by Carol Cujec
She squeezed my cheeks the way old people do and patted my face. “I have learned so much by observing your progress through the years—and now that you can type . . . well, you can teach me even more.” Dr. Singh turned to Mom. “What can I do to help? You will find I’m a good worker ant.”
Mom and I were in the middle of our daily homework session. Since I could not turn pages very well, Dr. Singh volunteered to record my textbook readings so I could listen while riding in the car or eating breakfast—my very own audio-books.
I could not believe all the other people who volunteered to support me now that they knew I had a brain. Must be how Scarecrow felt after visiting the Wizard of Oz.
Random kids at school helped Ana collect my puzzle pieces at the end of every class.
Aunt Kiki became our graphic artist. She made posters of charts and tables and poems from my textbooks and pasted them to my bedroom and bathroom walls so I could study while brushing my teeth or getting dressed. I stared at a poem by a famous writer named Emily Dickinson—“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers— that perches in the soul”—every night before falling asleep.
But the biggest surprise had to be Aunt Elvi. She sat me and Mom down on Gram’s flowered sofa at one of our Sunday barbecues and handed us a box the size of a board game.
She gazed into me with her cat eyes. “I just hope it’s not too little too late.”
I opened the box top, and Mom dropped her head to her chest like she had been knocked out. “Elvi, this must’ve been so expensive. You guys can’t afford this,” she protested.
Elvi blinked back tears. “No, no, no, it’s the least we coulda done. Turns out we had some cash hanging around after returning a few lame wedding gifts.”
She knelt down. “Girl, this should be useful for your school. I was never good at school myself. I’m already proud of you, and you didn’t even graduate anything yet.”
Mom reached into the box to pull out a brand-new iPad with a Bluetooth keyboard in a cardinal-red leather case.
“Try it out. I already charged it and all. Guy at the store downloaded an app that will speak everything you type.” Elvi sat next to me and lifted the leather cover to reveal the smooth, glass screen. Her hand, wearing five silver rings, patted mine.
My sixth sense felt a strong emotion flowing through her. Elvi—the name my mind always rearranged to spell Evil—now rang in my heart as LV—the two consonants in the word love.
Mom sat next to me and supported my arm. My words appeared on the glossy screen. I pushed the “talk” button, and the iPad spoke my sentence.
No words to say thank you.
“Awww, you do good in school and that’s all the thanks I need.”
Doing good in school was my goal. With Mom’s help, I worked on Elvi’s iPad till ten every night, reading, completing homework sheets, and writing essays letter by letter.
Typing with one finger—ugh, it’s slow. My mind races ahead a million miles an hour. At the same time, I have to control a body that itches to scurry and jump like a kangaroo rat.
Mom’s job was to keep me focused as I typed by giving me prompts, just as Dr. Peterman had taught her. “Is that the letter you want? Great—keep going. Are you done with your sentence or would you like to say more? I know your legs want to stand up. Try to finish your thought first.”
Dad took me for walks when I needed to move. He also became my personal cheerleader. Every time I finished an assignment, he punched his fists in the air, “Go, Cherry, go! Get to the goal!” with Hero wagging his tail and barking along.
For my advanced science project, I asked Mr. Harding if I could write about Down syndrome, which my friends Isabella and Skyler live with. I wanted to know how one tiny error in someone’s genetic code could bully its way into every part of a person’s life. I wanted to know why these two beautiful girls with the most loving hearts also had heart conditions.
Mostly I wanted to know they would be okay.
Mom read from books we checked out of the library. She explained the “abnormal cell division” and “extra genetic material from the twenty-first chromosome.” After a few minutes, I stopped her, and typed.
The textbook explains the science, but I want to know how people are treated.
Mom sighed and pulled out another book. This one showed old pictures of children with blank expressions locked in cages or curled up into a ball on the floor of institutions. Mom read to me about kids being starved, used as test subjects for medical experiments, children still today denied medical treatment.
After a few minutes, her voice broke. She closed the book and shook her head. “I can’t read anymore.”
My heart flooded with emotion. I tried to type a W, but my hand slammed into the keyboard and threw up an alphabet soup onto the screen. Mom reached out and steadied my arm, and I started to type.
When will we hear about my letter to superintendent? Already 14 days passed.
Mom grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Celia called me yesterday with the bad news. I wasn’t sure how to tell you.” Mom put her arm around me. “The superintendent said ours was the only complaint they received about Borden. She promised to keep it in a file in case other complaints come in.”
Just what I thought. Why would they listen to a kid? Especially one like me?
If I cannot shut down Borden, maybe I can still save Isabella. Can I talk to her parents?
She exhaled slowly. “Well, Charity, they obviously feel that Isabella is in the best place for her . . .”
I smacked my palm on the book. Mom supported my arm so I could type.
No, not the best place for her. Notnotnot
Mom frowned. “I can tell you’re determined, but it would be nearly impossible to contact her family. Borden would never give us their information.”
Talk to her mom before school at the drop-off line.
