by Carol Cujec
Hypothesis: Dad has lost his mind.
I stomped my foot as Mom sat down next to me with the keyboard.
What’s the point?
“Coach George called to apologize. He said he wants you on the team. As a player this time.”
But I cannot dribble. I cannot pass.
“Well, you can run, can’t you? You can block. And most important, you can shoot.”
He grabbed the ball and two water bottles and headed for the door.
Fact: Dad’s positive attitude gets annoying sometimes.
At the park, I saw kids on tricycles, kids playing in the sandbox, everywhere kids together. I bounced the ball in place.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
I thought about all the years where my only playmate was dear old Dad.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Ever since he taught me to throw a nerf ball, he’s been my biggest cheerleader.
“Let’s practice a few free throws.” Dad pointed to the basket, and I threw.
“She shoots, she scores!” Dad yelled it every time I made a basket.
Passing was a different story though. A basketball is much bigger than a nerf ball.
Pass. Drop. Pass. Drop.
He throws it, she blows it!
A voice yelled from the sideline. “Try keeping your hands in position, Charity.”
“I see our assistant coach has arrived,” Dad said, wiping his forehead. I turned to see Mason standing there in black shorts and orange high-tops.
Mason nodded to Dad and came up to me. “Hey Chare. I meant to tell you the other day . . .” He looked down at the blacktop. “I’m real sorry about . . . you know . . . I was kind of a jerk to you before. I mean, Mom never told me anything and then seeing you again . . . felt like I didn’t know you anymore or you didn’t know me. Anyhow . . . I guess I was in shock.”
I wanted to tell him sorry too.
Sorry I whacked you in the nose.
I do not think he told anyone about that. Aunt Kiki would have said something to Mom about it for sure.
For the next ninety-two minutes, Mason and Dad took turns throwing me passes and teaching me to dribble. Sorry to say, my arms and legs still did not cooperate.
Felt good, though, to get another playdate with my cousin after all this time.
Wednesday after school, Dad took me to Hornets practice, and I realized he was right. I had to stick with the team to show I could fit in at Lincoln. To prove that kids like me could contribute and did not have to sit on the sidelines and watch other kids have a real life.
Dad helped me as I typed a short message to the team. I tapped one letter at a time while the girls looked confused and a little bored.
Dad pressed “play” on the iPad and an electronic voice spoke my words.
I am happy to be a Hornet. Thank you for including me.
A few girls smiled, and Coach George gave me a fist bump. “Waaaaay to go, kid!”
Darcy whispered something to Lilly and Grace that made all three girls giggle.
When we were little, Grace called me her BFF—her best friend forever. I guess her definition of forever was not the same as mine.
For the first drill, I ran alongside the court since I still could not dribble. When my legs darted in the wrong direction, Dad took my hand and led me the right way.
Finally, we got to shooting baskets. Coach George handed me the ball.
Everyone looked at me. I searched inside for confidence.
I can do this. Just like at the park. Twelve times in a row.
My hands became lobster claws. My arms became jellyfish tentacles. I tried to launch the ball from my chest, but it did not go above my head. It fell to the floor and rolled away, which made some girls crack up.
Guess which ones.
“Hornets!” Coach yelled, “that is not good sportsmanship. We’re all here to help Charity participate and cheer her on.”
Oh, great, cheer for the charity case.
“Shoot it again, kid. I saw what you did last time. You just need to warm up.”
The girls chatted while I lobbed flop after flop nowhere near the basket. My face burned hot from embarrassment and exhaustion. My feet jumped like the floor was boiling lava. That did not help.
Dad kept tossing me balls. “You can do this, Super Cherry. Same as we did in practice.”
I wanted to yell.
I can NOT do this. I told you this was a bad idea.
Dribble, jump, dribble, jump, dribble, jump.
Page 141: Kangaroos can jump 30 feet in a single bound.
“Is she gonna throw the ball or what?” Darcy shook her head and wandered over to the sideline, probably to sneak a few texts.
Get me out of here!
My heart hammered. I felt a KETTLE EXPLOSION approaching in 3 . . . 2 . . .
Then I heard Grace’s voice. She started clapping and chanting.
We got the ball [clap].
Get outta the way [stomp].
C’mon, Charity [clap],
Let’s score today [stomp]!
I froze.
Is this a joke?
Other girls joined in.
We got the ball [clap].
Get outta the way [stomp].
C’mon, Charity [clap],
LET’S SCORE TODAY [stomp]!
Now almost all the girls were clapping and cheering. Almost all.
We got the ball [clap].
Get outta the way [stomp].
C’mon, Charity [clap],
LET’S SCORE TODAY [stomp]!
A surge of energy traveled from my toes to my chest and into my tired arms. I launched the ball into the air. It flew toward the basket . . . hit the backboard . . . rebounded like BAM! . . . and knocked Darcy in the back. Darcy’s phone flew out of her hands and slid across the floor, stopping right in front of Coach.
She shoots, she scores!
Everyone burst into laughter. Darcy’s face turned red when Coach took away her phone.
