Just Call Me Stupid

by Tom Birdseye

  Still, he’d skipped school. He wasn’t sick. Maggie or not, she would know that with one look. Maggie or not, she was still his teacher. Maggie or not, he was in big trouble. He should go on and run for it.

  “Please open the door. I want to talk to you about something.”

  Or maybe it was the mural she was there about. Why had he torn that thing up? It was for the whole class, not just for Celina. But Celina had probably seen him rip it to shreds and throw it in the trash. She’d probably told Mrs. Romero everything. Patrick began to panic. Skipping school. Tearing up the mural. Mrs. Romero was probably really angry and would—

  “I’ve been worrying about you, Patrick.”

  She didn’t sound really angry, though.

  “Are you all right?”

  She sounded concerned.

  “We missed you at school today.”

  Missed him?

  “I especially missed you.”

  Patrick turned and faced the front door. Really? Really, Mrs. Romero?

  “Please, Patrick, let’s talk,” she said.

  Patrick took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it.

  Chapter 22

  The Bet

  Mrs. Romero was in the living room and giving Patrick a big hug before the door was halfway open. “Patrick!” she beamed. “It’s good to see you.”

  He waited for her smile to vanish when she realized he wasn’t really sick. He waited for her to say, “But what’s this I hear about you tearing up the mural?”

  Mrs. Romero just kept on smiling at him, though. “You are an important member of our classroom,” she said. “I really did miss you today.”

  Patrick blushed and looked away.

  “I read your story, by the way,” she continued. “It’s wonderful! I knew you had it in you. Congratulations!”

  Two emotions—fear and pride—surfaced in Patrick at exactly the same instant.

  “Celina showed it to me,” Mrs. Romero said.

  Then another emotion rose in him—anger. Nothing more than the mention of Celina’s name …

  “But just in case you’re worried about it,” Mrs. Romero said, “I want you to know that you don’t have to get up in front of everybody at the assembly on Wednesday. It’s your story. You won. But you don’t have to get up on that stage if you really don’t want to.”

  Patrick turned and eyed Mrs. Romero closely. Did she know Celina had entered his story in the writing contest without telling him? Or did she just know how much he hated being the center of attention. Either way, she was on the right track. The thought of standing up in front of the whole school to receive an award terrified him.

  “It’s your story,” she said again. “You do what you want.”

  “Really?” he said.

  Mrs. Romero didn’t hesitate with her answer. “Absolutely.”

  Patrick then knew what he really wanted to do. “Can I take it out of the contest?”

  Surprise showed clearly on Mrs. Romero’s face. “But, Patrick, you won.”

  He nodded. “There was a second-place story, wasn’t there?”

  “Well … yes,” Mrs. Romero said. “Andy Wilkinson’s story was judged second place.”

  “So make Andy’s first place,” Patrick said quickly, getting the words out before they got caught in his throat. Andy getting the award would serve Celina right! “And the third-place story would then be in second place,” he added, almost cheerfully now, “and on and on like that.”

  “But, Patrick,” Mrs. Romero said, “I don’t think—”

  “That’s what I want to do,” Patrick cut in. He didn’t mean to be rude, but she had said he could do what he wanted. Well, this was it: Pretend there was no story, never had been. No award either. Let Andy have it. Go on back to school. (Paulette wouldn’t let him stay home anyway. He knew that. He might as well go back on his own.) Mind his own business and make sure everyone—especially Andy and Celina—minded theirs. Act like none of this had ever happened. That was what he wanted to do. He’d made up his mind.

  Mrs. Romero didn’t seem nearly as convinced. “Why don’t you give it some thought over the weekend,” she said, “and tell me what you’ve decided on Monday morning? Don’t decide right now. You won. You deserve that award. Think about it, OK?”

  Patrick started to say no, but hesitated, then nodded instead. This was Mrs. Romero. She was nice. “OK,” he said, just to make her happy.

  But deep inside he knew he had already thought about it all he needed.

