by Andrea White
As the girl rushes confidently past him, he remembers another one of Miss Perkins’ favorite sayings: “You were meant to be exactly like you are.”
Sam tries to make himself believe.
“Stirling has never admitted a handicapped student before,” Miss Perkins is saying. “Sam, you are the very first. We’re both going to have to be patient.”
The double green doors. Sam is almost within spitting distance of Stirling Junior High, and he is no longer listening to Miss Perkins. In his imagination, he feels like the doors are magic. Once he passes through them he will become a different boy, with a more active life.
But you won’t find a better friend than you already have, Winnie says.
Hush, Sam thinks, scolding him. I don’t want to listen to your bragging.
A student with reddish-brown hair opens one of the doors for Miss Perkins. Sam recognizes him from the playground as a fanatical basketball player. Sam envies the boy’s freckles—his mother tells him that freckles are caused by too much sun— and the boy’s long arms and big hands, so useful in basketball.
Miss Perkins smiles at him. “Why, thank you, young man.”
Instead of answering, the boy continues to stare at Miss Perkins.
Sam takes in Miss Perkins’ frizzy gray hair and white nurse’s shoes. For the first time, it occurs to Sam that having Miss Perkins as a companion is going to make it harder for him to make friends, and he is embarrassed by her.
Then, he remembers a scene from My Early Life. Once Winnie’s housekeeper had gone to visit him at boarding school. Winnie kissed her on the cheek in front of all the boys. One of Winnie’s classmates called it the “bravest act” he had ever seen.
As Sam and Miss Perkins pass into the halls of Stirling Junior High, Sam promises himself, I won’t let the boys’ opinion of Miss Perkins bother me. I’ll be brave like Winnie.
Chapter Three
Room 114. Sam reads the big numbers above the wooden door.
A woman wearing a nubby blue skirt that falls above her knees and a tailored white shirt is standing near the entrance. She is petite like his mother but the resemblance stops with size. Although the woman’s brown hair is shiny, her dark eyes don’t sparkle. Sam decides that the woman’s face looks strict.
“May I help you?” she greets them.
This must be his new teacher, Mrs. Martin. He’s sorry to hear that her voice matches her eyes.
“This is Sam Davis, and I’m Abigail Perkins,” Miss Perkins answers cheerfully.
The woman’s thin eyebrows rise above her horn-rimmed glasses. She grasps Miss Perkins’ arm and leads her a few steps away.
“He’s my new student?” Mrs. Martin’s voice is not so soft that Sam can’t hear.
Sam reminds himself that Winnie often created a bad first impression. How often had Miss Perkins read that, “The first time you meet Winston, you see all his faults, and the rest of your life you spend in discovering his virtues”1
“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says.
Sam tries to hold his neck straight.
“I was told that the boy had cerebral palsy, but he looks like he needs special instruction. I have thirty kids in this class,” Mrs. Martin protests.
As he has in the past, Sam wonders if his keen ears are really a blessing.
“I understand. I’ll stay with Sam,” Miss Perkins answers his teacher firmly.
“This is a 6th grade class. Are you sure he’s on grade level?” Mrs. Martin asks.
“Well, you see,” Miss Perkins confides, “he can’t be tested properly.”
His mother has told Sam that Mrs. Ellsworth, the school’s vice-principal who performs student testing, is on maternity leave.
“So until Mrs. Ellsworth returns,” Miss Perkins continues, “Principal Cullen agreed that Sam could be with boys and girls his own age. And since speech is difficult for Sam, we’re not sure what level he’s on.”
Mrs. Martin gives a little sigh and approaches Sam. Her crestfallen expression reminds him of his mother’s when she has to wash the dishes.
“Hello.” Mrs. Martin bends down and introduces herself to Sam.
Sam does his best to smile at her. Her glasses and her stern expression had fooled him. Up close, he realizes that his new teacher is young. He doesn’t know any college students, but he guesses that she looks like one.
Inside the classroom, a boy shouts, “Give me my pencil. You stole my pencil.”
Mrs. Martin rushes away, yelling, “That’s enough. Enough!”
