst nightmare was about to come true.

  “Fortunately, we have an opening. She can be admitted this afternoon.”

  I dug deep into my spirit and begged the universe for help.

  Please, God. Please, please
, please let me go home with my parents today. I will owe you TIMES GOOGOLPLEX. I will spend my LIFE trying to repay you. Please, please, PLEASE do not let them take me away.

  What happened next, I cannot explain.

  I had heard stories of kids with no voice who, maybe once every ten years, opened their mouths and uttered a clear and complete sentence.

  That’s not what I did.

  Reaching deep into my soul, I felt a spark of electricity in my toes. It traveled up my legs to my stomach, my chest, my neck, and at last my lips.

  Not a whole sentence.

  Just one word, one whispered word escaped.

  If anyone had been talking or making noise, my one word would have been lost.

  My voice breathed, “No.”

  Mom jumped up. “Steve, did you hear it?”

  “I’m sure it was a random vocalization,” the doctor said. “Our medical staff can . . .”

  Dad bolted up with me still in his arms. “Enough! We’ve heard enough. We are going home now . . . with our daughter.”

  I wanted to shout for joy. I saw that leaving me was their worst nightmare too.

  When we got home, I fell asleep—we all did—for twelve hours straight.

  …

  But now, five years later, Pine Valley threatened me again. I had an IOU with God, but that was a losing bet coming from a helpless girl like me.

  If the public school rejected me, the district would send me to school at Pine Valley. That’s where they send the most hopeless cases. School? Ha! It was even more of a prison than Borden.

  The doorbell made us all jump, except for Hero, who ran toward it as usual, his stubby, brown bulldog tail wagging.

  Dad opened the door to reveal a man and woman who did not look like they belonged together at all.

  “Hello, I’m Celia Diaz, the special education coordinator.”

  She had long, crazy-curly hair and a leather jacket with eight zippers. I wanted to zip and unzip them all.

  She bent down to scratch Hero’s belly, which made his back leg thump, thump, thump. “Well hello, chiquito.”

  Her happy energy contrasted with the sour look of the school principal beside her, Mr. Edward Jergen. He smiled a wish-I-did-not-have-to-be-here smile. Wearing a gray suit, his hair stuck in place with gel, he looked more like a lawyer than a junior high principal.

  Ms. Diaz—“Call me Celia,” she insisted—hugged both my parents and came over to the table where I sat. She bent down to examine my puzzle.

  “Look at this beautiful creation.” Her hair smelled like cinnamon, and her curls tickled my cheek.

  Mom invited them to sit on our leather sofa.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wood, as you know, we’re here to assess your daughter’s placement,” Mr. Jergen said, pushing Hero away. I suppose he did not like drool on his shiny shoes.

  “We want her to be in a school that best fits her, a school with appropriate resources for children with her . . . challenges.”

  “Sounds as though you’ve already made up your mind.” Dad folded his arms.

  “Well, given her difficulties at Borden, Mr. Wood, I’m skeptical of her ability to . . . benefit from our program.”

  Working on my puzzle—blue pieces now—I caught Celia smiling at me. Observing me?

  122 . . . 123 . . . 124 . . . 76 more pieces to go.

  Mom, ready for battle, pulled out her most recent notebook and listed all the problems with Borden—from uncertified teachers to unsanitary conditions to inhumane treatment of students. Mr. Jergen fought back by pulling my file from his briefcase and listing all my documented failures at that school. After a few minutes of back and forth, Mr. Jergen’s voice got louder.

  “Mrs. Wood, please forgive me, but if your daughter can’t even pick up a pencil, I don’t see how she can benefit from our school.”

  He stood up, took a pencil, and plopped it on the table in front of me.

  A dare.

  My body froze.

  Oh no.

  I dropped the puzzle piece I was holding. My hands turned into lobster claws again.

  I wanted to dare him right back.

  How about this—I pick up the pencil with my lobster claws if you make a phone call with your feet.

  Mr. Jergen lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. “It’s the most basic of skills, Mrs. Wood, and time after time, your daughter has shown herself incapable of doing even this.”

  Mom’s lips frowned hard, but I knew he was royally right. The stupid yellow pencil lay there like a snake ready to bite. I knew my hand would not pick it up. Not with everyone watching. Not with him thinking I could not do it.

  My muscles froze. My heart raced.

  Page 261: The king cobra can inject large amounts of poisonous venom in a single bite.

