I love his answer, but I can’t give him a drop of credit; the two-point response is that they’re both animals or mammals. One point if he had said they both have legs, hair, nurse their babies, and so forth. I’d like to figure out my own scoring system for creativity and enthusiasm.
Next, I tell him I want to see how well he can listen. He dutifully cups his large ears and leans forward while I sit less than two feet in front of him and read a simple sentence for him to repeat back. His auditory comprehension is stellar, and he must have known it. He beams while I pronounce, “No listening problems for you.”
He freely volunteers, “Sometimes I don’t pay attention, and then I don’t hear well.”
Sensing he was a smart, creative thinker, I’d started with the fun stuff: puzzles, questions, and mazes. Now it’s time to check out the area of concern that prompted the referral in the first place. I begin by displaying a list of words, starting with if. When the shiny, laminated page of typed words comes to rest on the tabletop, the game atmosphere vanishes, as though some cruel deity has swooped in and popped a bubble that has kept us both safe.
“Jayden, here are some words. Some of them are easy, and some are hard. I’d like you to try your very best to read as many as you can for me.” He stares at me, his eyes frightened saucers. I too begin to panic. How can I turn this into a game?
“Look,” I say, pointing to if. “Can you read this?” He puts his finger under the letter i and begins to say a short letter a sound and then switches to a short letter e sound, long and drawn out, ending with the correct sound for the letter f. He gives a quick smile.
“The word is eff, just like the letter f.”
“Nice job. How about this word?” I point to was. He stiffens his back and shoulders and bears down, with his finger slowly moving from letter to letter.
“Wuu aaa ssss.”
And my heart plunges deeper. He’s going at it just as I had suspected he would, letter sound by letter sound, with no concept of blending, believing that somehow the sounds would come together and make a word. After five consecutive misses, in a moment of desperation, I do my best to put on a warm smile.
“Jayden, these are such silly words—not all of them are real. You showed me that you’re a master at sounding out letters. Let’s get back together tomorrow, okay?”
I return to my pile of folders, each containing an incomplete summary of a child’s abilities—a set of numerical facts attempting to pinpoint a disability. Jayden’s folder has now joined the stack, abysmally flat, with numbers that fail to capture the creativity of his answers or his intrepid determination to figure things out. Average intelligence. He’s anything but average. He’s as exceptional as they come. Compared with the classification of “deficient,” where his reading skills fall, average sounds pretty good.
Like the others, he’ll surely qualify for special education. “Learning disabled” will be on the report, but I know it’s dyslexia—a term not used to qualify children for services in public schools. I’ll write recommendations, he’ll receive an individualized education program, aka, an IEP. Hopefully he’ll learn to read and overcome the hurdle of being special.
A heavy curtain descends upon me, making it impossible to move forward. I stare at the pile of reports that are yet to be written and sink deeper. I can’t open a single file much less digest the information to qualify a child for special ed. I force myself up and out of my office. I walk the halls and slip into a classroom here and there. I return to my computer and read e-mails that I would typically delete. The entire day passes, and I’ve managed to aimlessly shuffle among folders, avoiding all the while scoring or interpreting a single test. By four o’clock, I decide it’s time to give Matt’s referral a call.
~CHAPTER 8~
1967
MY FATHER is the tallest man I know. Even Mr. Dreadsly, our principal, is not as tall as my father, nor is his voice as loud. If I knew someone as tall as my father, I would want to find out if their voice could fill a room like a loudspeaker just like Father’s. When Mom becomes upset by us kids arguing too much or not doing our chores or just fooling around, her voice never stops us cold the way Father’s does. She’s a lot shorter than he is, and because I am now the tallest person in my class, I think I’m also going to have a loud, strong voice when I grow up.
When we don’t listen to Mom, she threatens to tell Father, and all he has to do is say with his thundering voice, “Your mother shouldn’t have to ask you three times to clean up your room.” He looks directly in our eyes, and this alone can make me feel bad, like he’s right. I tighten up to keep my tears from spilling out.