Miss Perkins grips the handles of his wheelchair and pushes him forward. It’s only then that Sam notices that the classroom door is narrow. Suddenly, he’s afraid that his wheelchair isn’t going to fit. To his relief, he barely edges through.
He’s terrified when he feels all the kids’ eyes on him. About thirty kids are sitting behind wooden desks all in rows. He scans their faces. Some eyes are filled with curiosity, many with pity, a few with fear. He searches the whole room without finding any that hold just basic friendliness.
To work up his courage, Sam takes a deep breath, but before he can say hello, Mrs. Martin nods at Sam. “Class, this is Sam Davis. Since Sam is unable to talk, Miss Perkins, his nurse, will be attending with him.”
I can talk, Sam wants to protest, but he doesn’t dare shock the kids with his voice. Not yet. He remembers Miss Perkins’ advice. Best to let the other students get to know him gradually.
“Why don’t you push him over there?” Mrs. Martin points at a table labeled “Science table,” crowded with a small forest of potted plants, two avocado seeds in water, a jar of magnets, a scale and a few stray erasers.
Miss Perkins must have decided not to argue with Mrs. Martin either. She obediently wheels him over to the table and settles herself in a small chair next to him. As she pats his leg, she whispers, “That’s my boy, Sam. Stay calm. Let’s count potatoes.”
Sam feels insulted. Miss Perkins is acting as if he might stage a tantrum inside the classroom.
“One potato, two potato…” Softly, Miss Perkins encourages him, and out of habit, Sam begins counting in his head. During World War II, Miss Perkins’ family had recited this rhyme in their basement while they waited for the bombs to stop falling. When Sam gets upset, his body becomes as rigid and lifeless as a board. As he follows along now, his body grows softer until he is aware that he is breathing again.
Finally, after the sixth potato, Sam has calmed down enough to admit to himself that, maybe, Miss Perkins’ concern wasn’t entirely foolish. His teacher’s remark did make him angry, and perhaps, when he was younger, he might have howled.
Sam is noticing the posters on the wall—a map of the world with the State of Massachusetts marked in red, a reading chart alongside pictures of Zeus, Hera and the other Greek gods, and a picture of the solar system with red, blue and green planets—when the bell rings. It’s louder than Sam expected, but by holding onto the armrest, he manages not to jump in surprise.
And the next thing he knows, Mickey Kotov slips through the door. In the harsh light of the classroom, Sam is able to see Mickey clearly for the first time. He’s a dark-headed boy with perfect features, an uneven part to his hair and specks of mud on his black slip-on tennis shoes. By his rounded shoulders and downcast eyes, Sam knows that the boy feels like he’s done something wrong. But he’s only a minute or so late.
Although his version of whistling is wet, Sam longs to whistle. The only boy whose name Sam knows in the whole school is in his class!
Mickey ignores Sam’s smile, but when Sam’s gaze shifts, he sees that the girl next to Mickey is watching Sam. Her white-blonde hair frames a sharp nose and close-set blue eyes. She’s wearing a red and white plaid dress with a black sash.
“Mickey, this is the third time this week that you’ve been late,” Mrs. Martin says. “After the pledge, go straight to the principal’s office.”
Mickey’s blank expression doesn’t change.
“This is Principal Culle
n,” a loud voice announces over the intercom. “Good morning, students. It’s another great day at Stirling Junior High. Please stand for the pledge.”
Papers rustle. Knees knock against desks. Feet shuffle as the kids stand and put their hands over their hearts.
Sam glances at Miss Perkins. His seat belt is easy for Miss Perkins to unbuckle, but she doesn’t like for him to stand or walk more than necessary. She and his mother are both scared of injuries. Since she makes no move to remove his belt, Sam can’t stand. Instead, he squeezes his arm muscles until his hand grazes his shirt. Once he’s in proper position, he turns his attention to the class. Instead of looking at the flag, he finds that all of the students are staring at Mickey.
Mickey is the only kid who is not reciting the pledge. His lips are stubbornly pressed together. His long arms dangle at his sides. His eyes are downcast.
