One.
By.
One.
Slam! Click.
Time-out closet. Cave-dark except for the ray of light peeking under the door.
Page 15: Bats use sound waves to navigate in the dark.
My body screamed and jumped.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Locked up like a beast. They lock me away instead of trying to understand me . . . trying to help me.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I’m worthless . . . moldy bread . . . a spit-out piece of gum in the gutter.
After a few minutes, my mouth stopped screaming. I puffed air to catch my breath. There was nothing to do in here, nothing to sit on, even. I lay on the floor and peered beneath the door. Isabella’s purple sneakers paced back and forth, back and forth. I could hear her crying. She was loyal like that.
Time stopped, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
I am valuable. I am precious. I deserve a real life.
If only I could believe it.
I felt a nudge on my shoulder and a wet nose on my arm. A gray wolf gently licked my cheek. I opened my eyes. Large as an IMAX film, the amazing animals from my kids’ encyclopedia surrounded me and formed a protective circle, one that Miss Marcia could never get through.
I am valuable. I am precious. I deserve a real life.
Music rang in my mind. What song was it? Tubby Trash Bags? No, one of our favorites—Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” My animals swayed to the powerful chords of the organ (the ones with feet did, anyway). Around and around they circled, swaying, almost dancing. I danced with them.
Spin, sway, twirl, spin. Spin, sway, twirl, spin.
I spun and I spun and I spun . . . and . . . I . . . spun . . . until . . .
POOF!
In a burst of smoke, my IMAX film changed scenes. I looked down at my golden lasso, my tall red boots. I was Wonder Woman.
My superhero cape flew behind me as I kicked open the closet door.
KABLAM!
Miss Marcia froze when she saw me and lifted her top lip in a sneer, showing her brown, crooked teeth. She rolled up her sleeves, ready to fight.
She stared at me.
I stared at her.
She laughed her evil laugh.
BWAHH HA HA!
She did not scare me anymore.
Time to KICK BUTT!
Miss Marcia shot Legos at me so fast they were just colored streaks of light.
POW! POW! POW!
I deflected them with my metal bracelets.
PING! PING! PING!
I jumped straight in the air . . . CHOOM! . . . and landed on the desk in front of the room.
Miss Marcia let out a shriek . . . ZOINKS! . . . and ran for the door.
That’s when I twirled my lasso of truth . . . WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH! . . . and wrangled Miss Marcia.
KABOOSH!
All the kids cheered. My animals roared, brayed, chirped, and squawked their approval.
Captured in the lasso of truth, Miss Marcia confessed everything: “I hate children! I steal their lunch money! I haven’t washed my socks in three months! And I have donkey breath!” She laughed her evil laugh. “BWAHH HA HA!”
Everyone cheered again when I locked Miss Marcia in the time-out closet.
KABLAM!
Then I loaded all the kids into my invisible jet, and we soared far away from Borden. Forever.
Forever.
Forever. I have been locked in here forever.
How many more minutes until I would be released from this prison? Would it matter? My mind would never escape the prison of my broken body.
It was a life sentence.
Long Walk off a Short Pier
Pops offered me a fist bump when he saw us at the door. “How’s my chipmunk today?” He has called me his chipmunk ever since I was a chubby-cheeked baby.
Slapping Dad on the back, Pops said, “Come on in, Steve, and we’ll chew the fat a little. Hehehe.”
Sunday dinners with the family were a happy tradition—until now. At least I would not have to face Elvi. She was still in Hawaii on her honeymoon. But Mason, my cousin who thinks I am a disease? Probability: high. Aunt Kiki and Mason had moved back to town after the divorce and were living with Gram and Pops for a while.
Aunt Kiki greeted Mom with a celebrity kiss. Her cheek grazed Mom’s as she kissed the air.
“Who wears a silk shirt to a barbecue?” Mom teased. “One drop of hamburger grease and you’re done.”
“You know my motto, Gail,” she put her hands on her hips and puckered her glossy lips, “Fashion doesn’t take a break for the weekend.”
Mom and Kiki sat on the faded flowered sofa and launched into a hushed conversation. The word divorce—like the word retarded—was always whispered in our family.
I parked myself on the floor and pulled Gram’s coffee table book of San Francisco onto my lap. A photo of Alcatraz jumped out at me—the prison built on a tiny island in San Francisco Bay. No prisoner had ever escaped. I stared at a picture. Concrete, gloomy cells with iron bars.
Not so different from my prison at Borden. At least those prisoners had a nice view.
Aunt Kiki stared at me, pressing her lips together like she might cry. “Gail, I remember Charity and Mason running around together at family barbecues when they were little. They jumped on the trampoline and chased each other around the house.” She shook her head with a what-happened-to-her frown.
Mom reached for my arms and pulled me onto the sofa next to her. “She’s not herself these days. Are you, sweetheart?” She jiggled me for a response.
I chewed my knuckles.
Mom pulled my hand out of my mouth. “You must be thirsty. Let me get you some apple juice.”
When Mom left, Mason drifted into the living room wearing a Hang Ten T-shirt and flip-flops. He achieved a perfect imitation of a surfer dude, even though he had spent the last eight years in Milwaukee, approximately 900 miles from the ocean.
“S’up?” he said to no one in particular. He popped open a can of lemon-lime soda and took a swallow.
Aunt Kiki’s eyes lit up. “Mason, sweetie, why don’t you play with your cousin Charity?”
Mason stared at her as if she were speaking Chinese. I would have done the same if I could.
Play with me? Does everyone think I am still