Mrs. Zinc’s voice isn’t loud like my father’s, but when I think about her size, taller than my mother, but really sort of normal, her voice is powerful. What I mostly notice is that she doesn’t need to use her loudness, and when she does, we all know she means business. Miss Stanley’s as tall as Mrs. Zinc, but like her long flowing hair and scarf, her voice sings out as if it were a song, though only a few of us hear its music. She’d have a terrible time with kids like Bobby Wallace, and for sure Paulette would try to show her how to take charge. Maybe this is why I’m her favorite student: I listen, and we both like learning about saints.
I know Miss Stanley’s real name—it’s Stacy. Stacy Stanley sounds like a movie star. I discovered her name when my mom read the letter sent home the first week of second-grade catechism.
“Stacy Stanley; I remember her. She was a candy striper at the hospital two years ago, a sweet girl.”
I couldn’t think of Miss Stanley as a girl. I knew she was young, but a girl only two years ago? “What’s a candy striper?” Even though I couldn’t see the girl version, I sure could imagine her delivering different kinds of candy to sick people.
“Candy stripers are girls who volunteer at the hospital.”
“Volunteer passing out candy?”
Mom thought this was funny, but I learned that it had nothing to do with candy except the red-and-white dresses they had to wear made someone think of candy canes. Miss Stanley looks much better in bell-bottoms and scarves the colors of rainbows.
When I first met Miss Stanley, I imagined she might also join the convent like me. After all, with her knowledge of saints and her patient smile, she would surely make a good nun. Maybe we’d end up in the same convent. Now I know she has a boyfriend. I found out about him at the beginning of the school year when Grandma was still alive.
One day after Mom came home, Grandma took me to town to pick up a few groceries at Jordan’s Market. We were in the aisle with all kinds of cans, looking for tuna fish.
“Maddie, sweetheart, help me find the tuna fish. You know, that silly picture of the mermaid? Look for that.” Grandma understood I do better with pictures.
“Grandma, here it is!”
“Marvelous.” She grabbed four cans off the shelf and handed them to me. “Put these in the cart while I get some Spam.”
I tossed the cans in and heard the voice that always sounds like singing—Miss Stanley. I looked up, and there she was with a tall man who had long blond hair. Father says long hair on boys makes them look like girls, but I had no trouble figuring out that he was a man. If I had only spied, rather than heard, Miss Stanley next to cans of Jolly Green Giant green beans, I might not have recognized her. She looked different outside the church, but I’d never mistake her voice. I wanted to run to her but suddenly felt shy, and so I pretended not to see her and began to push the cart down the aisle toward Grandma, but Miss Stanley had seen me.
“Madelyn,” she called. As soon as our eyes met, I broke into a smile. The man smiled too even though he had never met me. If they had been walking outside, I’m sure they’d have been holding hands. That’s when I knew that Miss Stanley probably wouldn’t be joining the convent.
“Are you here with your grandmother?” I had parked the cart close to Grandma, who was bent over looking at cans of food. Miss Stanley knew about Grandma coming to stay with us
because I had told her. All I could do was nod.
“I’d love to meet her.”
Grandma must have heard this even though Miss Stanley’s voice is never loud. I was so excited for them to meet, I didn’t say a thing. When Grandma stood up and turned toward Miss Stanley, I noticed Miss Stanley take a small step back. She smiled but looked away from Grandma’s face. Then I realized it was her nose. It’s different.
Before this, I hadn’t noticed that her nose was different; I was used to it. The next week, some of the kids in my class had also seen me in town with Grandma. Kids that knew I was a Sparrow for a second year.
“Madelyn, why does your grandma’s face look weird. What happened to her nose?”
“It’s just the way she is.”
“It’s ugly. I bet she’s like you and can’t read,” said Bobby.
“Shut up! She can read better than any of you!”