  Saturday morning at breakfast, Paulette said, “Mrs. Romero had dinner at the café last night.”

  Patrick tried to act like this was nothing to worry about. “Good,” he said, and kept on eating his cereal.

  “She told me all about the writing contest,” Paulette added.

  Patrick got up from his stool and went to the refrigerator, where he pretended to look for orange juice he knew wasn’t there. He’d drained the bottle two days ago.

  “I think you ought to accept the award,” Paulette said. “I’m so proud of you. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

  Patrick kept his head in the refrigerator.

  “Don’t you want people to—”

  “Look, it’s my story!” Patrick blurted out, turning back toward her. His voice came out with more force than he meant it to. He wasn’t mad at Paulette. Still, it was his story. No one else should have anything to say about it. “Mrs. Romero told me I could do what I want,” he said in softer tones. “What I want is to forget about it.”

  Paulette sighed and said, “All right.” But she couldn’t seem to keep from bringing the story up whenever she was home during the weekend, wanting to read it, wanting to hear all about it. “What was the title again? ‘The White Knight’? I like that.”

  Patrick had made up his mind, though. Politely, he just changed the subject. He wouldn’t give an inch.

  On Monday morning Andy Wilkinson was waiting for him on the soccer field.

  “How could you have written the best story in the whole school?” Andy demanded, striding toward him.

  Patrick did a quick right-hand turn and walked toward the school door. Pretend it never happened, he told himself. Ignore Andy like you’ve done before. He’s mad because he came in second in the writing contest. Bad mood day. Just ignore it. He’ll be happy enough when he learns he’s been bumped up to first place. Then maybe life can get back to normal.

  But Andy kept on, this time loud enough to turn heads. “Who really wrote that story, huh? Your wetback girlfriend?”

  Patrick stopped and whirled around, anger shooting up in him like a geyser. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said between clenched teeth, “and I wrote the story.”

  Andy’s laugh was harsh. “That’s not your story. You couldn’t have written it. Liar. Cheater.”

  Andy’s words rang in Patrick’s ears. Quickly he drew a mental picture of himself as the White Knight with shield and lance, riding across the sunlit meadow away from all of this. He strained to keep the image in his mind. He had drawn it so many times, lived it in his imagination for so many more. He could keep it up now, couldn’t he?

  He couldn’t. Exiling Celina from The Kingdom and tearing it all down had somehow torn down the world inside his head, too. He couldn’t shut all else out. Things began to close in on him, especially Andy’s voice.

  “You couldn’t have written that story. You’re too stupid.”

  Patrick began to panic. Stupid … Stupid … Stupid. The word echoed, and with that echo the weight bore down on his chest, the air pressed in like walls, the closet door began to slam shut.

  “You can’t even read!”

  He couldn’t get enough air. In desperation, Patrick fought back. “I CAN TOO READ!” he shouted.

  With that Patrick’s fear cleared just enough for him to see Andy step up very close, only inches from his face. “Oh, yeah?” Andy said, making sure everyone—and there were lots of kids now who had stopped playing to watch—making sure
everyone could hear. “Well, then, prove it. Read from your story at the assembly on Wednesday, in front of the whole school. Let’s hear how great you are. I bet you can’t.”

  Patrick glared back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Celina step toward him. She was about to butt in, he could tell. She probably wanted to say she had done the right thing again, make excuses, tell more lies. He quickly glanced over at her, letting his fierce stare speak for itself. Keep out of my life, traitor!

  Celina stopped. Patrick looked back at Andy. He’d show him. He’d show Celina. He’d show everyone. The White Knight would rise to the Black Knight’s challenge and fight for what was right. He would defend the code of chivalry from the forces of evil. And he’d do it alone, without anybody’s help.

  “OK, I’ll read,” Patrick said. The force of his anger and determination pushed the words out of his mouth. “I’ll read my story in front of everybody!”