Mom smiled. “Like super-secret spies, huh? Well, I can’t guarantee Borden won’t call the police if they see us on their campus.”
I will take that chance.
Operation Isabella
Mom nudged me awake.
“It’s time.”
A gray light peeked through the daisy-print curtains above my bed.
Even the sky is still asleep.
Mom helped me get dressed and into the car. At 6:15 a.m., we pulled up to a curb to wait. Mom sipped hot coffee. Blueberry smoothie for me, through a straw. No more sippy cups, thank goodness.
We knew that drop-off started at 6:30, but we had no idea what car to look for or what time Isabella might arrive.
A real-life stake-out.
Mom played her achy-breaky country music as we watched car after car drive by. A few pulled up to the school. I was not sure what Mom had in mind, but I was hoping it did not involve a two-car collision.
Mom hummed her “friends in low places” song, when I saw a flash of red hair in the mirror—a woman driving a minivan. That had to be her mom. I slapped the seat.
“It’s go time.” Mom sounded like a cop on one of those police shows.
She zoomed into the street and pulled alongside the minivan at the stoplight before the school. She honked lightly a couple of times before a woman with wild red hair rolled down her window. Through the woman’s annoyed expression, I noted her nose dotted with freckles, same as Isabella’s.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Wood. My daughter Charity used to be in class with your daughter.”
Isabella’s mom shook her head as if she had no idea what was going on. I pounded my window to get Isabella’s attention in the back seat. Could she see me through the tinted windows? Probability: low.
When the light turned green, the minivan drove forward and entered the drop-off line.
Miss Marcia started shuffling over. The sight of her made me want to barf.
Mom pulled alongside Isabella’s car again. “Please, please, my daughter wants to talk with you and Isabella. Here is our number. Please call us.” Mom crumpled up the paper with our phone number and threw it through the open window of Isabella’s car. The redheaded woman shrieked as if Mom had just tossed a dead rat.
This is not going well.
Miss Marcia pointed at us and started dialing a number on her cellphone. But Mom sped away with a tire screech and a wave.
The Welcome Table
Pepperoni, not soggy cheese.
Tuesday was pizza day in the cafeteria, and now I could ask for my favorite kind.
Julian joined our little lunch group, bringing his iPad to add his voice to the conversation. He typed, gazing intently at the screen through thick glasses. His electronic voice spoke with an Australian accent today. “I’m gonna sit at the welcome table.”
“Hey—that’s the name of a song, isn’t it?” asked Jaz.
Julian typed:
“Yes, a great old spiritual.”
“I remember learning about this in English class,” Jaz said. “People sang it during the civil rights movement when African Americans fought for equal rights.”
I typed with Ana steadying my arm:
Works for our cafeteria too.
“Yeah,” Jazmine’s face lit up, and she sang with Skyler clapping along.
I’m gonna sit at the cool kids’ table,
I’m gonna sit at the cool kids’ table one of these days,
Hallelujah!
Jaz scooped a spoonful of peach yogurt and spilled a drop on her shirt. “Geez, by the end of the day my shirt looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”
Peter muttered with a full mouth, “What the heck does that mean?”
“He’s the artist who dribbled and dripped paint on the canvas.” Jaz shook her head. “And today those paintings are worth millions.”
Skyler perked up. “I will paint one for you and you will be rich.” She meant it.
Julian typed:
“You can buy a turbo-charged, windblown-hair wheelchair.”
Jaz laughed. I giggled inside too—the electronic voice did not ruin the joke.
“Room for one more?”
All eyes stared at the guy standing over us with three pieces of pizza piled on his plate. He flipped his surfer bangs out of his face and squeezed between me and Skyler.
Hypothesis: Aunt Kiki was forcing him to sit with me again.
“I’m Charity’s cousin, Mason.”
Wow. Cover blown.
His cool-kid status was dropping every second he sat here with us EPIC kids.
“I get it,” Jaz said. “You’re the guy who led the lost sheep back to her flock during that disastrous fire drill. I suspect some dumb girls pulled the alarm on purpose to freak us out.”
“Dumb girls? Usually it’s dumb guys who do stuff like that.” Mason smiled, a slice of pepperoni hanging out of his mouth.
Jaz eyed the cool kids’ table, Lilly and Darcy the loudest of the bunch. “It’s a feeling I have.” She scrunched her eyebrows and peered at Mason. “How do we know you’re not a spy? You could be here to gather dirt on us for future torture.”
Julian pounded his fist on the table and typed:
“This is the welcome table!”
He pointed to the screen and Jaz nodded.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mason said. “My days hanging with the jocks and cheerleaders are over. Being the new kid, I thought I could remake my image. But you can’t change who you are. From now on, I’m going back to my usual strategy for fitting in: Keep your head low.”
Jaz laughed. “And we’re about as low as you can get at this school.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I just try not to stand out.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong table,” she said. “We stick out wherever we go. You can tell that by the people staring and gawking.” Jaz slurped her chocolate milk then pointed at Mason with a dramatic gotcha stare. “Tell us what really happened. Did they kick you out of the cool kids’ club?”