  Mr. Jergen pulled out the wooden chair facing me, its legs screeching on the floor, and sat down. “Go ahead, Charity.” He spoke a little softer but did not really look at me. “Pick up the pencil.”

  Three seconds ticked on the grandfather clock in the living room, and his fingers drummed lightly on the oak table.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  He repeated his command.

  “Pick up the pencil . . . pick up the pencil . . . pick up the pencil.”

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Page 261: The venom causes severe pain, rapid breathing, blurred vision, and paralysis.

  Each time, his voice got louder, and his fingers sounded to my ears like bass drums pounding.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  I felt pity poisons gnawing at my stomach. I wished I could pick up the pencil and fling it at him. A KETTLE EXPLOSION was approaching, and at any moment these puzzle pieces would fly.

  Fact: He would be the winner.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Hello, Pine Valley.

  The venom causes severe pain, rapid breathing . . .

  I clenched both fists, all four adults and even Hero staring at me. I imagined life locked in a small room with no windows. No pictures on the walls. No family beyond the walls.

  Mom’s chest heaved a single sob.

  The lamp above the table scorched my cheeks. Sweat dribbled down my neck onto the dumb pink blouse Mom made me wear.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  The venom causes blurred vision . . . paralysis . . .

  My arms started pushing puzzle pieces on the floor.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Death soon follows.

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

  Celia leaned over and stopped Mr. Jergen’s tapping fingers. She spoke softly into my ear. “Charity, querida, could you please pick up that pencil for me?”

  I knew that word—querida. In Spanish, it meant dear.

  Without thinking, my hand grasped the pencil.

  “That’s it, querida. Now draw a little something for me on my notepad, anything you like.”

  She touched my elbow, and I lifted the pencil to her yellow pad.

  I drew a perfect circle.

  Mr. Jergen sat there for a few seconds with his mouth open.

  “Well, Mr. J,” Celia said, “how would you prefer to be asked?”

  She turned to my parents. “I have a feeling this is a very bright girl. Why don’t you tell us more about her strengths?”

  Wow. None of the Thinkers ever asked that before. Mom was the one hugging Celia this time. Then Mom threw open her notebook labeled Accomplishments and scribbled some notes, grinning widely.

  By the ti
me they left, Mr. Jergen could only say, “I will let you know the district’s decision soon.”

  Three days later, we got a message on our voicemail that made Mom and Dad jump up and down. I could attend Lincoln on a trial basis for one month. Mr. Jergen used the phrase “trial basis” five times.

  I was excited too.

  Then I realized the torture I could face as possibly the strangest mammal ever to enter their doors.

  I braced myself for the longest month of my life.

  Chance of Snow in Mexico

  Do most kids look forward to the first day of school? Nervous butterflies were ready to explode through my chest like an alien in Dad’s late-night movies.

  On Aunt Kiki’s advice, Mom dressed me in actual teenager clothes—jeans and a T-shirt with a sparkly violet heart on it. Mom French-braided my hair to keep it out of my face and painted my fingernails bright pink. When my pink fingers went into my mouth, Mom gave me my animal flashcards hooked together on a key ring to keep my hands busy. I flipped them one by one.

  Aardvark, flip, badger, flip, cobra, flip.

  “You look maaaarvelous,” she said.

  Yeah, I thought . . . I could almost pass as a real girl.

  “I don’t think a backpack is supposed to weigh twenty pounds, Gail,” Dad said, breezing into the kitchen for breakfast.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee before planting a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll do great, Super Cherry. I’ll whip up my sunrise special to give you megawatts of energy.”

  Mom packed and repacked my backpack—zebra-striped instead of Wonder Woman, thank goodness—as Dad dished up his yummy avocado tofu scramble with salsa. I needed extra help eating because my body was already energized with too many megawatts.

  After breakfast, Dad helped us to the car, and at 7:12 a.m., I took my first steps into Lincoln Junior High.

  One foot at a time. Do not let the humiliation start on day one.

  My legs shook like a newborn giraffe.

  Page 87: Newborn giraffes are about six feet tall and weigh 150 pounds.

  Sun from skylights dotted colorful murals on the walls. I drank in the blues, yellows, greens, and reds until the images came into focus—portraits of Abraham Lincoln and other famous people. I paused at a portrait of Thomas Jefferson and stared into his gray-wolf eyes. In gold letters below his face were painted his famous words, “All men are created equal.”