What I treasure most about Room 11 is that it embraces a concept of normal that includes everyone. It’s a classroom where grunts and pointing are acceptable modes of expression. I glance to my left and see Kelly, her thick, gorgeous, wavy chocolate hair toppling over her shoulders as she squats down to where Christy is propped comfortably in a beanbag chair so that Sammy, the golden retriever rescue-turned-therapy dog, can nudge her hand. Kelly glides Christy’s hand over Sammy’s soft head. My father’s words regarding the square peg in a round hole come back to me. I’ve always suspected he considered me a square peg and had serious doubts about my passing through the round hole. Indeed, it was a squeeze.
Although my father died close to a decade ago, lately his presence has occupied my psyche. He had a thing about fitting in. He gave my older brother such grief when Rob insisted on wearing wire rims. Later, when Rob refused my mom’s buzz cut so as to have hair that grazed his ears, my father fumed again, accusing Rob of wanting to be a hippie. Had Father casually sauntered through Kelly’s class, he would have experienced himself as a square peg. Kelly’s class of beautiful misfits, each shaped so unusually that we’d have to go beyond even calling them square, would have been unfathomable to my father. They require their own classroom, and yet, it’s a learning space buzzing with excitement, celebrating the simplest of victories.
I tumble to the floor and lean into Christy’s beanbag and feel Kelly’s eyes upon me. I assure myself that as far as she knows, I’ve already attended a SIT meeting and am simply popping in to say hi before the final bell. Before I know it, my hand is also rhythmically stroking the soft curves of Sammy’s upper dip from nose to head and down past ears. I glance at Christy, who is drooling with delight. In this moment, we are sisters, appreciating the calm presence of our sage four-legged companion. I give a nod to Kelly and say, “This is a great way to start the day.”
My struggle to get myself to work on time comes with a thick package of guilt. I want to blame it on the coat, the therapy, and the intense dreams that have interrupted my nighttime tranquility. I can’t even remember what it was like before Mom passed.
My eyes fall upon a student who doesn’t belong in this classroom but nonetheless struggles to fit in. Grace Adams, Diane’s third-grade daughter. At age eight, I’d for sure have been swinging on bars or hitting a tetherball up until the final school bell. Here is Grace, burrowed in a quiet corner, hunched over a pad of paper, brows creased, writing intently.
It was toward the end of Grace’s kindergarten year when Diane came to me, convinced something was wrong. I was aware of Diane’s older children; they were all high academic achievers. Grace is the youngest of five. I rarely evaluate a child in kindergarten—after all, they’re just starting out. Since her teacher hadn’t schedule a SIT meeting or expressed her concerns to me, I’d wondered if Diane was caught up in comparing Grace to her accomplished siblings. Maybe Grace was simply average in academics while accelerated in other areas. I took a wait-and-see approach. Diane wanted to believe I was right, that it was simply a matter of time and unfair comparisons.
When winter break came and went, and Grace could not reliably get the sequence of letters correct in her name, I decided more than likely this wasn’t an issue of typical development being compared with high achievers. Her teacher held back bringing Grace to SIT because of her strong verbal skills. She shared Grace’s illustrated alphabet book—fanciful renditions of letters shaped as animals that bore no other resemblance to writing. Z was not a zebra but rather a python rising up to attack. Grace grasped visual similarity but failed to understand a reading fundamental: letters symbolize sounds that compose words.
When I did an evaluation, Grace’s IQ was in the superior range, despite her inability to grasp the relationship between letter shape and sound.
I rise up from the beanbag and take a step toward Grace. Kelly calls out, “So, Ms. Mary, are you signing up to join our field trip to the zoo next week?” She can tell she has caught me off guard, and gives me a wink. I’d go in a heartbeat if it weren’t for the stack of reports waiting to be written.
Grace is oblivious to my presence. Her attention is upon a sheet of lined notebook paper. Since meeting her in kindergarten, every encounter stirs an incomprehensible ache, as if she were my own child and I had somehow failed to meet her needs.
“You’re looking like a serious scholar this morning. What’s up?”
