“I see. We are helping children in a social atmosphere. Good. That will give me a chance to watch you. I can see that you’ve combed your hair.” Odelia sniffs the air around me, “And you smell like strawberries. Very nice!”
I ignore her compliment. “Do you even know what Down syndrome is?” I ask.
“No. I suppose these children live down around the bend, in the less fortunate side of town.”
It’s no surprise that Odelia is clueless about Down syndrome. “That’s not what it is,” I say. “But if you have to shadow me, let’s get going. I’m already late.”
I leave my skateboard on the porch, open the door, and duck inside. The walls are painted light blue with bright smiley-face daisies stenciled along the top. A long hallway shoots out in front with wide doors leading into separate rooms. Smile Academy may be a summer camp, but it looks a whole lot like a school.
The noise hits me next. Lots of laughing, singing, and friendly yelling, followed by more laughing, singing, and yelling. What have I gotten myself into?
“I prefer quiet, well-behaved children,” Odelia whispers to me.
“I prefer stinky skateboarders.”
We knock on a glass office door. A lady about thirty years old motions us to come in. She introduces herself as Miss Robyn. Miss Robyn is tall and thin and supermodel beautiful. She belongs on a runway, not in a place filled with noisy kids. She tells us she’s confused because she was expecting one volunteer, not two. I introduce Odelia, and Miss Robyn says she’s grateful for all the help she can get. I get the feeling she wants to ask Odelia why she’s dressed like a princess, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s afraid she’ll scare her extra volunteer away.
Miss Robyn gives us fast and furious instructions about what we can and can’t do with the kids. Mostly, I’m a gofer. I run for supplies for the counselors, and if they need help with something else, they’ll call me. I’m not supposed to actually play with the kids or go outside with them, which I appreciate. No one from the skate park can know I hang out at Smile Academy.
Miss Robyn tells Odelia she is responsible for story time. She hands Odelia a thick book of fairy tales, and Odelia lights up like the fluorescent bulbs above her.
For the first hour, I’m a gofer, all right. A real gopher! Just like the furry creature who lives under our shed, I’m buried in the supply closet searching for blue paint, white paper, masking tape, and felt squares. And I don’t like it one bit! The place smells like a mixture of stationery supplies, cleaning junk, and stale crackers. I could sure use some fresh air. When I’m finally asked to bring colored pencils to the playroom, I’m more than happy to.
As I divide the pencils among the tables, the kids’ eyes follow me. I feel like I’m under a spotlight. And after Miss Robyn introduces me, they call out my name. “Bernice! Bernice!” Every time I leave and come back, it’s the same. “Bernice! Bernice!” I want to shrink into my sneaks. In the back of my mind, I’m making up excuses to not volunteer here anymore.
Odelia’s not having a great day either. She’s stiff as a statue in the rocking chair. She’s reading, but her voice is flat like she’s going over a complicated recipe. The three kids on the floor in front of her are not interested in her story. One is lying down, humming. Another is collecting lint on the rug, and a third is thumbing through a picture book.
Odelia licks a finger, flips a page with an exaggerated toss of her wrist, and tries again and again to make them listen. When she finishes with, “And they lived happily ever after,” no one moves or claps. Odelia slams the book shut and struts over. “These children are disrespectful. I don’t want to read to them anymore.”
“Get over yourself, princess,” I tell her. “You are a lousy storyteller. Try being more entertaining.”
Odelia barks, “These bad children should—”
“Stop, Odelia.” I pull her over to the corner. “These are not bad children. They may be wired differently than me and you, and they may get on our nerves, but so what? Put on your best princess patience and get back to story hour.”
I had to stick up for the kids. That, and it felt good to put Odelia in her place for once instead of the other way around.
Odelia hikes up her dress and retreats to her rocker. Five kids follow her, smiling brightly. She can’t see it but she’s their royal ruler. They’re happy to follow her anywhere.
Miss Robyn pulls me aside. “Your friend, Odelia, she’s not from around here?”
“She told me she used to live on an estate, in Europe, maybe?” I explain. “Out in the middle of nowhere.”
“I see,” Miss Robyn says quietly, “She’s probably not had any interaction with many types of people, including special needs children. In that case, let the children be the teachers.”
I’m confused. “The kids will help Odelia be more . . .”
“Accepting of differences,” Miss Robyn adds. “Bernice, I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s a girl who has been begging me to have you sit with her. Can you do that for a while? Nellie wants to show you how she can write her name. I believe that her mom—your mom’s friend, Barb O’Malley—told her you’d be coming. She’s been very excited.”
Nellie is a ten-year-old with enough energy to light a small city. Her paper is filled with letters written in capital letters at odd angles. I park myself down the bench from her, not wanting to disobey Miss Robyn’s rule of personal space. That’s a lie. I feel uncomfortable being close to Nellie. I want to keep my distance.
“You are Bernice!” Nellie hollers, even though I’m within four feet. Nellie’s plump body jiggles as if an electrical current is