  Chapter 23

  Not at Home

  Mr. Gordon broke into a big grin when Patrick came up to him in the hall and told him he wanted to read his story aloud at the awards assembly. “Sure!” he said. He patted Patrick on the back. “We hadn’t planned on it, but of course, you won first place. It would be great to hear the winning author read his own story.”

  Patrick turned and looked defiantly at Andy, who had followed him from the playground to be sure he really asked.

  So there!

  As soon as Patrick got off the school bus that afternoon, he went straight to the garage. What had been The Kingdom was now just dirt and oleander bushes. But beside the piece of old plywood that had served as The Kingdom’s roof were the two halves of “The White Knight,” lying in the dust where Celina had dropped them. Patrick picked them up, thankful that he had only torn his story into two pieces instead of confetti, thankful that the monsoon season was over and it hadn’t rained since. He brushed the halves off and took them inside, where he taped them back together.

  Patrick sat at the desk in his room. With his jaw set tight and his shoulder muscles rigid, he opened “The White Knight” and forced himself to look his own words right in the eye.

  For hours he labored over his story. Again and again he looked at the neatly printed words, straining to make sense of each little letter and sound. He used his anger to keep himself going. “C’mon!” he said to himself through clinched teeth whenever he felt like giving up. “This is your story.”

  But by ten o’clock that night Patrick still didn’t seem to be any closer to reading “The White Knight” the way he knew he would need to on Wednesday. The fact that he had told it into a tape player didn’t help him figure out each printed word. He knew how the story began, its middle, the end, and a lot of the details. But now he had to actually read it. He’d said he would, in front of everybody. To read, he had to know each word, each series of letters hooked together on the page. And each word had to go with the next and the next to make sentences, then paragraphs. Sure, some of the words he could remember. But many he had to force himself to slowly, painfully sound out. By the time he made it through those, what he had was a jumble in his mind that made no sense. Nonsense words again. He would get so intent on each individual sound, he’d completely miss the meaning.

  Patrick kept on, though, turning out the light only when he heard Paulette come in from class. He jumped quickly into bed and pretended to be asleep. It felt weird, dishonest. But he didn’t have enough energy or time to discuss the whole thing with Paulette right then. After he was sure she was asleep, he sat up, turned on his flashlight, and worked some more. He had to find a way to read … any way that would work.

  Mrs. Nagle was more than a little surprised when Patrick showed up at the Reading Resource Room Tuesday morning before school. “You want what?” she said, disbelief ringing clearly in her voice.

  “Worksheets,” Patrick repeated. He’d made up his mind. He’d do whatever a good knight had to, even dreaded worksheets. “I’m studying extra.”

  Mrs. Nagle cocked her head and studied Patrick for a moment. “Mr. Gordon told me about you wanting to read your story at the assembly tomorrow.”

  “Do you have some extras I can take with me?” Patrick asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, I do. But—”

  “Thanks,” Patrick interrupted, holding out his hand.

  Mrs. Nagle let out a sigh. “All right, if that’s what you want.” She turned and quickly gathered a handful of worksheets. “Maybe there is a silver lining in this cloud,” she mumbled as she gave them to Patrick. “You never know … You never really know … Here you are.… Come back if you need help.”

  Patrick worked feverishly in class that morning, driving himself, going over and over the worksheets, trying to figure out how they fit into the puzzle of words. He made a point not to look at anyone, especially Celina or Andy, or Mrs. Romero. He didn’t even glance back at the new piece of mural paper Mrs. Romero had quietly set out for him on the back tables. He appreciated it, but right now he had too much to do. The mural and everything else could wait.

  But when Patrick stayed at his desk, hunched over the worksheets after the rest of the class went out for recess, Mrs. Romero came and sat down right in front of him. He couldn’t ignore that.

  “Hi,” he said, looking up.

  She smiled, but then quickly turned serious. “I heard about the assembly. Mr. Gordon told me.”