She tries to hide the lined paper, which holds multiple repetitions of single words—the oldest tactic on the planet for learning to spell. I avoid looking too closely, sure I’ll see the slip from the correct version of the word to the incorrect, ultimately reinforcing the wrong spelling. It never worked for me, the copying over and over. All at once a peculiar phrase comes to mind. Believe anything is possible through a special secret. I have an odd sense that this string of words somehow has something to do with spelling—and yet, how zany.
“You studying for a test?” I ask.
She peers up at me from large, powerful brown eyes. Her round wholesome face is framed by a traditional below-the-ears cut. Her even bangs across the forehead remind me of my third-grade school snapshot.
“Sort of. I just. Well, some words keep messing me up.”
“Ah. I get messed up by some words too.”
This catches her attention. She tries to interpret the expression on my face and finally says, “You’re joking.”
I laugh and shake my head left to right. The veneer of professionalism has thickly painted itself upon my very real insecurities. What Grace sees is my art in perfecting an image of competence.
“No, I’m not. I keep a dictionary close by at all times.”
“Well, it’s different in my class.”
I nod because some part of me knew this as well.
“I’m the only one who writes stories that no one else can read,” she says.
“No one else?”
“It’s the spelling. Only I can read them.”
I nod and remember something I was once proud to have written, yet found to be unreadable.
“It’s good to work on the spelling—believe it or not, I still do. Some of us are just slow learners of spelling. But your story is yours even if it’s not spelled correctly. Don’t give up on telling your stories.”
I can see this doesn’t make sense to her. I’m not sure it does to me either. I almost chuckle as I hear Uncle Joe proclaiming me Sister Bard. I’m no nun, that’s for sure. A bard? Maybe in the faraway past.
Grace says nothing, and I find myself desperately searching to say something, anything supportive. I’m practically trembling with the desire to fix this sad situation. I open my mouth, thinking a kernel of wisdom might spill out, and the school bell rings. Grace scrambles to get to class. As she walks out the door, I remember. She won the poetry slam contest—why didn’t I congratulate her for that?
~CHAPTER 17~
1967
I HEAR MY ALARM clock go off like a distant siren, but I can’t move. It gets louder and louder. Mom comes in dressed in her white nurse’s uniform. Usually, she’s leaving for work just as I’m getting up.
“Maddie, honey, how are you feeling?” When I moan, she places her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. I think you just got yourself a little too worked up last night, and the pork chops were a little too greasy, especially for someone who worries.” She leans down and kisses me on my forehead. “I’m sure you’re going to have a fine day at school. You need to get up and have some breakfast. Your stomach is empty.”
I arrive at school with my coat zipped up tight, and that’s how I plan to keep it. The sky is cloudless, and I squint while trudging toward the square brick building. Usually, I race so I can swing on the bars and climb the jungle gym before the morning bell, but today, even with the sun coming up, my world feels dark. I don’t belong in school. More than ever, I want to join Ethan and Yram. I almost cry when I remember the story will soon be over.
A single soft music
al ring fills the classroom and quickly fades. Its sound is the opposite of the recess bell. Mrs. Zinc stands holding the silver triangle with the thin striker still raised, waiting for her one light tap to bring about the shuffling of desks and chairs into four groups: Eagles, Bluebirds, Robins, and Sparrows. Ours is the smallest. The others start reading to each other while Mrs. Zinc gets us going.
I drag myself over to our corner. Moments before, I was thinking of asking to see the nurse, but this meant asking. I don’t want to talk to Mrs. Zinc ever again.
“Today,” Mrs. Zinc announces to the four of us sitting in a circle, “we’re going to start a new story.” She holds up a small flat paper book with big letters. “Who would like to read the title?” Three hands lift up. I have no interest, and Mrs. Zinc stares at me without blinking. I stop myself from blurting, “I know what you told my parents last night.”
“Go ahead, Darren.”
“Tom the Cat.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Zinc turns to the blackboard. “First, we need to review our sight words. Let’s say these together. Ready?” She bounces her pointer from word to word on the blackboard. “With, some, found, fight, race, park, climbed.”
