Real

by Carol Cujec

  She turned to me. “Charity, have you been seeing things . . . things that are not real, sweetheart?” She shook her head no, expecting that to be my answer. But I was not sure how to respond.

  The guy who saved me at the pier. Was he real? Was he only a dream? Maybe my life here was the hallucination.

  Diagnosis: delusional.

  Hello, Pine Valley.

  Mom held my hand up to the keyboard. I pulled it away and folded my arms over my chest.

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  They both stared at me a few seconds.

  The doctor held a stubby finger up to his puffy face. He looked like a blowfish.

  Page 19: One blowfish contains enough toxin to kill twenty adults.

  “We will need to do more tests for certain, but given the severity of her symptoms . . .”

  What do you mean symptoms? This is who I am. Why are people always trying to cure me?

  “I can prescribe a psychotropic medication to control the hallucinations. I can also recommend a facility that uses electrical stimulation devices to modify unwanted behaviors.”

  My heels kicked the metal examination table in a protest that echoed on the white brick walls.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  Mom’s voice thundered above my noise. “What do you mean by electrical stimulation? Are you talking about shock therapy?”

  My mind flashed to news reports I had seen about this on TV—kids wearing wires, strapped to a board, shocked over and over for things like flapping their hands. One autistic boy was shocked thirty times for not taking off his coat when he was ordered to. Shocked for having a mind-body disconnect. Shocked for screaming about being shocked.

  Controlling someone is not the same as curing them!

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  Cold fear swept through my body.

  The doctor wore a tight frown. “Electrical shock treatments have been performed safely since the 1940s, and I assure you . . .”

  “Treatments? Treatments?” Mom’s voice filled the room. “It’s nothing less than torture! This can’t even be legal for prisoners of war!”

  She pointed her finger in his face and backed him to the wall. “How could you dream of subjecting my daughter to this cruelty?”

  Mom pulled me out the door before the doctor could put together a sentence in his own defense.

  …

  Back home, Mom poured me green tea with honey—no more warm apple juice—while she told Celia about Dr. Blowfish and his torture prescription. Celia sat with us at the kitchen table, munching one of Dad’s famous cranberry-walnut cookies.

  “I’m afraid I lost it with him,” Mom said, “but I can’t stand people who think Charity should be treated like a lab rat because she’s different.”

  Mom balled her hands into tight fists as she described the shock therapy he recommended.

  Celia nodded. “My grandmother never uttered a curse word her entire life, but at times such as this, I think they come in handy.”

  She turned to me with her usual let-me-help-you gaze. “Charity, querida, do you know what caused your outburst today? Is something upsetting you?”

  That noise in class. I heard it so clearly. Was it my imagination? Were my emotions ringing a fire alarm in my head?

  I typed to her about the worries that clawed at my mind.

  My heart breaks for Isabella and all the kids left behind at Borden. I escaped and they are still suffering. I feel helpless.

  “You are not helpless, not anymore.” Celia’s golden, dangly earrings shimmered in a finger of sunlight. “You have a voice now. Use it to lead.”

  But how? My letter to the superintendent failed. Isabella’s mom will not listen. What can I do now?

  Celia squeezed my hand. “You were born a leader, Charity. Just keep being who you are. You are already making a difference at Lincoln.”

  You really think I am a leader?

  “Absolutely. In fact, I believe you carry the wisdom of many lifetimes.”

  Then why is God punishing me in this life?

  Celia smiled. “We are all children of a perfect God. You were put on earth for a reason—and that reason you already know.”

  Math Knights

  “You don’t have to tell me the answer. Just tell me if I’m on the right track. Somewhere in the ballpark.”

  Mason spread out his scratch paper on the table in front of me. Numbers littered the page, like maybe a chicken wrote it.

  Ana supported my arm.

  Correct up to step three.

  “Geez, okay. What is step three?”

  With Ana’s help, I pointed to the number with the missing exponent. “Hey, stop hogging the class brain.” Grace stood behind him with her notebook in hand.

  Celia’s hypothesis about me being a leader seemed to be coming true. It all started last week when Mr. Byrd walked into class with a stack of papers—our graded chapter exams, my first actual junior high school test.

  Jitters prickled my legs and arms.

  My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  Mom and I had worked on equations for hours at home. I did not expect an A, but I did not want to fail miserably either.

  “As usual,” Mr. Byrd announced, “I will invite the top three scorers to come up and take a bow. I also want the rest of you folks to know who you can go to for tutoring. You can all learn from one another.”

  With his usual nerdy style, Mr. Byrd called Stuart’s name and tapped him on the shoulders with a toy light saber. He knighted Darcy next—she pumped her arms to whoops and hollers from Lilly and her other friends.

  Before announcing the highest-scoring student, Mr. Byrd lowered the lights in the classroom and played the theme song for Darth Vader.

  “And now, young Jedi knights. Meet your new master. With a top score of a hundred and five percent—I had to give a few bonus points because this Jedi master found an error in one of my equations—please come up, Charity Wood.”

  The whole room inhaled a gasp, and Darcy shot me a stare like Death Star laser beams.

  Since that day, a bunch of kids started asking me about their math equations. With Ana’s support, I could answer them.