  Patrick acted as if there were nothing unusual about volunteering to read in front of over five hundred people. But he didn’t look Mrs. Romero in the eye when he said, “Yeah, no big deal.” Head back down, he returned to his worksheets.

  “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Mrs. Romero said gently.

  Patrick shrugged and kept on working.

  “This is your story, not a string of letters and sounds. Worksheets won’t help.”

  Patrick said nothing.

  Mrs. Romero let out a sigh, and for a moment Patrick thought that it sounded a lot like one of Mrs. Nagle’s sighs. “I would like to help,” she offered. She reached out and put her hand on his. “If you want me to.”

  For an instant Patrick was tempted. Mrs. Romero was a good teacher. She was the only teacher who had ever made him feel good about himself. And she never pressured him or made him feel stupid. She had put the new mural paper on the back tables without one question as to what happened to the first. She hadn’t mentioned that the class had already started their study of Europe and that the mural was past due. She’d just provided more paper. She hadn’t given up on him as her “expert” artist.

  She hadn’t given up on him being able to read either. “You can do it,” she often said. Maybe he could … maybe if she helped …

  No. He was the White Knight. He had to fight alone to defend his honor and the code of chivalry. He had to fight alone to read. He could get it right. He’d prove to Andy and Celina and Mrs. Nagle and everybody that he wasn’t stupid!

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t need any help.”

  Patrick doubled the amount of time and energy he put into the battle with his own story. He pushed himself like he never had before, ignoring everything but his goal, ignoring the ever-present threat of the closet door slamming shut in his face, trapping him in stifling darkness.

  But by Tuesday night, the night before the assembly, Patrick still couldn’t read “The White Knight.” He sat alone in his bedroom and knew he had failed. Letters and sounds were echoing constantly in his brain. He was confused, frustrated, and utterly exhausted. He couldn’t get it. He simply couldn’t make it all come together and work. He had fought and fought, but there was no victory in sight.

  Patrick fell back on his bed, tears welling up in his eyes. A weight pressed down on his chest. It became hard to breathe. The walls began to close in. The closet door came slamming shut.

  “NO!” Patrick sat up with what felt like his last bit of strength. He ran out of his bedroom. “Paulette!” he called out, knowing she was working late and then stu
dying, too. He needed her. He needed his mother. “MOM!” He wanted her to scoop him up in her arms and make everything else go away, just like when he was little. He rushed to the kitchen. “MOM!”

  The kitchen was empty. The cupboard-lined walls began to move in from the sides. Patrick turned and ran for the phone. He began dialing Celina’s number. If she would just admit that she was wrong, he’d forgive her and she could help him. He needed her help. He hated to admit it, but he did. She’d know what to do. If he could just hear her voice again, that would be good. If he could just hear her read those first lines she had read from The Sword in the Stone. How did they go? Something about, “There was a forest in the …” Or … no … What was it? He’d forgotten! He’d forgotten those lines he had heard so many times. And how did the story end? Suddenly, knowing how the story ended seemed very important.

  Patrick finished dialing Celina’s number in a near panic. He had to talk to her. He had to talk to her now.

  But there was no one there, only an answering machine with Celina’s dad saying they couldn’t come to the phone right now and to leave a message after the tone.

  Patrick slammed down the receiver. Scooping up “The White Knight,” he ran out of his house. In seconds he was on Celina’s porch, pounding on her door.

  But there were no lights on, and no matter how hard he pounded, Celina didn’t answer. She wasn’t home. Only Pellinore was there, barking on the other side of the door.

  Patrick sprinted back to his house. He slammed the door shut and threw his story across the living room. It hit the shelves, knocking some of Paulette’s cassette tapes onto the floor.

  Paulette. Where was his mother when he needed her? Patrick ran over and kicked at her tapes. Where was she? She was just like Celina—not at home. The whole world was not at home! He kicked at the tapes again, sending one of them across the room and under the couch, then turned and stomped on another, cracking the plastic case.