Later, Mom told me the story of how Grandma’s nose got that way. She was pumping water in the old country and the handle slipped, breaking her nose. They didn’t have enough money to fix it. After Bobby’s mean words, I started to notice people staring at her, and then at me, and it made me sad to not want to go to town with her anymore.
“Sweet potato, we need more tea biscuits and other necessities.”
Mom wasn’t home yet, and my little brothers had just got settled in front of the TV. My favorite time with Grandma was right after school. Alone in the kitchen, we’d share a cup of Lipton tea with sugar and have special tea biscuits that only Grandma and I liked. I’d tell her whatever story my teacher was reading, always making it better.
“I’m busy, Grandma.”
“Too busy to come shopping with your grandma?” She knew I didn’t have another thing planned.
“Bobby thinks just because your nose looks different it means you’re like me.”
Grandma left the shopping list on the table, took my hand, and led me to the couch. She pulled me close to her on the center cushion. If she were Paulette or Mrs. Zinc, it would have been “the look,” but her eyes made me want to tell her things I’d never told anyone.
“He said you look weird, that you and I both can’t read. I said he’s wrong. You read really good.”
She clasped her hands around both of mine. I felt her strong warmth.
I looked right at her. “Grandma, I don’t think your nose looks weird.”
“My sweet potato. Promise me,” she said, squeezing my hands together, “you won’t ever let anyone decide for you what you’re capable of. Remember how fast you spotted the tuna? You’re marvelous at reading pictures. Reading words is taking a little longer, but you’re as smart as all of them.” Her eyes chased mine until I finally gave up looking away. She then held my gaze tight, and even though I didn’t understand what she had said, I nodded as if I believed her.
“Promise,” I mumbled.
“Bobby’s right.” She ran her fingers over the small lump of her nose and smiled. “My nose is rather odd. But nobody’s perfect on the outside—it’s what’s inside that counts. Besides, my nose isn’t something I ever need to think about.”
“Me either,” I said. But that was a lie. She kissed me on my cheek and told me to be ready to share a story when she got back. Never again did I go to town with her. Even so, she always brought back the special tea biscuits, the ones only the two of us liked.
~CHAPTER 9~
1967
IT IS 2:20. Mrs. Zinc is planted in front of the class with The Fairy Angel’s Gift between her hands, each arm forming a downward arrow. The only sound is Bobby crumpling paper as he digs around in his messy desk, but Mrs. Zinc continues to stand as still as a fence post.
I’ve been waiting, checking the clock every minute since five after two, and now I sit like a statue. But I’m no longer in the classroom; I’ve joined Ethan and Yram in my favorite scene. Yram tricks Ethan into running really fast. He thought it was fairy magic, but later Yram explained it’s the kind of magic we all have: the magic in believing. The next day, the magic left Ethan, and he was afraid to walk much further than his bedroom.
“Yram, you know my parents don’t believe in you. They think I’m imagining these conversations.”
“What do you believe?” Yram asks.
“I don’t know. How can I know you’re real?”
“I’m not real to them because they don’t believe in fairies. You’ll have to make up your own mind whether I’m real.”
“I think you are, and I know I really did walk and then run last night. It’s just that my parents always told me it wasn’t possible, that I need to stop dreaming that I can be like everyone else.”
“Ethan, you’re more powerful and capable than you’ve ever realized.”
“There’s something wrong with Ethan?” The sound of Mrs. Zinc’s crisp voice brings me back to the classroom, but I missed the question. I raise my hand anyway because I always have the right answers.
“Yes, Madelyn, what do you think?”
“Could you please ask again? I didn’t hear the first part.”
“In other words, you only looked like you were paying attention but weren’t. Paulette, will you repeat the question?”
“Why would Ethan’s father think there’s something wrong with Ethan?”
“What do you think, Paulette?”
“Well, Ethan was able to read, so that must mean he was smart. I think his father didn’t know that Ethan was reading lots of books.” Paulette is right. Smart kids read lots of books.
“That’s an interesting idea, Paulette. But remember, his father said Ethan was reading too many fairy tales. Does anyone else have an idea?”
