Real

by Carol Cujec

  Darcy spoke fast, getting louder with every word. Stuart looked confused. His head turned between me and Ivy.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Missy,” Ivy said. “Don’t go trashing my girlfriend here. We’re still working on our flow. We’re getting better and better. Let’s show them, girlfriend. What do you have to say?”

  She whipped out the keyboard, but I was too agitated to type. My hands flapped, my feet tapped.

  Flap-tap-flap-tap-flap-tap-flap-tap.

  Ivy grabbed my wrist. I pulled it away.

  I wanted to scream. Stop!

  She grabbed it again and held on tight.

  Stop! Do not do this!

  Ivy was using my finger to type her own message. I tried to pull away. I did not even want to look at the words on the screen. I turned my head, hoping Mr. Harding would see the panic in my eyes.

  Help me!

  Finally, Ivy let go. “Here’s what my girl had to say to you, Miss Thing. She typed, ‘Go to hell, you loser in cheap jeans.’”

  Ivy laughed and nodded at me. “Yeah, girl. Tell it like it is.”

  Ivy spoke loud enough for the whole class to hear, including Mr. Harding. Everyone stared in silence.

  “Charity!” Mr. Harding said. “Go to the principal’s office immediately and discuss this inappropriate language with him. I expect better from you.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand to lead me out the door.

  Darcy roared, half laughing, half yelling. “Did everyone see that? She wasn’t even looking at the keyboard. Those weren’t her words. She was never the one typing anything. It’s all a big fake-out!”

  A few minutes later, I sat in Jergen’s office, Celia and Ivy arguing with each other. Mr. Jergen held up his hands. “One person at a time. Tell me what’s going on here.”

  Ivy jumped in first. “My girl Charity had a few choice words for that uppity witch who dissed her in front of everyone. Girlfriend has a right to speak her mind.”

  “And what were those words?” asked Jergen.

  Ivy hesitated and then pressed the speak button on the iPad. The insult sounded worse read in a robot voice.

  Celia jumped in. “I don’t understand. That is not something Charity would say. She has never said anything like this before.”

  Jergen frowned. “Do not make excuses for your students, Ms. Diaz. Charity must accept responsibility for her mistakes.”

  “But first we need to let Charity tell us what happened,” Celia said. “Let her defend herself.”

  “Sure thing.” Ivy sat next to me.

  My arms started to shake again. What would she make me say now? In front of Jergen?

  “Wait a minute,” Celia said. “Just give me two minutes.”

  Celia flew out the door and returned two minutes and thirty seconds later. With Mason.

  “Charity’s cousin has been working with Ana to help Charity type. I think in this case it would be best if he supports Charity.”

  She turned to Mason. “Do you think you can do it?”

  Mason took a deep breath. “I can give it a try if Charity is up for it.”

  Mason sat next to me and held my elbow. Celia sat on the other side with her hand on my back.

  “Ready?” Mason asked.

  We typed slowly for about five minutes. Just as Ana had taught him, he asked, “Is that the letter you want? . . . Keep going . . . Eyes on the keyboard . . . Here’s what you have so far . . . What’s next?” Then he read my words. My words.

  Ivy stole my voice. I would never waste precious words to fling trash at unkind people. It goes against my mission.

  Ivy crossed her arms.

  “Whatever. I may have thrown in a few burns, but I knew that’s what my girl wanted to say if she could. I mean, how do you expect an autistic kid to make it in school if they don’t stand up to jerks calling them names?”

  I lifted my hand, and Mason supported me to type more.

  Do not call me your girl. And please stay away from kids like me. You bully us by stealing our voice.

  “Well,” Mr. Jergen said, “It seems that she can stand up for herself just fine.”

  Ivy was fired from the district that afternoon.

  …

  I was not in the mood for a basketball game that evening, but Dad insisted. “C’mon, Cherry. Your team needs you. You can’t let ’em down.”

  I dragged myself upstairs to pull on the bright yellow Hornets jersey. What a miserable day.

  One thing I knew for sure—as much as I wanted to, I never died of embarrassment. So far.

  On the court, I noted other girls staring as we did a few warm-up drills. Then Coach pulled me aside to watch the girls form for free throws. Dad helped me type so I could give a few tips to Grace and Ella.

  Mrs. Bling-Bling paced on the sidelines, sneering in my direction like a tiger ready to pounce.

  “You’re up, Darcy,” Coach said.

  “Um, I don’t think so.” The other girls stopped chatting and looked at Coach. He did not put up with backtalk.

  “Listen, girls,” he said, “Mr. Wood filled me in on what happened at school today, and he told me that Charity’s aide typed words on her behalf. That incident has been settled.”

  “Yeah, okay, but how do you know that Charity is actually typing now?”

  “Give it a rest, Darcy,” Grace said.

  “Charity can speak for herself,” Dad said, and he held the keyboard for me to type. But my arms were quivering, and I pulled away from Dad.