  “Hey, is it hard helping Charity type?” Mason asked Ana while Grace was correcting the multiplication error I pointed out.

  “It requires training and a lot of patience to do correctly,” she said, smiling. “It is also important that Charity know and trust the person supporting her.”

  Mason nodded. “Even better if that person is a favorite cousin?”

  Yes, favorite and only cousin, I typed.

  Ana lowered her round glasses to look Mason in the eye. “If you are serious, and if Charity wants to, then I can arrange for you to be trained. It will take hours of training and practice.”

  Mason shrugged. “Good thing I turned down that movie deal with Emma Watson, then. I should have plenty of time.”

  Ana winked a green eye at me. “Charity, I suppose it would be good for you to speak to someone your own age without me or your parents always intruding on the conversation.”

  Thank you, Mason. Happy to talk to you after so many years.

  Jaz wheeled up and gave me a fist bump. “Congrats, kid. I still can’t believe you beat out that cheerleader zombie Darcy. If you keep this up, you could knock her off the top of the honor roll. She would loooooove that!”

  What is an honor roll?

  Ana explained, “It’s a list of the top-performing students every quarter. Up until last year, Mr. Jergen did not allow students from the EPIC room to be eligible for honor roll. Celia fought that battle and finally won.” “Yeah,” Jaz said, “but no one expected an EPIC kid to top the list. Charity, this would send shockwaves through the whole school. I can already pic
ture Darcy’s parents turning blue in the face.”

  I was surprised that Darcy was first on the honor roll. Then I felt bad for judging her the way people judge me.

  This tradition seems unfair. Why praise only for grades?

  I thought about years of failed tests that only left me feeling worthless.

  “I know it’s stupid,” Jaz said. “But think about it, Charity. An EPIC kid at number one on the honor roll? I mean, that might even get you an article in the paper.”

  I typed to Ana.

  Do you think I have a chance?

  “More than a chance, Charity. But don’t worry about lists. Just focus on doing your best.”

  I thought about Sassygirl72 and her hunger to get me kicked out of advanced classes.

  I nudged Ana so I could type more.

  I want people to know I am capable. To show there are googolplex ways of being smart.

  Sassygirl and I were both on a mission. I had to make sure that mine won.

  Least Valuable Player

  For years, I felt like life was a party, and I was not invited.

  Breathe in: I belong.

  Breathe out: I belong.

  I repeated these words to myself to drown out my loud doubts as I sat courtside next to Dad in my new yellow uniform.

  Cheerleaders shouted and danced to jolt the crowd with their bouncy energy.

  People in the middle: Shake it just a little!

  People in the back: Show us where you’re at!

  People in the stands: Jump up and clap your hands!

  I dug my fingernails into my arm and scratched.

  I am a Hornet. I am a Hornet.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  “Here, Cherry Girl,” Dad said. “Hold onto this for me.” He handed me my lucky sea glass, and I cupped it in my palm.

  Jaz raced and twirled her wheelchair around the gymnasium. Ever since her nomination on the Princess Court, she loved shaking her pom-poms at pep rallies and games as an unofficial cheerleader. The whole crowd of students clapped and hooted for her. She did not do it just to annoy the cheerleaders anymore. In fact, she admitted that a few of them were actually nice.

  Stuart marched by, playing his trombone with the band. He nodded as he passed.

  At me?

  “Go, chipmunk!” Pops hollered from the bleachers.

  Gram, Mom, and Aunt Kiki yelled, but loudest of all was Aunt Elvi. “You got this, girl! Wooohooo!”

  Who wears a black velvet cape? To a junior high basketball game?

  Mason sat behind them, devouring a bag of popcorn and two hot dogs. When he spilled a drop of catsup on his mom’s white blouse, she shot off the bleacher like bread from a toaster. He could not help smiling in spite of all her fussing.

  I smiled inside too.

  I had my own embarrassing cheering section. Embarrassing because I would not likely touch my sneaker to the court during this, my first-ever basketball game.

  Dad pulled me to stand. “Let’s warm up our cheering arms,” he said, punching his fists in the air. “Go Hornets, go!”

  I followed his lead, leaping and throwing my arms in the air.

  Jump, punch, jump, punch.

  “Go number twelve!” Gram screamed. That was the number on my uniform.

  Twelve. What an amazing number. Could I live up to its awesomeness? In math, it’s called a superior highly composite number. Also, twelve months in a year, twelve zodiac signs, twelve Olympians from Greek mythology, twelve days of Christmas.

  I could go on and on.

  Jump, punch, jump, punch.

  Coach suggested—and I agreed—that I cheer the team on for the first few games. Especially since I still could not dribble or pass or run in the right direction half the time.

  I could shoot, but what good was that if my stubborn legs led me to the hallway instead of the hoop? I was happy to be included as a Hornet, even if only on the bench.

  Jump, punch, jump, punch.

  “Here, my little buttercups. You need to keep your energy up.” Darcy’s mother, who volunteered as team mom, handed out sports drinks to all the girls.

  All the girls except me.

  I must be invisible again.

