Yes, I am Bernice. No kidding. Now even the camp hamster in the corner knows my name. Nellie keeps jiggling and calling “Bernice!” and her jiggling is catching. I find myself jiggling close enough to smell her shampoo. When I do, she suddenly takes my face in her hands. Her tongue peeks out from behind her lower lip. I can’t tell if she’s upset or happy.
“Bernice smells!” Nellie shouts.
Oh, no! Miss Robyn, where are you? Help!
Next, Nellie puts on a super-sized grin. “Bernice smells like fruit, like me. Bernice is my BFF! Nellie Frances O’Malley and Bernice are BFFs!”
This kid is a real charmer. A cutie-patootie, as Dad would say. I gently pull Nellie’s fingers away. “Show me your stuff, BFF,” I say, smiling.
Nellie’s lips pucker as if she’s bitten into a sour apple. I am an idiot. I speak softer and slower, and explain directions in a way that I think will be easier for Nellie to understand. “Show. Me. How. You. Make. Your letters.”
Nellie rolls her eyes. “Bernice talks funny,” she says. “BFFs should be nice. Bernice should say please.” The please comes out extra loud. Every kid in the playroom stops what they’re doing. Odelia stops reading. The teachers pause. A dark-haired boy named Joe drops his paintbrush and gives me a thumbs-up sign.
I get it! I get it! “Please show me how you write your letters?”
Nellie marks the paper using the same concentration I muster up for English essays. It takes her a full fifteen minutes—I know; I’ve watched the clock—but at the end, Nellie Frances O’Malley is written neatly on a line in block letters. Her handwriting is better than mine.
“Bernice is proud of Nellie?” she asks.
It’s a fact. I am proud, and I’ll tell her so. “Nellie Frances O’Malley is made of awesome.”
Nellie gives me the tightest hug I’ve ever gotten from somebody other than a relative. She chants, “Made of awesome! Made of awesome!” and doesn’t let up until Miss Robyn lines up the campers to go outside, and the door to the playground shuts.
Odelia and I collapse into nearby bean bag chairs. Well, I collapse. Odelia tests it out, then folds herself into it like a crystal vase in bubble wrap.
“What a day,” I say. “I’m beat.”
Odelia’s eyes widen. “You don’t look as if you were beaten.”
I don’t know where to begin, so I shake my head and let it go.
Odelia wipes her brow with her tissue. “I’ve been beaten, also. On the inside. Every part of my patience has been challenged. You can bet your bloomers that I’ll think twice about coming here again.”
I am too tired for this conversation. At first, like Odelia, I felt overwhelmed—the smells, the noise, the kids, and I hated the thought of coming back. But now, I’m already looking forward to Thursday.
***
The Wicked Truth
On the way back to our block, Odelia gives me an earful about how terrible Smile Academy is, and I run defense. I tell her what I understand about Down syndrome, which isn’t much. The only solid fact I have is that kids with Down syndrome are born with an extra chromosome. I remember this from third grade, when Lindsay Melsing moved to town and became part of our class. Before she showed up, my teacher made a big deal about how Lindsay was born with a birth defect and that we should accept her, be nice to her, and never make fun of her. When I met Lindsay, I noticed that her arms were kind of short, and when she walked, it seemed as if her upper body was in a hurry and the rest shuffled along trying to catch up. She was uncoordinated during gym class, but so was half the class. Lindsay wouldn’t let anything bother her. If she had trouble, she’d shrug it off and tell a joke. By the end of the school year she had more friends than I did.
While I’m telling all of this to Odelia, she chews on her lip, taking it in.
“The campers like you,” I say.
“They like me?” Odelia asks.
I nod and this encourages her. She bugs me with endless questions I can’t answer. I tell her I’m not an expert, but she keeps going. Finally, I shout, “Down syndrome is not some awful disease. It’s not their fault. Just like it’s not your fault that your stupid godmother has all these requirements of you, but she lets you get away with anything.”
“For example?” Odelia asks tersely.
“Like dressing up in ridiculous princess outfits. I don’t care if you are a real princess; no one does that.”
“But I’ve dressed like this, ever since—”
I cut her off. “Your godmother wants you to be happy. Looking like a character who belongs in a theme park makes you happy. Serena’s taken the easy way out. She doesn’t force you to be normal. So there.” That should shut Odelia up.
Odelia’s lips stay zipped. When we get to my house, she follows me inside. I’ve gotten so used to her being around, I almost forget that Mom and Dad have no idea who she is.
“Who do we have here?” Mom asks.
“This is Odelia. She volunteers at Smile Academy. She was the storytelling princess.”
Odelia extends her hand, as if she’s expecting Mom to kiss it. Mom shakes her hand, hard, and asks about our day. I tell her how I spread the love as she requested. Mom pats my cheek and reaches for her purse. “Back in a jiff,” she calls. “You two have fun.”
“Your mother is sweet,” Odelia says. “I wish my mother and father were a part of my life. I was young when they passed. I don’t remember much about them.”
I’m not sure what to say. My life is pretty great, and Odelia’s has been sad and . . . odd. Neither one of us says a word for a full minute. I