I made no baskets, but at the end of practice, a few girls came up to me.
“Good hustle, Charity.”
“Keep trying, you’ll get it.”
Grace whispered, “Nice job prying Darcy’s phone away. I thought that thing was superglued to her hands.”
For a few seconds at least, I was not a charity case.
Then I caught Darcy glaring at me. She moved her finger across her neck.
Like a knife to the throat.
Hypothesis: I have an enemy.
Cool Genes
The science room reeked from jars filled with floating specimens—fish, frogs, snakes, a tiny pig, and what looked like a few autopsied aliens.
“Let’s sit by the door in case you need to take a walk.” Ana set up my puzzle on the front table.
On full display, same as the other strange specimens.
I organized puzzle pieces as the school’s brainiest kids entered for advanced science.
Orange pieces, orange pieces, 19 . . . 20 . . . 21 . . .
Grace walked in with her friends, who were wearing their yellow and black cheerleader uniforms—short, pleated skirts and sweaters with a big L on the front. Lilly and Darcy were cheerleaders.
I am beginning to think Jaz is right about cheerleaders.
All three girls looked at me, confused.
Jaz wheeled in and gave me a thumbs-up before parking in the back row.
The teacher, stone-faced Mr. Harding, peered at me from his desk and squished his eyebrows together. My shoulders shrugged over and over as if to say I did not know what the heck I was doing here either.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
33 . . . 34 . . . 35 . . .
Brilliant but tough—that’s how Jaz described Mr. Harding. Her actual words were
, “He makes some kids pee their pants when he calls them out in class.”
This may hurt a little.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Mr. Harding approached and looked down at us from his six-foot-four altitude. If Pops were here, he might joke, “How’s the air up there?”
Harding talked to Ana as if I were invisible.
“As I told Ms. Diaz, your student is welcome to join the class as long as she does not disrupt the learning.”
Maybe this was a mistake.
“I heard there was an issue in Ms. Beckett’s classroom,” he continued. “You will find me less tolerant than she of classroom disturbances. I do not permit disruptions from my . . . shall we say . . . traditional students, and I will not permit them from students of . . . shall we say . . . special status. That being said, welcome to my class, Ms. Dupont.”
“It is not me you should welcome, Mr. Harding.”
He looked confused. Ana pointed to me.
“Her name is Charity, Charity Wood. And of all the classes at Lincoln, she was most eager to attend yours. She insisted on it, actually. Against our advice.”
It was true. I wanted to understand biology—my own nutty neurons in particular. But all of it fascinated me—animals, plants, insects, right down to the one-celled protozoa.
“What do you mean she insisted?” Harding asked, lowering his glasses to the tip of his pointed nose. “She can talk?”
“As we explained in the file we provided you, she communicates through typing. I support her arm to give her the motor control to type with one finger. One letter at a time.”
He raised his eyebrows and brushed his fingers on his chin.
“She learned to do this only a few weeks ago,” Ana said.
“Fascinating.” Harding said this to himself and observed me for the first time. He did not exactly smile—his lips formed a straight line—but I had a feeling that was as close as he got to smiling.
Harding approached the whiteboard, pointing his black marker toward the class like a sword. His deep voice echoed off the green walls.
“Class, let us continue our discussion of genetics. I assume everyone has carefully studied chapter six.”
His voice a human megaphone.
Breathe in peace.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Blue pieces now, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .
He dove into a lecture on genes and chromosomes, the secret code contained in all our cells, a code that was passed down from all our ancestors. It controls so many things about who we are and what we look like. I understood now how I inherited Dad’s blue eyes and Mom’s dimples.
Breathe out fear.
My mind latched on. I listened in a trance, seeing DNA strands in my mind, zipping and unzipping in endless combinations.
Harding’s wavy silver hair flopped up and down as he sketched diagrams of genetic crosses on the board. Mr. Harding talked about mistakes in the genetic code that gave people diseases.
“Albinism is a genetic mutation that results in the offspring completely lacking pigment in the skin, eyes, or hair. It is caused by a defect of the enzyme tyrosinase, which is involved in the production of melanin.”
Just because there is an error in someone’s genes does not mean that person is an error. Does it?
Ana’s fingers sprinted across her laptop, typing pages of notes for me, but I knew I would remember everything. Having my brain challenged kept my body in control as my hands automatically arranged and attached puzzle pieces.
Red pieces, red pieces, 32 . . . 33 . . . 34 . . .
Mr. Harding’s brown loafers paced the tile floor as he patrolled the classroom. He was a wolf stalking terrified rabbits. Kids jumped in their seat when he called their name.
“Stuart! How many genes in the human genome?” He pointed a bony finger at Stuart in the front row.
“Twenty-three.” Stuart replied in a deep voice, maybe to sound more mature.
Harding raised an eyebrow, and the blood drained from Stuart’s face.
“I mean twenty-three hundred, give or take.”
Mr. Harding nodded and moved on. Stuart blew a puff of air out of his lips.
“Darcy! What is the chance of this genetic cross resulting in an albino child?” He pointed to a diagram on the board marked with letters in boxes representing different gene combinations.
