Real

by Carol Cujec

  “Anyhow . . . I wanted you to know.”

  I peeked over at him. Without thinking, my hand grabbed his.

  Chances of him pulling his hand away . . . pulling his hand away . . .

  He did not pull it away. We sat in the cool grass holding hands and watching koi until the big yellow bus blew its horn to signal it was time to leave.

  Grace sat next to me again on the bus and gave my arm a squeeze. “Nice going, Charity,” she whispered. “Stu is a sweetheart. I took a picture of you two. I can print it out for you if you want.”

  I smiled inside. This is what it felt like to be included. I never wanted this feeling to end.

  When I got home from school, Mom brought over the keyboard to hear about my day.

  “Was the field trip fun? What was your favorite part?”

  She supported my arm to type.

  I felt pity-free today.

  Mom nodded and put her hand on her mouth like she might cry.

  Mom’s ringing phone jolted us both. It was Mason. She put him on speaker.

  “Hi, Mason. How are you and your mom, honey?”

  “Uh . . . hi, Aunt Gail. Is Charity there with you?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s right here.”

  Something in his voice told me he was not calling with happy news. And I was royally right. Apparently, the gossip app was buzzing again. Mason explained to Mom how to pull up the site on my iPad so we could see.

  Sassygirl72 had posted pictures of me on the field trip—one with me drooling on the bus and one of me standing next to a photograph at the museum—the lunch-counter photograph—my lips pressed into a duck face. The captions read, “First-class embarrassment!!!” and “Is this the way we want Lincoln represented???”

  I felt the knife plunge into my back.

  Grace is Sassygirl?

  It was more painful than anything I experienced at Borden. Why was I so stupid to think she was my friend?

  Mom’s eyes were shiny. Her voice screeched. “I don’t understand. Who would betray you like this?”

  Pity poured back into my heart and filled it with hopelessness.

  Principal Pointless

  My logical brain could add 2 + 2. Based on glaring evidence, Grace posted those photos. Grace was Sassygirl, probably scheming with Darcy this whole time.

  My bulldog impulse wanted me to crawl into a hole.

  “You want some OJ with your eggs, Cherry Girl?” Dad could not disguise his sad voice. Mom had told him all about it.

  Mom and Dad sat silently for a few minutes. No one had an appetite for Dad’s sunrise scramble.

  “I made an appointment with Mr. Jergen today,” Mom announced.

  I looked at her with big eyes. I wanted to scream.

  I told you NOT to.

  “I’m going to tell him you’re being bullied online. Mason agreed to come with us.” She wiped the corner of her eye with a napkin.

  This is pointless. Jergen will not care about teenage gossip.

  “Remember all you’ve accomplished, Cherry.” Dad stroked my French braid and then tickled my ear with it.

  I was not in a laughing mood.

  “This nonsense doesn’t diminish any of your achievements.” Dad sighed. “I know it stinks, princess. I wish I could take away the pain.”

  An hour later, there we were, sitting in Jergen’s office. I was not the only one fidgeting. Mason, Mom, and I all nervously tapped fingers and feet waiting for him to arrive.

  I noted Mason’s sweaty forehead, as if he had jogged a mile to get there.

  I nudged Mom so I could type a message to Mason.

  Sorry for getting you sent to the principal.

  Mason shrugged. “I’m neck-deep as it is. Might as well dive all the way in.”

  A memory replayed in my mind. Mason and me, four years old, swimming with floaties in our backyard pool.

  You are not keeping your head low anymore.

  He laughed. “Yeah, well, I have a new motto—do what’s right. You’re the one who taught me that, Cuz.” He looked at Mom. “Any idea who took the pictures?”

  “Yes, Charity says it was Grace. How she could turn on Charity like this, I just don’t understand.”

  “Well, wait a sec,” Mason said. “Grace might still be innocent.”

  What?

  I pounded on the desk.

  “How could that be?” asked Mom.

  “Well, she could’ve posted them online. At that point, Sassygirl could’ve snagged them.”