  Darcy glared at Dad. “No offense, Mr. Wood, but Coach said you used to be some big-shot basketball star back in the day. You could be using her to type your own words, and, no offense, but it’s kind of pathetic to manipulate your daughter to make her look like she’s a pro.”

  Darcy was fearless now.

  Coach was not taking it. “You wanna be benched for the entire game, Darcy?”

  “Why? For stating the obvious? The other girls agree with me, am I right?”

  Darcy turned to the team for support. Most of the girls gazed down at the floor.

  The damage Ivy did might never be reversed. She was still stealing my voice.

  Coach George clenched his teeth. “On the bench, young lady.”

  That’s when Mrs. Bling-Bling pounced. “How dare you speak to my daughter that way! You should be more concerned about your job, Coach, than about defending a questionable student.” She hissed those last words and narrowed her eyes at me. Then she put her arm around her daughter. “Come on, sweet pea. We can discuss this matter with Mr. Jergen.”

  They both strutted out of the gym.

  Dad made me stay for the game, but I told him I could not play or coach the girls. My body wiggled and jiggled and shuffled on the bench. At halftime, when Dad saw I was about to burst, he took me home.

  Coach George called to apologize and also deliver the news that we won 42–36.

  All I could see in my mind was Darcy spreading seeds of doubt.

  I felt like Pinocchio turning back into wood.

  Attack of the Purple Elephants

  Mom insisted on helping me type at school until Ana returned. I felt relieved, but also a little queasy at the thought of my mom following me to all my classes.

  In English class, Ms. Beckett explained how to do research by finding articles in the library database. Mom was not really comfortable with computers, so she asked a ton of questions.

  She kept saying, “I’m sure Charity understands this, but for my own clarity . . .”

  Every time she said this, I heard snickers behind me. Of course, Darcy and friends were probably saying that Mom did the homework for me.

  It got worse when Ms. Beckett talked about plagiarism.

  “Who can tell me what plagiarism is?” she asked.

  “Ask Charity,” L
illy whispered loud enough for me to hear. “Hashtag faker.”

  “Plagiarism is using other people’s words or ideas as your own,” Grace said. She shot an annoyed look at Lilly.

  “And does everyone know what our school handbook says about the consequences for committing plagiarism?” Ms. Beckett asked.

  Darcy raised her hand. “It says you will get expelled. Kicked to the curb. Tossed out with the trash. Jettisoned with the junk.” She turned toward me with an evil grin.

  “Admirable alliteration, Darcy, but that will be enough,” Ms. Beckett said.

  I held up my hand to the keyboard and Mom helped me. When I was done, Mom raised her hand. “Charity would like to add a comment.”

  “Go ahead, Charity.”

  The opportunity to speak is precious to all. I want to do my research on those with no voice.

  “That’s a great topic,” Ms. Beckett said. “There have been so many groups throughout our history who had to fight to make their voices heard: women seeking the vote, African Americans, Native Americans . . . which group did you have in mind?”

  Children. They have no power in the world, especially if they are different and if they cannot communicate like others.

  “You’re right, Charity. Children are the most vulnerable members of our society. They need strong advocates. I look forward to reading your research paper.”

  Ms. Beckett went around the classroom reviewing everyone’s topics. When she skimmed my outline, she whistled. “Charity, you’re proposing a genuine investigative report. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  Mom steadied me at the keyboard as I typed.

  Yes. It is time.

  “Well, keep me posted on your progress.”

  I had the sickening feeling that my days at Lincoln might be coming to an end. I had one last shot to help Isabella.

  After class, Mom asked Ms. Beckett more questions while I finished my puzzle.

  That’s when Darcy breezed by and whispered, “If you really are the one typing, then how about this, genius. Say . . . purple elephants. Yeah, the next time you type in class, type purple elephants. Then I’ll know you’re really the one talking.”

  I did not want to follow Darcy’s order. But then I thought if I could show her that it was me talking, she’d back off.

  The next class was science. Mr. Harding lectured on plant cells while Mom scribbled notes a mile a minute. My heartbeat raced at the same speed as I tried to decide.

  Should I?

  My feet tapped the floor.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  I do not need to prove anything to her.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Page 62: Elephants have the largest brain of any animal.

  They are definitely not purple, though.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” Mr. Harding asked. He turned to me. “Charity, do you have any insights on our discussion?”

  I took a deep inhale, and Mom helped me as I typed, letter by painful letter, Darcy’s silly words. I saw Darcy smiling at me from across the room with hope in her eyes. Maybe this would finally convince her I was real.

  Mom looked at the screen and shook her head. “Is that what you meant to say?” she whispered.

  I typed “Y.”

  “You want to say this to the class?”

  y

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Harding said.

  “Well, Charity would like to say . . . I mean, I’m not sure what it means . . .”

  “Mrs. Wood, your daughter often makes comments that challenge us to ponder the topic from a new angle.” He smiled and nodded at me. “Please share her thoughts.”

  Oh no! Do not do it, Mom!

  I buried my face in my hands.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Purple elephants.”

  The class burst out laughing. Even Stuart.