“I think they finally realized I’m a geek at heart. Charity knows I spent the last eight years living in Milwaukee.” He grabbed his surfer T-shirt and pointed at the logo. “I’ve never even been on a surfboard. And I’d rather spend a day playing video games than hanging at the beach.”
“Minecraft or Warcraft?” Julian typed.
“Warcraft, definitely, bro.” Mason and Julian bumped fists.
“No way,” Peter said. “You guys are crazy!”
While Jaz refereed the debate between Julian and Peter, Mason scooted closer. I noted the painful expression on his face, like he was about to have teeth pulled.
“I, uh, actually wanna give you a heads-up, Charity.”
Uh-oh.
Fact: No one ever gives a heads-up for good news.
“The main reason I’m done with those jerks is . . . well . . . there’s this app they have on their phones. It posts anonymous comments from people at our school.”
He spoke softly, taking bites of pizza as he went.
“A kind of chatroom for all that he-said-she-said junior high bull.”
Mason scanned the cafeteria to see if anyone was watching.
“Anyhow, there’s a comment that appeared there today from someone called Sassygirl72. It’s freaking ridiculous, and I don’t want to show it to you, but you gotta know.”
He pulled out his phone and slid it in front of me like a spy passing top-secret intelligence. I read it and felt my heart slip out of my chest and skid across the cold cafeteria floor.
It said: No retards in advanced classes. Tell Jergen.
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
I slid his phone back so no one else would see. It would not help me to have Mom ranting to Jergen—or worse—Jaz mowing down cheerleaders in the hallway.
My hands drummed on the table.
Slap-slap. Rock. Slap. Rock. Slap-slap. Rock. Slap.
“Everything alright here?” Ana popped her head into our discussion.
That’s the problem with needing an aide to communicate. No privacy. She took hold of my typing hand. I pulled it away.
Mason stuffed his last bite of pizza in his face to avoid further questions.
Slap-slap. Rock. Slap. Rock. Slap-slap. Rock. Slap.
I closed my eyes and retreated to the world inside my mind. All the sounds and colors of the world, so beautiful and bright.
Charity is not home at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.
I could hypothesize which cool kid posted the message. Was Jergen collecting complaints about me? If so, how many strikes before I was out?
Mission Improbable
When the doorbell rang, Mom and Hero hurried to answer it. I held my breath.
Page 36: Mother cougars have been known to battle grizzly bears to protect their cubs.
Isabella zoomed right to me. We danced, our feet flying.
“Mommy, I told you she was my friend! I told you it was Charity!”
Isabella’s mother stepped cautiously inside and gave Mom what Pops calls a dead-fish handshake. Her thin lips turned up in an almost-smile.
“Halloo.” I noted a soft accent. “I’m Emily Moore.”
Mom offered her a seat in our most comfy armchair. “I hope we didn’t scare you at the drop-off line. I had no other way to contact you. We’re not exactly welcome at Borden anymore.”
Mrs. Moore accepted the cup of ginger tea Mom handed her.
“In truth, I thought Isabella had no friends at Borden,” Mrs. Moore said. “She doesn’t talk much about school.”
She took one of Mom’s snickerdoodle cookies and dipped it in her tea.
“Isabella got so excited seeing Charity in your car, I knew w
e had to pay a call.”
Isabella pulled a colorful book off the coffee table and patted the sofa for me to sit beside her. Like she did at Borden, Isabella turned pages and pointed to each picture for me to follow along while our moms chatted.
After a few minutes, my body grew restless. I bounced up and down on the sofa.
Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce.
My mind begged.
Let me speak.
Mom understood and settled next to me with my keyboard.
Mom explained, “Until a few months ago, my daughter was unable to communicate. Since Charity began typing, she’s told us many things about her time at Borden and how fond she is of your daughter.”
Mrs. Moore smiled—a true smile this time—and nodded at me.
Mom continued. “And because Charity cares so much about Isabella, she has an urgent message for you.”
Mrs. Moore stopped chewing and put down her cup of tea. Without a word, she watched me type for the next few minutes.
My chest sucked in air faster as I tapped the keyboard. The truth begged to come out.
Please let her listen to me.
Isabella stared at me, clapping at every word I typed.
Isabella suffers at Borden.
“Suffers there? What are you saying?”
Borden has zero opportunities to learn. She should transfer to Lincoln.
Mrs. Moore smiled politely. I could sense prickly anger growing inside her.
“Well, good for you, my dear. You’ve moved on. My own daughter does not have that option.”
“But she does, Mrs. Moore,” Mom said. “By law, your daughter should be placed in the least restrictive environment. From what Charity tells us, Borden does not bother teaching the children anything . . .”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Wood, you don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.” Mrs. Moore stood. “Come on, Isabella. Time for us to go.”
My body shook. My hands flapped.
Flap, flap, flap, flap.