  Oh my gosh. Why did I not think of that?

  I prayed he was right.

  “Are we in trouble?”

  I jumped seeing Grace at the door. Literally—I jumped out of my chair.

  Mom helped me sit back down.

  “Hello, Grace, dear,” Mom said. “Have a seat, and Mason can fill you in on the situation.”

  “Well, to start,” Mason said, “I guess we were wondering if you posted any of your pictures from the field trip on social media.”

  “Heck no. I hate those sites.”

  Mom and Mason looked at each other.

  “Soooo, no one had access to your photos?” he asked.

  “No.” She paused. “Well, except for . . . I don’t have a ton of space on my phone, so I uploaded a bunch of my photos to the online yearbook album after school. I’m on the committee. I figured we’d include a few of them in this year’s issue.”

  I breathed out relief.

  “Good to know,” Mason said, nodding at me. “And . . . out of curiosity, is Darcy Warner on the yearbook committee?”

  “Yeah. Why do you ask? What’s going on?”

  I watched Grace’s expression as Mason showed her the posts about me. Her face filled with disgust.

  “This is totally sickening! You don’t think Darcy is Sassygirl, do you?”

  Mom helped me speak out.

  She has never liked me.

  “Well . . . I won’t deny that. But honestly, this is not something she would do. I’ve known her a long time, and . . .” Grace shook her head. “There’s just no way . . .”

  Who then?

  Grace bit her lip.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mr. Jergen looked more stressed than usual. “I received your email, Mrs. Wood. Can you show me evidence of this cyber-bullying?”

  He scanned the posts on Mason’s phone.

  “This is indeed disturbing. Any idea who might be behind it?”

  Grace looked down.

  “We have no evidence,” Mom said. “Mason tells us that users are anonymous. Impossible to track.”

  Mr. Jergen shifted in his chair and then looked me in the eye. “Miss Wood, I am very sorry you have had to endure this treatment. I am frankly shocked that any of our students would stoop so low. The sad reality is that unless we have proof that this bullying was committed on school grounds, it is out of our jurisdiction.”

  Mom’s voice got squeaky again. “Are you serious? There’s nothing you can do?”

  Jergen shook his head. “Unless you find more evidence, my hands are tied.”

  He shooed us out of his office with a “Have a good day,” and Grace walked away without a word.

  I wanted so bad to tell Mom I TOLD you so, but I did not want to rub it in. She already looked like a kid whose dog just got flattened by a bus.

  Voice Thief

  Back in the EPIC room, Celia led me into her office and sat me down. “Your mom told me the bad news. I am so sorry about what has happened to you, querida. How are you feeling today?”

  How was I supposed to answer her with no keyboard?

  I peeked through her office windows to see if Ana was in the classroom.

  “I am afraid Ana is not here today.” She paused and cupped my hand in hers. “Actually, An
a will not be back for several weeks, maybe longer. She has flown to France to be with her grandmother, who is very ill. Her grandmother raised her, and Ana had to go care for her.”

  My arms started shaking. My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  “She felt miserable to leave you so suddenly, querida. She said to tell you that you are strong and that she has faith in you.”

  My legs jiggled apart-together as if they were on fire.

  Apart-together-apart-together-apart-together.

  Translation: I have no voice anymore.

  Faster.

  Apartogetherapartogetherapartogetherapartogether

  No Ana = no voice.

  My body rocked backandforthbackandforthbackandforth.

  Celia moved her chair closer and squeezed my shoulders rhythmically like Ana did.

  “No, querida, there is no need for you to worry. No, no, no. I have called human resources. They are sending a communication aide to work with you. I have requested someone trained to support your typing. She should be here any minute,” Celia checked her watch. “She must be running a little late. But she will support you in all your classes. I am sure it will be fine.”

  Fine? How could this be fine? This is 100 percent the opposite of FINE!

  Did Celia forget that my typing facilitator not only supported my arm, she had to support my spirit, my emotions? She had to encourage me to keep going. More than anything, she needed to be someone I trusted.