“He speaks Russian,” one boy says softly.
“He’s a spy,” another says.
A few of the kids snicker. “We’re fighting the Russians in Vietnam.”
“I’m fighting Mickey,” another says.
Mickey must be from the Soviet Union, Sam decides. That would explain his father’s heavy accent. But Sam is surprised, because Mickey plays basketball better than most Americans.
Chapter Four
For the next thirty minutes, Mrs. Martin reviews old tests and collects homework. When the business of the class is concluded, she says, “Get out your math notebooks.” Pencils drop on the floor. Books thud.
Miss Perkins removes her notebook from her large, black purse. Sam’s wheelchair has a foldaway tray, and she pulls it out. She tears a piece of paper from the notebook, writes Sam Davis on it in her big rolling hand and lays it on the tray.
“Could I borrow your eraser?” someone hisses.
“You were supposed to bring your own,” a girl’s voice answers.
Mrs. Martin begins writing a list of problems on the board:
1,258÷93 20,957÷11 19,899÷15…
“You have fifteen minutes to work these problems to the nearest decimal,” Mrs. Martin says briskly. “Turn them in when you’re through.”
1,258/93. Sam easily computes a partial answer in his head: 13. But he’s surprised that the numbers left over are too small to be divided by 93. He has no idea what to do with these extras. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miss Perkins tapping her pencil on the page.
Miss Perkins has taught him addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. Usually, she writes the problem on a piece of paper, and he shows her the answers by touching the numbers on a special pad. But he has never attempted a problem that has leftovers before. Miss Perkins is always saying that she has taught him all she knows. For the first time, Sam realizes maybe this is true.
“Sam,” Miss Perkins whispers. “Let’s see if we can figure out the math at home.”
Speaking their private language, Sam looks up at the ceiling. He wishes that he were a whiz at math. And he begins fantasizing that Mrs. Martin has asked the question: Who knows what to do with these leftover numbers? He would say, “I do.” Yet, since he doesn’t know the answers to the real questions, not a single one of them, he begins to feel dumb.
I never liked math, Winnie says. The figures were tied into all sorts of tangles and did things to one another which were extremely difficult.2†
Hearing Winnie’s voice makes Sam long for his safe spot by the apartment window. Even though Sam’s spent thousands of hours at his window dreaming about school, all of a sudden, he’s homesick.
After all, his wheelchair separates him from the other kids. Not only do the rest of the kids have desks, they’re all grouped together in the middle of the room. He’s parked next to the potted plants. He can’t complete the first assignment of the day. No one looks at him, not even the teacher. Miss Perkins is occupied copying down the problems. He feels like he’s not attending school so much as watching it—from a closer place to be sure, but still like television.
At least, I don’t see a birch here, Winnie adds.
Sam knows that the teachers at Winnie’s school used to punish students with a stick.
I was thrashed often, Winnie remembers.
Be quiet, Winnie, thinks Sam. You’re making me nervous. Besides, I can talk to you anytime. While the kids are busy, I want to study them.
At first, the class had seemed to be one multicolored animal with many heads, arms, and legs, but now that Sam’s been here awhile, each kid is starting to look different.
His gaze drifts over again to the second row, third desk, and to the blonde girl sitting there. Although the girl doesn’t smile, she doesn’t look away. Her blue eyes are filled with…not friendliness, but interest. Could this girl be a possible friend?
Next to him, Miss Perkins sighs over the math problems.
Sam feels sure that he and Miss Perkins will be better at English. Although it’s hard for Sam’s eyes to focus on small lettering, he can see large print. To teach him to read and write, Miss Perkins created a big alphabet on poster board. Then, she set out an easy book on his tray and held a magnifying glass over the pages. After six months, they had worked up to My Early Life. Whenever he had finished a page, he nodded. At the same time that he was learning how to read, Miss Perkins taught him how to write. To select his first letter from the alphabet, he used his right pointer finger: P. Then Miss Perkins wrote the letter down on a piece of paper. His first word was Perkins. Next, with his caretaker’s help, he dictated short sentences, like, I am Sam. Then paragraphs. For the last several years, he finished whole essays, mostly about Winnie.
