by Carol Cujec
“I keep wondering if I had had the courage to pull her out of there sooner, things would be different today.”
Mom put a hand on Mrs. Collins’ shoulder. “Based on what Charity has told us, we now know this was an abusive environment. I couldn’t believe it myself. We kept Charity so well protected, so safe in every other aspect of her life, and here she was being mistreated by people we trusted to educate her.”
Before we left, Mrs. Collins named two more parents she remembered. Their children also came home from Borden with bruises on their wrists or backs or faces. Over the next week, I spent hours interviewing them with Mom’s help.
With the essay due in a week, we stayed up until midnight every night, typing letter by letter all I discovered. Typing and revising, typing and revising.
One.
Letter.
At.
A.
Reach, tap—t. Reach, tap—I. Reach, tap—m. Reach, tap—e.
“Keep your rhythm going.” Mom supported not only my arm but also my jittery mind.
Reach. Tap.
“Is that the letter you want?”
Typing one letter at a time is S—L—O—W. A drowsy sloth might move faster. No one could hypothesize how much energy I used keeping my body in check and my racing mind focused on the next key.
Reach. Tap.
“Do you want punctuation here?”
Reach. Tap.
“Eyes on the keyboard.”
Waiting for my thoughts to form drop by drop on the screen must be like watching paint dry on a humid day for Mom.
Patient as a monk on a mountaintop, Mom encouraged me with each tap, never judging.
Did it sound improbable for a thirteen-year-old to say she was on a mission? How could I say that without sounding like I was full of baloney, as Pops says?
After three days of typing, I told Mom,
Delete everything. I have to start again.
She did it, no questions asked.
I needed to get the words royally right. People’s lives depended on it.
Then on Monday, I handed my report to Ms. Beckett.
She found me in math class later that day.
“Charity, I have a friend who is a journalist for the Bay Tribune. She covers articles on education. Would you mind if I mailed her your paper? She may want to investigate this further.”
I was too excited to type. My body jumped and clapped.
“I think that means yes,” Mom said.
Sounds like Torture
“You gonna finish your pizza?”
Mason held my arm and I typed:
Go for it.
He reached over to grab my second slice. I was not feeling hungry these days. Sassygirl was on fire in the gossip app, accusing me of cheating on assignments. Kids looked at me differently now in class. No one asked me math questions anymore.
One bright spot in my day was usually the welcome table at lunch, which now included Grace and Stuart. But today, even there I felt alone.
I watched Stuart help Grace with a math problem and listened to her tease him about his taste in music.
Does he like her? Of course. Why wouldn’t he?
My brain flashed to the field trip. We held hands for thirteen minutes. Was it a dream? Was he just too polite to pull away?
Fact: No boy would want to hang out with me.
The cafeteria was strung with turquoise and lavender streamers for the “Boogie Fever” spring dance. Jaz was already in complaint mode.
“Can you believe the money they blow on these stupid dances? I mean, do they really need a giant mirror ball in the middle of the cafeteria? Didn’t they get the memo that disco is dead?”
Grace used her napkin to wipe a drop of sauce from Jazmine’s check. “Lighten up, girl. I bet you can rock those disco moves in your turbo-powered chair.”
Why did Grace have to be so sweet? She was making it tough for me to be annoyed with her.
“Everyone’s going, right?” Grace asked.
Her question was answered with silence. Peter squinted at her as if she was kooky. Julian seemed to ponder the possibility.
Grace put her hands on her hips. “C’mon, guys. It’s fun. You know what fun is, don’t you?”
“I know what it is!” Skyler said, raising her hand.
Jaz rolled her eyes. “You’re talking to the wrong crowd, Gracie. We would be clay pigeons for junior high target practice.”
“Not if we all band together,” Grace said, licking pizza sauce off her finger. “We can have a buddy system.”
Oh no—who will she pick for her buddy?
“Peter, how about you be my buddy?” asked Grace.
I was floored, and so was Peter. His eyes got wide and he shook his head.
“No way! Fridays, I get to play Minecraft. I’m not wasting my game time on some stupid dance. No way!”
“O-kay.” Grace scanned the table again.
Please do not say Stuart.
“Julian, you in?”
Julian typed a response, short and sweet and hit play. “In.”
Grace smiled big. “Skyler, how about you?”
“I’ll ask my mom and dad. Maybe they will let me come and dance.” Skyler bounced up and down in her seat excitedly. She did not see the potential for disaster.
Mason was the next person to surprise everyone. “Jaz, I guess we should be buddies. I need someone to protect me from all those cheerleaders. I hear you’re a pro at that.”
The whole table burst out laughing.
The next few seconds of silence seemed to last hours. Peter slurped the last drops of chocolate milk through his straw. Stuart stared down at the table, chewing his pizza, not noticing Grace’s burning stare. Finally, an elbow to his arm made him swallow hard and look at me. “Charity, I guess we could be buddies.”
He did not sound too thrilled about it. I must have been delusional to think he had one nanogram of interest in me.
“Here, Charity, I got your voice here.” Mason pulled out the keyboard so I could type.
Sounds like fun.