I wave my hand, but Mrs. Zinc calls on Bobby.
“Yes, Bobby.”
“His father’s right. There’s something wrong with him. All he had to do was read the newspaper to his dad, and then his father would have known he was smart. But he didn’t, so I also think he’s stupid.”
Everyone giggles, but Bobby’s wrong. Mrs. Zinc holds her finger to her lips and says nothing. I whip my hand from left to right and make a small moaning noise. Mrs. Zinc turns her eyes to me.
“You know I don’t call on students who are not quietly raising their hands.”
I shove my hand back into my coat pocket. What Bobby said isn’t funny. In my mind, I see the creases above my father’s eyes when he came into our kitchen just as Mom was becoming upset because I had done the math worksheet wrong. I had guessed at the directions. He didn’t say a single word aloud, but his eyes said it all—something is wrong.
Both my hands are deep in my coat pocket, but Mrs. Zinc calls on me anyway.
“Yes, Madelyn.”
“Oh. Well, it’s that fathers don’t always understand. His father thought Ethan wasn’t smart because he kept talking about Yram and . . .”
“Yes?”
“To his father, she’s not real, so he thinks Ethan has a problem with his thinking. But he doesn’t.”
“That’s a very good answer. Remember, Ethan’s father knew Ethan read, but he thought he read fairy tales. Did Ethan read fairy tales?”
“No,” the chorus responds.
“Madelyn’s right. His father’s upset that Ethan would believe in a magical being that he doesn’t believe in himself.”
Mrs. Zinc then begins to read, and her voice disappears along with the desks, workbooks, and chalkboard. I listen to Ethan’s pleading voice as he shares his problems with Yram, who speaks of ways he can have fun. I see the fairy’s long silky hair and purple tunic. I hear her voice speak of possibility. I hang on to every single word, and with each pause, I hold my breath hoping there’s more to hear. The chapter ends much, much too soon.
~CHAPTER 10~
1967
GRANDMA would have loved The Fairy Angel’s Gift. I don’t understand why most people think fairies aren’t real when smart people, like my grandmother, say they have seen them. Fairies only exist in fiction books. But the Bible isn’t fiction, a
nd I think some of those stories, like building a boat so big that two of every animal in the entire world could fit in, well, they’re just as hard to believe. I think it’s easier to believe that animals can talk to each other, that a pig might not want to be slaughtered, a smart spider can write words in her web, and a fairy might want to try to be an angel.
I miss Grandma the most after school, waiting for Mom to come home. I stay away from the kitchen so I don’t remember Lipton tea. Usually, I play on the rope swing or look for frogs by the lake. By the time we reach chapter four of The Fairy Angel’s Gift, I decide it has been too long since I saw Yram’s picture on the front cover of the book, and it’s time to draw my own picture of her.
When Yram changed her name, she made herself new clothes so that humans could see her. Most fairies wear green to blend in. Yram chose a purple tunic spun from a silkworm, so I use a sharp colored pencil to draw lots of skinny lines to make it look like woven threads. Her wings are lavender and her hair long and golden. Under my picture, I write the capital letter B, and then I study the leaves that are starting to grow on the oak tree I see through my bedroom window and draw one right next to the letter B.
“Maddie,” calls Danny outside my bedroom door. “It’s dinnertime.”
“I’m coming,” I yell back while looking at my sketch pad.
“What do you have there?” Father asks as I tape it to my bedroom door.
“It’s a picture of Yram, the fairy.”
“It’s quite colorful. Hmm. I see the letter b, and then, is that a picture of a leaf?”
“No, it’s a leave, like the leaves on a tree, and if you put it together it says believe.”
“Oh, I see. Except what you have is a b and a leaf. Leaves means more than one, so you would need to put several leafs together for it to be leaves. Or,” he says, and he gives the quick smile that tightens my stomach, “you could simply spell the word believe. Jack or Rob can help with your spelling after dinner.”
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 5