Darcy’s face had been looking down—probably at her phone again—but she flung her long, blonde hair off her shoulder, looking easy-breezy under pressure.
“Two in four will be a mutant, Mr. Harding.” Her white teeth dazzled confidence.
Harding frowned. “That is incorrect.”
She squinted at the board as though maybe she hadn’t seen it correctly. Five seconds of Harding scowling at her must have seemed like five years.
“You should spend more time reading the chapter and less time reading your texts, young lady.”
Her face dropped, and the air hissed with muffled snickers.
I lifted my eyes from my puzzle to see Harding’s gray laser-beam eyes piercing me.
Page 315: A dominant wolf stands tall with ears pointing upward and teeth exposed.
“How about our new student? What is the chance of this genetic cross resulting in an albino child?”
Ana nodded and got into typing position with me.
Is he testing me?
Page 315: A submissive wolf crouches low, its head between its legs.
I knew what albino meant scientifically, but I also understood what it meant to a real person. In the park when Dad and I practiced hoops, we often saw a boy about five years old whose snowy white hair and skin peeked out under a floppy hat. He wore long pants and sleeves to protect him from the sun. He usually played alone, scooping sand into his bucket and pouring it back out.
I studied the diagram, and Ana supported my arm to type while Mr. Harding waited with folded arms. A few kids yawned.
Breathe in confidence.
The ticking clock grew louder each second.
Breathe out doubt.
Ana cleared her throat and read my reply.
The answer is one in four.
Mr. Harding nodded. Ana held up her finger to signal that there was more.
That child is no mutant but should be as valued as the other three.
His eyebrows went up. “You are correct on both counts, Charity.”
He actually said my name.
“I see some people in the class nodding their heads,” Harding said. “Thank you for helping us remember the human side of genetics here.”
The last half hour of class was reserved for lab work in small groups. Ana scanned the room to see where we could join.
Grace, Darcy, and Lilly set up their microscope beside us. Grace smiled. “I liked what you said, Charity. It’s practically impossible to impress Mr. Harding. How about joining our group?”
Lilly’s eyes got big and flashed Grace an are-you-kidding-me look.
I typed, I will do my best.
Ana eyed Lilly and Darcy, probably remembering what happened in English class.
Darcy’s berry lip gloss lit up a sudden smile. “Hey, sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, Charity. Let’s be friends. I can tell you’re really smart.”
Lilly nodded in agreement, snapping her spearmint gum.
Could I trust them? I noted the expression on Lilly’s face: Hashtag whatever.
Grace read the instructions out loud. We were working with live fruit flies, some of them “wild type” and some “mutants” with red eyes. The mutants actually looked cuter . . . if a fruit fly can look cute.
Grace stuck a small wand soaked in a chemical into the jar of wild flies to put them to sleep. After two minutes, she tipped the jar to transfer the sleeping flies onto a plastic petri dish.
; Ana steadied my head above the microscope so I could observe. Giant eyes and delicate, transparent wings—nature’s perfection in a minuscule package.
Lilly lowered her eyes to the microscope as if it might bite. “Eeeeew . . . these things are so gross. Hashtag nasty!”
“Give me a break,” Grace said. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be a doctor?”
“Yeah,” Darcy said, “but she meant a loooove doctor.”
The three girls laughed. Grace pulled Lilly away from the scope so she could take over counting male versus female flies. Darcy marked the totals on our lab sheet.
When we finished, Lilly picked up the petri dish and wrinkled her nose. “Let’s smush these bugs before they wake up.”
Darcy grabbed the dish from her. “No, you ditz, we need to put them back in the jar. Like Charity said, every life has value.”
I nodded and typed my agreement.
Yes, and today these flies are our teachers.
Darcy reached out her hand for a fist bump.
“Right on,” Grace said. She gathered the supplies to put back on the shelf.
When the bell rang, Ana went to talk to Mr. Harding about how to adapt the homework for me. With help, I could type and I could point now, but I still could not hold a pen to diagram genetic crosses. I was sure Ana would find a way to include me.
Darcy turned to me, hand on her hip. “Hey, fun working with you today, Charity.” She and Lilly smiled big.
I could not believe it. These girls who treated me like trash a few days ago stood in front of me, talking to me as if . . . I was . . . a friend.
Breathe in joy.
They smiled and stared at me a few more seconds.
Jaz was wrong about cheerleaders.
“Don’t you have anything to say to us?” asked Darcy. “Go ahead and type.”
She pointed to the keyboard, but my hands were useless without someone to support me. My shoulders started shrugging again.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Darcy rolled her eyes at Lilly. “Told you.”
It was not until I got back to the EPIC room that I realized how stupid I was to think these girls might be my friends.
I opened my backpack, and a cloud of fruit flies zoomed out.
Homework Help
Our neighbor Dr. Singh was so excited to learn I could type, she brought us a plate of homemade pistachio cookies to celebrate. “I always knew you had a spark, young lady. I could see it in your pretty blue eyes.”