  My fist pounded on Celia’s desk.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

  “What would Ana tell you? Take a deep breath. Breathe in peace. Let go of the bad feelings.”

  It only works when Ana says it.

  “Knock-knock, sorry to interrupt.”

  A young woman with long, blonde hair and a gold nose ring appeared in the doorway. She had on a grape-colored top that showed her belly and faded jeans—the expensive kind that are torn on purpose.

  “I’m Ivy. Is this Charity?”

  She reached out her hand, a couple of rings on her thumb . . . and then pulled her hand away.

  “Oh, sorry, autistic kids don’t shake hands, do they?”

  Celia opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “I’m the sub? I’m gonna facilitate for Charity?”

  Why do her sentences sound like questions?

  Celia asked me to step out so that she could fill Ivy in on my schedule. She would probably inform her about a few other things too—the school dress code for one. And not calling me an autistic kid when I am sitting right there.

  After their meeting, Ivy sat down with me to practice typing. She knew the technique a little, but my fingers were not always making it to the right keys. And she was not asking, “Is that the letter you want?” like Ana always did.

  After practicing for a few minutes, Celia said, “Math class has already started. Why don’t you go, and I will check in with you ladies at lunch.”

  When we walked into class, kids were working in groups. Everyone stopped and eyed Ivy.

  “Hey gang, s’up?” Ivy waved to the class.

  Jazmine’s eyes popped out of her head. I could only imagine the comments she would let fly at the lunch table.

  Ivy gave a few high fives to some of girls who apparently dug her “super-glam jeans.”

  Mr. Byrd pointed to a group we could join. “Young Jedi Charity, I’m sure your friends could use your assistance.”

  Stuart smiled. “Hi, Charity. We’re working on this problem.” He showed me the handout. Rachel and Lilly were also in our group.

  Amy bought Sweater A on sale for 30 percent off the original price and Sweater B, which was 25 percent cheaper than the discounted price of Sweater A. She is using a credit card that gives her an additional 5 percent off her entire purchase. If the original price of Sweater A was $93, what was her final cost?

  “Whoa, talk about overpriced sweaters,” Ivy said. “Is she shopping at Abercrombie for that?”

  Lilly and Rachel laughed.

  Stu ignored the comment and continued to scribble numbers on scratch paper.

  “Hey, I think I remember how to do this,” Ivy said. “Don’t you like minus the 30 from the 93 or something?”

  Stu raised an eyebrow and shook his head at me as if to say, “Poor you.”

  The girls loved Ivy, though. Rachel asked her where she shopped, and they got into an intense discussion about whether skinny jeans were “totally over.”

  I sat there feeling useless as Stu scribbled out a few sample equations. Finally, he spoke up to Ivy, “Um, can you help Charity join the discussion?”

  I owed him big time.

  “Oh, yeah. Oops! I need to help you type, don’t I?”

  Ivy sat at a weird angle and grabbed my wrist. A lot of my letters were misfires. She kept forgetting to ask if that was the letter I wanted, so my sentence came out as

  ggurstmultolpythhe otifonal peice by ,330.

  I was trying to say “First, multiply the original price by .3,” but it was so far off, no one had any clue what I meant.

  Rachel giggled. “Sorry, Charity, we don’t speak Chinese.”

  Lilly rolled her eyes. “Hashtag confuzzled.”

  Ivy giggled. “Uh, Charity, maybe we should try that again? That was a lot of no comprendo nonsense.”

  What’s the use?

  I turned my body away and pointed to my puzzle. She turned to the rest of the group.

  “Sorry gang, Charity’s taking a time-out to play with her puzzle.”

  Time-out? Play with my puzzle? Where does she think I am, in kindergarten?

  I tried hard to focus on the puzzle and keep my body under control as I listened to Ivy chat with Rachel and Lilly for the next twenty minutes about celebrity gossip. When class was over, a few more people high-fived Ivy and told me I was lucky to have such a fun aide.