“Fun? Is that the word you wanted?” Mason asked. “Are you sure you don’t mean torture? Sounds like torture? Yes, I think that’s what Charity is trying to say.”
Everyone laughed again.
“I think I’m with the right buddy,” Jaz said.
“We’ll stick together,” Grace said. “Safety in numbers, you know—and have a blast dancing and being silly. Sound cool?”
Mason, who was now finishing Jazmine’s second piece of pizza, mumbled, “As long as there’s food, I’m ready to endure the torture.”
He held up his hand for a fist bump and Jaz returned it.
What had Grace gotten us into?
Disco Drama Queen
“I think I got a case of boogie fever.” Dad pointed his fingers in the air and shook his hips in the school hallway, determined to embarrass me before I set foot in my first-ever school dance.
I persuaded Mom to stay home because I thought that Dad would be a little cooler about the whole “first dance” thing.
I was wrong.
“C’mon, Cherry Girl. Let’s get our feet moving in the right direction—I hear them playing our song.”
I was not planning on moving yet. We had all agreed to meet at the gym entrance, and I did not want to go anywhere without the rest of the clay pigeons, as Jaz called us.
Jaz whizzed down the hall, wearing a tiara and blue sparkly shirt.
“Now there’s someone with boogie fever,” Dad said.
“Well, as a member of the Princess Court, I have a certain standard to uphold,” Jaz said.
Dad gave her a high five.
Grace came next, wearing a shiny silver dress with white boots that came up to her knee. “Righ
t on, girls, you look fabulous. Jaz, you totally rock, and Charity, you’re gorgeous.”
I did not want to go overboard with the costume and make myself stand out any more than I normally do. I chose new jeans with violets painted all the way down the leg. Mom brushed my hair loose around my shoulders, and I picked out a purple headband. A little eye shadow and lip gloss, and I looked almost as cool as those girls in teen magazines.
“Get ready to get down,” Grace said, bending her knees and moving her hips to the music booming inside the gym.
Within a few minutes our little group had assembled. Mason had slicked-back hair and was wearing star-shaped sunglasses. Julian wore a cool cowboy hat perched on his fuzzy afro.
Skyler, in a pretty tangerine party dress, sashayed down the hall with her dad, who was wearing his white navy uniform.
“You guys definitely win cutest couple,” Grace said.
Her dad shook everyone’s hand. “I never would have thought to take her, but when she said her friends wanted her to come . . .” He tapped his fist to his heart. “Well, we couldn’t miss that, could we, honey?”
“Yes, we love to dance!” Skyler bounced, and her lacy dress floated up and down like a jellyfish.
We all stood there for what seemed like googolplex minutes waiting for the one missing person: Stuart.
Finally, Mason broke down. “I smell popcorn. Jaz, let’s go check it out.”
“Good idea,” Grace said. “Let’s all head in. I’m sure Stuart will be able to spot us. Who could miss Jazmine’s electric shirt?”
The song “Dancing Queen” was blaring through the room, and the spinning mirror ball made the entire cafeteria twinkle like it was lit with diamonds. Dad hung out with Coach George to give me some space, but I only wanted to go home.
Grace tried to drag me onto the dance floor. I pulled my arm away and sat on a metal folding chair by the wall. The loud music vibrated through my body, but that was not why I was about to lose it. It’s a strange fact that I can feel a lot lonelier in a crowd of people than sitting by myself in a room.
I stared down at the floor, and a plate of striped chocolate cookies appeared under my nose.
Mason sat down next to me. “Have one, Chare. Time to get your daily sugar requirement.”
Jaz pulled up alongside. “You’re the one who always says everyone should be included, and here you are being a wallflower. What’s up, girl?”
“I think she’s waiting for Stuart.” Grace came up out of breath. She and Julian had danced to the last three songs.
I felt everyone’s eyes staring at me.
“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Grace offered.
Translation: He is ashamed to be seen with me.
Dad came up with the keyboard. “Cherry, looks like you might wanna say something to your friends. Let me help you.” I typed one word.
Home.
“But we just got here, honey,” Dad said. “Sure you don’t want to hang out a few more minutes?”
My arm wanted to smack Mason’s plate of cookies onto the floor to make my point, but I was stopped by a low voice.
“Uh, what’s up, guys? Hi, Charity.”
And there he was. Stuart . . . in an actual shirt and tie and combed hair, even.
Everyone patted him on the back, and Jaz teased him about his “lame costume.”
“Okay, guys,” Grace announced, as if she was our activity director, “everyone out on the dance floor.”
Stuart swallowed hard. “I think I’ll sit next to Charity for a minute. I’m not really in a dancing mood yet.”
Everyone, including Dad, left us alone. Stuart ran his hand through his hair, messing it up so it looked more like normal. “Sorry I’m late, Charity. I actually never went to a dance before. I’m like the worst dancer in the world. I sure don’t need one more thing for people to make fun of.”
I could not believe it. How could he sit next to me and think that he was going to embarrass himself at the dance?
“You look great though,” he muttered, his eyes glued to the floor.