  She wore a black designer track suit with a pearl necklace and several large rings on her fingers. Her long, blonde hair seemed salon styled. How could anyone look that good in sweats? All the girls called her Mrs. Bling-Bling.

  Not to her face, of course.

  Before the game, Mrs. Bling-Bling pulled Darcy toward her and stroked her blonde ponytail. “Win this one for Mommy and Father, honeybun. You missed a few easy shots in practice. You want to win that MVP trophy at the end of the season, don’t you?” I noted Darcy’s frown.

  I understand you better now, Darcy.

  Enthusiastic parents—Darcy and I had that in common. I totaled her score—top of the honor roll, cheerleader, star basketball player. She had to be smart, beautiful, and athletic at all times to please her parents. I remembered feeling for so many years like I had let my mom down every time I could not hold a pencil or draw a letter or pull on my own socks. I wondered if Darcy felt the same sadness every time she missed a basket. Or scored second-best on a math test.

  Bullies sprout from sadness. Hurting others is how they get their own hurts out.

  Grace waved for me to join the opening huddle. Then she put an arm around me and whispered, “Don’t sweat it, Charity. You’ll do fine.”

  She was right. I did do fine. A fine job of sitting on the bench next to Dad. A fine job calculating each player’s performance based on points scored, assists, blocks, steals, rebounds, missed shots, and fouls.

  They did not need my help though. They were winning by six points going into the fourth quarter, with Darcy as top scorer.

  Each time Darcy made a basket, Mrs. Bling-Bling screamed, “That’s my superstar!”

  Grace joined me on the bench when Coach subbed her out for a break. She wiped her sweaty face with a towel. “Hey, you didn’t play yet, did you?” She turned to coach. “Coach, how about putting Charity in for a few minutes?”

  Lilly, sitting next to Grace, gave her a don’t-even-think-about-it stare.

  Coach did not hear—or pretended not to—as he shouted, “Keep the ball alive, girls! Take it to the hole!”

  Darcy swished another basket. Up by eight now.

  Grace softly chanted, “Cha-ri-ty, Cha-ri-ty.”

  Dad grinned big.

  Two other girls joined in. “Cha-ri-ty, Cha-ri-ty.”

  Finally, Coach George turned and asked, “Whaddya think, kid? Wanna get in there for a few minutes? Test the waters?”

  My brain hollered Nooooooo! But my dumb legs sprang me right up.

  Jump, punch, jump, punch.

  “You go, Super Cherry!” Dad yelled.

  Seeing me walk on the court, my cheering section went nuts. Aunt Kiki hollered, “You can do it, sweetie!” while making tiny hops in her high heels and clapping her manicured hands.

  Hypothesis: Disaster.

  When the ref blew the whistle, chaos erupted. In my body.

  Ready, set, embarrass yourself.

  Jump. Run. Turn. Hop.

  Follow the bouncing ball. Follow the bouncing ball.

  The orange ball flew from player to player. My eyes told my legs to go, but as soon as I ran in one direction, the ball bounced the opposite way.

  Sprint. Swivel. Spin?

  Page 17: A herd of bison can run up to 40 miles an hour.

  My head could not turn fast enough for my eyes to keep up. And my legs—forget about it.

  Swivel. Prance?

  Pause.

  My feet froze to the floor. My hands flapped frustration.

  I spied Mom with her hands over her eyes as if she was watching a h
orror movie.

  Get me out of here!

  A few laughs from some kids in the stands shot directly to my ear.

  Is this what you had in mind, Grace?

  Almost on cue, I felt a hand in my hand. It pulled me down the court one way, then back the other way, following the ball. The bobbing honey-colored ponytail in front of my face belonged to Grace. She guided me same as Dad did during our practices.

  Run. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Run.

  We stopped a few yards from the net. Grace let go of my hand and hollered to Darcy, “I’m open!”

  When Darcy passed the ball, Grace handed it to me.

  Darcy’s perfect face turned ugly. “What the . . .”

  “Shoot, Charity!” yelled Grace.

  My hands automatically hurled the ball toward the hoop. It hit the backboard.

  And dropped into the net.

  The crowd clapped and screamed. “Way to go, Chipmunk!” Pops howled. Gram—her petite body perched on top of the bleacher—stood with both hands in the air. Mom, Kiki and Elvi joined in a jumping hug.

  She shoots, she scores. For real!

  Coach George flashed a toothy grin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  My lungs filled with relief as I trotted back to the bench.

  No such luck.

  “Hey, where ya going?” Grace grabbed my hand again.

  Run. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Run.

  We stopped in front of the basket, and my hands grabbed the ball from a player. A player with a blue shirt.

  Grace screamed, “No, don’t shoot!” But my arms launched the ball automatically.

  What have I done?

  This time the ball did not hit the backboard.

  Nothing but net.

  She shoots, she scores . . . for the other team.

  A collective “Awwwwwwwww” came from the crowd. I could not look at my cheering section.

  “You idiot!” Darcy spit words at me under her breath, and yelled, “Get her outta here, Coach!”

  Coach’s cheeks puffed up. “Darcy, you take orders from me, not the other way around. I’m keeping her in.”

  Oh, no. He cannot be serious.