I half listen while Darren reads, “Tom can sit and run”; Cheryl reads, “Tom had a fight with the dog”; and when it’s Jason’s turn, I’m wondering if dream catchers are as real as fairies. A dream catcher would be a wonderful thing to have, maybe even as powerful as saints. I don’t know who to ask. Maybe Miss Stanley knows. Then I hear my name.
“Madelyn, you look like you’re not paying attention.”
That’s because I’m not.
“Jason, could you please show Madelyn where we are?” He touches my book like it has cooties or something, but I pin my eyes down on the spot and then my finger, even though I don’t care if I get it right or not. I do know the first word.
“Tom.” I look up and see from Mrs. Zinc’s face that I’m right. “Had so me—”
“Tom had some,” Mrs. Zinc says.
“T . . . rr . . . eee—tttrrees he cllll . . .” I search the blackboard, and there it is, the same letters, c-l-i-m-b-e-d. But they don’t form a word for me. I can’t remember what word those letters make, so I guess. “Clam bed—”
“Climbed,” Mrs. Zinc says.
“—in the krap.”
Laughter explodes; even Mrs. Zinc tries to hide her giggling. Did I really say what I think I just said? I must have, that’s why they’re laughing. I pull my hood up and bury my face in my hands. How could I have done this? Father’s right; something’s wrong with me. Finally, Mrs. Zinc gets them to be quiet.
“Even though that was a funny mistake, it was just a mistake. We all make mistakes. The word is park—Tom had some trees he climbed in the park. Darren, will you continue?”
His voice sounds funny, like he’s trying to choke down his snickering while reading. I used to feel sorry for him since he really should be in fourth grade, but now I can’t stand him. I try to think of thoughts that will keep me from crying. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care because I don’t need to be a reader. Besides, this is a stupid story.
Finally, it’s time for recess. I race to the upper field, imagining that I’m a wild stallion galloping across the country, leading my herd to safety. Out of breath, I slow down to chew on some grass; it tastes sweet and juicy. Behind me, I hear my name being called, and I recognize the voice. Bobby comes galloping by, pretending he’s a horse with his own herd of followers. I turn and run back down to the tetherball, and he calls out, “Tom climbed trees in the crap.” And bursts out laughing. So do the others, and they weren’t even in my reading group. I pick up speed, the wind blowing against me. I can still be a beautiful wild black stallion. Down the hill I run.
In the middle of the best kind of math worksheet—one with no words—the kind that I can finish before everyone else, Mrs. Zinc interrupts me. She tries to do it in a private, secret way, but that’s not possible, and everyone looks up and watches. A chill shivers through me while my stomach feels as if Bobby has smacked me real hard. I’m thinking she has decided to tell me about flunking, and even though I know that’s what she told my parents, I’m not ready to hear it from her. Not in front of everyone else. When I slow down my breathing, I hear her say “someone special” and remember.
Standing in the doorway, I can see a teacher who’s the opposite of Mrs. Zinc—short, fat, rosy-red cheeked, and smiling. I look up at Mrs. Zinc, who hardly ever smiles, but now she is too, and I feel like breaking my pencil in half.
Once outside the door, I hear Bobby’s voice calling out, “Where’s Madelyn going?”
“Madelyn, this is Mrs. Ellen. She’s a reading specialist, and she’ll be working just with you two days a week starting today.”
Both Mrs. Zinc and fat Mrs. Ellen are grinning as if they’ve won a prize. Again, I stop myself from blurting out, “I know you called my parents last night, and I know what you told them.” I used to like Mrs. Zinc but not anymore.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Madelyn. Come with me.” And off Mrs. Ellen marches. She’s wearing a skirt the color of the dingy brown floor, and I can see every fold of her skin move up and down as she parades toward the gym. I hold back a good four strides and then pretend that I too have some business down the hall.
I have no idea where she is going, and suddenly she opens a closet door. I hadn’t noticed a closet next to the gym. I know where Mr. Griffin, the PE teacher, keeps all his field equipment, and I’ve even seen where he has his own office space, but I’ve never seen this closet.