I surprised myself by pulling him up and onto the dance floor. The song was “Boogie Fever,” and my body started jumping to the rhythm. Stuart stood frozen for a minute. I guess everyone’s body can get stuck sometimes.
Then Skyler took his hand and jumped to the beat with me. Jaz twirled her chair in circles and waved her hands. Stuart finally gave in, and our whole group was bouncing and spinning in the middle of the dance floor.
At that moment, I did not care if people cheered or jeered us. I finally realized it did not matter.
At a break in the music, we wandered over to the food table to grab some neon green lime punch. Grace dabbed my sweaty face with a napkin and said, “Let’s go to the girls’ room and brush our wild hair.” I gladly followed, Jaz rolling behind.
In front of the mirror, Grace smeared some cherry lip gloss on me, and Jaz adjusted her crooked tiara. That’s when I spotted Darcy behind us, smiling with her arms crossed as if she were sitting on the juiciest gossip in Hollywood.
Jaz spun around, ready for battle.
Grace looked at Darcy in the mirror and said, “How’s it going, girl?”
“You all look so pretty tonight,” Darcy said in a sugary voice. “So super you girls are having a final celebration before Charity gets kicked out.”
“Cut the drama, Darcy,” Grace said. “You never liked Charity, and honestly I think that’s pretty disgusting.”
Darcy raised her hand. “Don’t even,” she hissed. “That girl cheats on all her assignments. Probably planning to cheat her way to the top of the honor roll.”
Darcy focused her squinty eyes on me. “What you don’t know is that my mom got a copy of her research paper for English class and uploaded it to a website that checks for plagiarism. It’s full of stolen sentences.” She pointed her finger in Grace’s face. “Plus, my dad got a statement from her so-called aide admitting she typed words for Charity. She is sooooo going to be expelled for this.”
“Lay off, you cheerleader nightmare,” Jaz yelled. “You give all us cheerleaders a bad name.”
“Puh-leeze! Shaking your pom-poms with a dumb tiara on your head does not make you a cheerleader.”
Jaz grabbed the punch from her cup holder and tossed it on Darcy’s sparkly mini-dress.
“Eeeeew!” Darcy blotted the sticky mess with paper towels. “Stay away from me, you loser!” She half-smiled, half-
grimaced in my direction and danced out the door to the sound of “Boogie Oogie.”
Godzilla’s Revenge
I knew we were in serious trouble when I saw Celia’s face. “Querida, I don’t know what to make of this. Tell us what this is.”
She handed Mom and Dad a copy of my English paper with plagiarized sentences highlighted in yellow. For once, Dad seemed tense. His nervous knee bounced up and down.
Faces of passing students and teachers peeked at us through the window of Celia’s office. Mom’s panicky expression, along with the rumors Darcy had spread made this the gossip of the day.
“I know you have such a wonderful memory, querida. Is it possible that you quoted from other sources accidentally?”
I stared at the pages. It looked like my paper. Same title, same structure, lots of the same sentences. I read it quickly and blew out a puff of air. Mom helped me respond.
No. Not my essay. Somebody added words.
“Gracias a Dios,” Celia said, “but here’s the problem. Ms. Beckett says she mailed your original paper to a reporter, but the reporter never received it. It was lost in transit somehow.”
Dad grabbed the essay and stood up. “Lost, or stolen? Somebody obviously messed with Charity’s words so they could accuse her of cheating. What maniac would do this?” He slapped the essay with the back of his hand. “Where did they get this copy?”
Skyler stood outside in the hallway, pressing her face to the office window. Her smushed nose fogged up the glass. Jaz pulled her away.
Celia frowned. “Jergen will not tell me who gave it to him or how he acquired it. Ms. Beckett mailed it from the school. All I can think is that someone in the office took it before it was sent out.”
“Well, Charity, show them your copy of the paper on the computer.” Mom spoke in her high panicky voice.
I thought for a minute. My accuser could say that I deleted the copied sentences.
Mom held up the keyboard. I was losing control with each letter.
My word against theirs. This is t . . .
I pushed away her arm.
We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“What’s next?” Mom asked, blinking quickly.
“They have scheduled an investigation hearing for next week. The district superintendent will be there to hear evidence and make her decision.”
Dad’s voice lowered. “They couldn’t expel her for this nonsense, could they?”
“If the committee determines this is not related to her disability, then she is subject to the same disciplinary measures as any other student. We must prove our case.”
Why do I always have to fight? First to come to Lincoln, now to stay? It is not fair. So many bullies bulldozing my path to peace. Not fair. Not fair. Not. Not. Not.
Celia and my parents talked for a while. My body rocked back and forth.
Rock-rock-rock-rock-rock-rock-rock-rock-rock.
Pity venom stung my entire body. The world zoned out. I was alone in the unfair universe.
Page 101: Vespa mandarinia . . .
A hand on my shoulder pulled me back to reality.
Mom tugged on my arm. “We’d better get you to math. You have your quiz today. Remember the formulas we reviewed at breakfast?”
I wanted to scream.
Have you lost your mind? What part of expelled don’t you understand?
I pulled away. She tried again. I buried my face in my hands.
Page 101: Vespa mandarinia . . . the Asian giant hornet . . .