  “Is this some kind of joke, Mrs. Wood?” Harding asked in his I-mean-business voice.

  Mom supported my arm to type more, but I pulled away.

  I glared across the room. Darcy was laughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath. “Must have hit a few wrong keys there, Mrs. Wood,” she gloated.

  How stupid I was.

  She tricked me. She only wanted to embarrass me.

  Slam dunk.

  Breadcrumbs of Truth

  If I wanted to save Isabella, I had to expose Borden, so I made that the topic of my research paper. I told Ms. Beckett I would interview parents and collect evidence of kids being abused. The superintendent had my one complaint, but there must be other evidence out there of Borden’s abuses. How to find it?

  After school, Mom and I searched for complaints against Borden posted online. Every search came up empty. Every breadcrumb of a clue had been gobbled up by some hungry pigeon.

  Finally, one crumb turned up on a business review website.

  Only one?

  Mom read it: “My daughter attended Borden Academy for two years. At the end of this period, she was despondent and depressed. Because she was nonverbal, she could not report any abuse, but she regularly came home with bruises on her arms. We finally removed her from the school. Our precious daughter suffered there.”

  Sounds like the work of Miss Marcia.

  The review had a name: Veronica C.

  “It was written two years ago. You probably knew this girl, Charity.”

  I searched my memory for another girl who could not talk. My mind flashed to an older girl named Abby Collins, probably about fourteen. She left Borden soon after I got there. I typed what I remembered.

  She was usually silent and still. But a few times a week she burst into rages. Miss Marcia would grab her arm and drag her to the time-out closet. When she left, I got sent there more often. Miss Marcia did not let it stay empty for long . . .

  I could not type anymore. Mom put the keyboard down and held me. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to continue with this project?”

  I have to save the kids.

  “Okay. Nothing left to do then but phone every Collins in the phone book.”

  Mom put the phone on speaker so I could hear and began dialing.

  “Sorry to bother you, but did you have a daughter who went to Borden Academy?”

  “Wrong number.”

  Click.

  “Leave a message after the beep.”

  Click.

  Click.

  Eight people hung up on her.

  Finally, one did not.

  “Who is this?” a woman demanded.

  “Mrs. Collins, my daughter Charity attended Borden Academy with your daughter Abby.”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Charity is investigating Borden Academy in order to end abuses there, maybe shut them down. She would like to interview you about your experience.”

  Click.

  She hung up.

  My one lead. Gone in an instant.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom said. “It must be unbearable for Mrs. Collins to relive those memories.”

  Hypothesis: This will be the shortest paper in history.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrring!

  We both jumped.

  A small voice spoke. “I’m sorry. I will try to help you. Where do you want to meet?”

  …

  The next day after school, we went to Mrs. Collins’ house. She was a round woman with a face wrinkled like a tortoise.

  Mom introduced me. “This is my daughter, Charity.”

  I was surprised when Mrs. Collins gave me a hug.

  “I didn’t know any of Abby’s classmates. I’m so happy to meet you, Charity.”

  When I did not reply, she turned to Mom. “My Abby wasn’t able to talk either. I think these children are the most helpless. Anyone could do anyth
ing to them. A million and one hurts were done to my Abby until her gentle soul exploded in fear and anger.”

  Mrs. Collins took my hand and led us to the kitchen table. The chair had a red, plastic cushion ripped on the side. The plastic poked my leg when I sat down. She held up a bowl of mint candies. My hand wanted to reach for one, but the smell reminded me of Miss Marcia.

  Mom pulled out the keyboard. With each word I typed, Mrs. Collins frowned harder.

  I could feel Abby’s struggle. I am sorry I could not help her. I want to help now by saving other kids.

  “Amazing.” Mrs. Collins ran her hands along the keyboard. “I tried typing with Abby so many times, but she couldn’t do it.”

  People like me need help to type. I can be a voice for kids like Abby.

  “But maybe she could have.” Mrs. Collins put her hands over her eyes.

  “How is Abby doing now that she’s left Borden?” Mom asked with a hopeful smile.

  Mrs. Collins held her head in her hands. She spoke in a crackly voice. “You have no idea how difficult it was. She couldn’t control herself. Every outburst was more destructive than the last. I had no way to communicate with her, and I didn’t know how to help her. I was terrified she would hurt herself or someone else.”

  She turned to Mom. “My husband and I divorced a decade ago. I had no one to support me.”

  She blew into a tissue then spoke in a quiet voice. “Abby is living at the Pine Valley Developmental Center. I pray so hard every day she is being treated well, but when I visit, she doesn’t even seem to know I’m there.”

  Mom hugged Mrs. Collins a long time. After a few minutes, she was ready to answer the questions I prepared, and we recorded her answers. In two years at Borden, Abby transformed from gentle and cooperative to explosive and full of rage.

  “I think she was depressed,” Mrs. Collins said, “but the doctors would never call it that.”

  Mom helped me respond.

  I felt the same when I was there. The Thinkers do not believe we are real people with real human emotions.