  Right. Lucky me.

  “Ready for lunch, girlfriend?” Ivy asked. “I’m actually craving some gross cafeteria food. Maybe they’ll have those little Jell-O bowls with canned grapes in it,” she said, laughing.

  She grabbed my backpack and walked out the door without me at first, then turned around. “Oops, almost forgot my sidekick.”

  After loading a cafeteria tray with food—not even asking me what I wanted—Ivy plunked the tray onto an empty cafeteria table and pulled out her phone. I looked over at my friends. Jaz shook her head. Julian motioned for me to come over to the welcome table.

  As Jaz would say, Ivy was clueless as a jock at a comic book convention.

  Celia found us a few minutes later and sat down.

  “How are we doing, ladies?”

  How could I tell her if I had no one to help me type? I took one of Ana’s cleansing breaths and stared at my beefaroni, which Ivy kept calling “barfaroni.”

  “We’re great,” Ivy said, putting down her phone. “It’ll take a while for us to get our flow going. But we’ll soon be BFFs. Don’t worry.”

  Ivy went back to checking her phone.

  “Ivy, dear,” Celia said, “unless you have an urgent call to make, you shouldn’t be on your phone during school hours. It sets a bad example for the students. And your focus should be on Charity.”

  “Oh!” She sounded surprised. As if she were allowed to text friends all day at her previous jobs. Did she even have any previous jobs? She stuck her phone in her back pocket.

  “It’s cool. We’re cool.”

  She glanced at my tray.

  “Done with the barfaroni? Don’t blame you, girlfriend.”

  She picked up my tray, but Celia put her hand on Ivy’s arm.

  “Ivy, dear, you need to actually ask Charity. That is what the keyboard is for. Don’t assume you know what she is thinking.”

  “Oh yeah. Here, girl. All done wit
h lunch?” She sat down and got in position to help me type.

  I typed “Y.”

  “What do you mean why? It’s almost time for science. Gotta eat quick and go, girl.”

  “The Y stands for yes,” Celia said. A big sigh escaped her lips.

  “Oh, right. That’s what I mean about flow. We’ll get there. Let’s get rid of these trays and get your booty to class.”

  When Ivy left with the tray, Celia leaned in and whispered, “I will find you another aide, querida. Pronto!”

  The next day, Celia said a new communication aide could not start until the following week. “Maybe we could ask your mother to help you communicate at school while we wait.”

  That was the last thing I wanted. Mom already caused enough trouble for the week.

  I did not complain. I figured a bad helper was better than none at all. At least sometimes I got a sort-of readable sentence out.

  One advantage—I was getting a taste of how it felt to be popular. Every time we walked into a classroom, kids came up to us and gabbed with Ivy about school gossip or fashion or music.

  For an adult, she fit in pretty well with the junior high crowd, with her “Up top” high fives and girlfriend this, girlfriend that.

  She was gabbing with the girls that afternoon in science lab while I sat staring at a snakeskin, trying to identify the species by its markings.

  Darcy walked up to us. She glared at me for a second then turned to Ivy. “How come ever since Ana left, Charity basically speaks gobbledygook?”

  “Huh?” Ivy had no idea what she meant. But I could hypothesize where Darcy was headed. Ripples of fear shot up my spine.

  “Well, a few of us have noticed that without her aide, Charity isn’t such a brainiac anymore. She’s back to being, how shall I say it . . . STU-PI-DO.”

  She said that last word slowly, as if she were talking to someone who was hard of hearing.

  My breathing sped up. My body shook.

  “Get out of here, Darcy.” Stuart jumped to my defense. “You’re jealous she gets better grades than you.”

  “Well, think about it, Stuart,” she said, pointing in his face. “This girl has not said one smart thing since Ana left. It was Ana’s words that made her look smart. It was probably a scheme so they could get more money for all the retarded students and give them the privileges that we’re supposed to have so that everyone in town could be all like Aren’t we so great, even our dumb kids are really smart!”