Mrs. Martin’s voice interrupts Sam’s thoughts. “Time to turn in your papers, please.”
A few kids sigh. Several file past Sam and Miss Perkins. One by one, each member of the class drops his paper in a box on the teacher’s desk.
Miss Perkins fidgets next to him.
“Is that everybody?” Mrs. Martin looks at Sam.
Sam’s chair is suddenly so uncomfortable that he can barely stand it. Miss Perkins smiles. “Sam and I are going to work on our problems tonight.”
A couple of kids snicker.
“I would have liked to see a sample of Sam’s work,” Mrs. Martin says.
It’s the first day of class, and Sam has already disappointed his teacher. He almost doesn’t hear the next part of Mrs. Martin’s comment.
“But, of course, tomorrow will be fine,” Mrs. Martin adds before turning away. She instructs the class, “Now take out your vocabulary notebook and write down the words on the blackboard.”
Sam looks at the blackboard. Miss Perkins starts whispering the vocabulary words to him, but Mrs. Martin’s handwriting is so big that even he can read the list:
Definition
Forbidden
Extraordinary
Despair
Perverse
Sam can’t concentrate. He’s too upset.
You are such a good boy, Sam, Winnie says, that you don’t even know what it means to be bad. A teacher of mine once said that she thought that I was the naughtiest small boy in the world.3
Sam doesn’t answer. One of the many things that Sam finds annoying about Winnie is that Winnie talks about Sam and himself in the same breath. Winnie’s a world leader. He’s just a boy in a wheelchair.
But don’t you see, Sam? I was just a boy once, too. A boy nobody believed in.
Remind me, Sam pleads.
Remember that list that you wrote for Miss Perkins about all the things that I did wrong in school? Winnie asks.
I remember. Winnie’s headmaster wrote to his mother that he was “very bad” and a “constant trouble to everybody.” He was flogged often. Once Winnie had even tried to blow up a school building.
I promise, Winnie boasts. None of my teachers or fellow students would ever believe that someday I’d be the greatest man in the world.
Mickey appears in the doorway, with his shirt untucked. Although he sits down at his desk, the boy d
oesn’t bother to take out his notebook or pencil. Instead, he squirms around on the hard seat as if struggling to get comfortable.
Mickey notices Sam’s gaze, and his small features scrunch up into a frown.
Sam feels confused and wants to explain: It’s me, the boy who is always watching you from the window. You’re a great basketball player. Come talk to me. But since he can’t say any of these things, to be friendly, he winks at Mickey.
Unexpectedly, Mickey’s dark eyes flash with anger.
“All right, class,” Mrs. Martin says. “Put up your vocabulary notebooks. You may go to recess.”
Recess. What is Sam going to do during recess? Who will talk to him? He nervously shifts in his chair.
Mrs. Martin turns and begins cleaning the blackboard.
Each kid who races out of the classroom takes a bit of the excitement with him. Finally, only Mickey remains seated. Sam is startled to find that the boy is still looking at him. He licks his lips nervously. Could Mickey be a tough kid? One of those hoods in a leather jacket that his mother always worries about. He knows that if a bad kid wanted to, he could toss Sam out of his wheelchair and jump on his stomach. And what would Sam be able to do to stop him? Nothing.
“I’m going to the restroom, Sam,” Miss Perkins says. “You don’t need to go, do you?”
“Nooo,” Sam says. The restroom arrangements that have been made for Sam are complicated. He’s not looking forward to his first trip.
“I’ll be right back,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
Mickey stands up, and Sam is shocked when, instead of heading out the door, Mickey veers toward him.
Mickey squats down next to Sam. He’s so close that Sam can smell the bacon on his breath. He can see a faded purple bruise on the side of his head. Scarier still, he can see the hate in Mickey’s eyes.
“Stop steering at me. Ve’re not friends,” Mickey whispers urgently. Before Sam has a chance to answer, Mickey runs off.