It’s small and stuffy like a broom closet, but this teacher has turned it into a miniature classroom. There’s a wobbly table, a blackboard nailed to the wall, and three wooden chairs. I take a quick peek under the chairs and see hard mounds of old gum stuck in clumps. On a small bookshelf that looks like it was meant for cleaning supplies are a stack of folders and flat books. More books are on the table, except I don’t see any real ones. Kids like Paulette and my brother Rob who read chapter books would never need to visit a closet.
Mrs. Ellen is now chatting away in a happy voice, but I’m too busy trying to figure out what I’ll say to the others when I get back to my real class to listen to her.
“Madelyn.” Her eyes catch me; she must have figured out my pretend listening. I look across the small table at her bright cheeks and curly silver hair. “I need to do a little testing to see where you’re at with your skills. All you need to do is try your best.”
Hmm, that’s the same thing Father always says. And it’s never good enough.
Mrs. Ellen holds up a list of words, and, of course, I know the first five: I, the, of, up, for. I’m not that stupid, but the other words don’t look like real words, and who knows, maybe they aren’t and she’s tricking me.
“Madelyn, surely you know this word.” She’s pointing to the letter I. I give her my blank look; besides, I doubt that she has any idea how to fix whatever is wrong with me. If it wasn’t a lost cause, Saint Rita would have done something by now. Instead of prodding me like Mrs. Zinc would, this teacher lights up like a Christmas tree. She pulls her chair back, stands up, and says, “Watch this.” She then picks up the stubby piece of chalk and begins to write the alphabet on the chalkboard.
Of course I know my letters; it’s just the ones that look alike that are confusing. I turn toward the door. What I really want is to get back to my real class where I can make up my own stories while pretending to do worksheets, but Mrs. Ellen acts all excited and begins to sing the alphabet song in a funny sing-songy voice. If I wasn’t looking in the other direction, it would be hard to not smile and maybe even laugh.
Mrs. Ellen stops at the letter I and circles it. “This letter is so important, it gets to be a word. Look, Madelyn, here it is, the first word on this list, and it’s the alphabet letter.” She then lowers her voice and continues.
“Here’s a secret.” She waves her puffy hand over the list of words. �
��When you learn all the words on this page, you’ll recognize most words on any page because these are the words that show up the most. When you’re ready, I can teach you ways to learn them, but first you need to decide if you want to learn.”
I wonder, Why is Mrs. Zinc doing this to me? Then I hear loud banging coming from the gym.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Ellen says, “I bet that’s the PE teacher. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Griffin.”
“That’s right, now I remember. He’s a nice man; I just met him this morning.” She stands up and looks as though she’s trying to make up her mind. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She walks out, leaving me alone in the closet with the alphabet and list of words.
My eyes dart around to the dimly lit corners as I wonder if there are spiderwebs. Whenever I think of spiders, I think of Gwendolyn and Yram. I’m about to get up to take a closer look when Mrs. Ellen returns with Mr. Griffin by her side.
“Madelyn, Mr. Griffin could use your help. Would you mind?”
Of course not. I pop up like a piece of toast ready to do anything he asks.
Mr. Griffin is sometimes crabby, like if we take too long to line up, but today he’s smiling at me. “Madelyn, I need to get all these mats down for the next class; we’re starting a unit on gymnastics. Mrs. Ellen here says you can help out.”
“Sure.” Helping Mr. Griffin is perfect.
I come back to class in the middle of Mrs. Zinc’s science lesson. As soon as I step in, I know they’re all looking at me and wondering. I make myself smile and walk with a bounce so they get the message that I had a good time. When the recess bell rings, Paulette is quick to ask right in front of everyone, and even Bobby holds back to listen; they all want to know where I’ve been.
“I went to help Mr. Griffin. He knows I’m good at PE, so I helped him get ready for his classes.” I then take off running toward the bars.
~CHAPTER 18~
1967
BY THE TIME it is almost dinner, I keep to the front of the house, catching and then letting go of frogs. I’m really waiting to catch some time alone with Uncle Joe. I met Mom when she came home and quickly gave her a hug as usual, but then I ran off to be alone with the rope swing. My stomach still hurts from last night. I don’t want to talk with her about the special help from Mrs. Ellen.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 9
