Public school = learning.
Learning = hope.
Friendship potential = zero.
Embarrassment opportunities = infinite.
I imagined the jokes, the insults, the snickers every time my legs stumbled down the hall. At least at Borden our strangeness was shared.
And how could I move on with sweet Isabella still stuck at Borden?
Dad strolled into the kitchen. “Come on, Cherry. Let’s get you a hot dog with extra grease.”
After dinner, I wandered the garden counting ladybugs on Gram’s bright yellow marigold flowers—there were eighteen last week. Elvi and her new husband, Joel, sat in the grass staring at the orange sky. I noted her dazed look, the look grownups get after a few adult beverages. The disaster of the wedding streamed in my mind, big as an IMAX film.
Elvi laid her head on the fresh-cut lawn, her tattooed arms folded behind her neck.
Joel smiled at me. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” When I didn’t answer, he turned to Elvi. “You think she understands anything we’re saying?”
“Gail seems to think so, but just look at her. What do you think?”
Joel observed me hopscotching through the grass with flapping hands. “Geez, tough stuff.”
Elvi kept talking to Joel like I was not even there. “If we have kids, babe, we gotta pray we don’t get dealt a bad hand same as Gail and Steve, you know? I mean, I’ve been tellin’ her for years—for yeeeeears—to put that poor girl in a home. Gail spends every minute of her life runnin’ around takin’ care of that kid. Of her life! When is she gonna face reality? I mean, would the kid know the difference?”
Pity poisons bubbled up inside me. I wanted to cry, but instead my body jumped and clapped.
I begged for words.
My ears work. My brain understands. Can’t you see I am a REAL PERSON?
Jump, clap, jump, clap.
Aunt Elvi kept talking like I was invisible, like I was a five-foot-three fig tree. “I’m gonna talk to Gail about it again. Sooner or later, she’s gonna have to face facts. I mean, now that Gail took her outta school, this would be the perfect time.”
The Interview
“He just wants to meet you and say hello.”
Mom tried to sound calm, but she was dusting the same cabinet for the third time, so I knew this was more than saying hello. The principal of Lincoln Junior High was coming to check me out.
Translation: He wanted to see how big a mess I was, maybe hoping to get rid of me before I set foot in a classroom.
I have spent my entire life being tested. After every test, the Thinkers put another label on me, and their conclusion is always the same. Diagnosis: idiot. Except they use more technical terms.
Their labels do not define me. They only limit me.
Mom sat me at the dining room table to work on one of my 200-piece puzzles—a flock of red cardinals perched in a snowy birch tree. Maybe she thought this would impress our visitor.
Probability: low.
Dad was in his usual aloha mood, cracking pistachios and handing me a few at a time. I munched the salty seeds while separating red puzzle pieces into a pile.
1, 2, 3, 4 . . .
I liked following a certain order based on colors and patterns. For this puzzle, mostly red pieces, then mostly blue, then mostly white—birds, then sky, then snowy birch tree.
5, 6 . . . this one has equal red and white . . . it goes in its own pile . . .
Mom glared at Dad as she swept pistachio shells into her hand.
43 shells, 86 half shells . . . 7, 8, 9 . . .
“Can we keep this room clean for five minutes?”
Dad exhaled, preparing for Mom’s eruption. “Relax, Gail. You’re only making everyone more nervous.” He shot me a goofy smile.
“Charity’s suffered enough, Steve. They have to let her in.” Mom polished the television screen with a lint-free rag. “Charity, you deserve the same opportunities as every other student.”
Yes, but other students can talk and have bodies they can control . . . 35, 36, 37 . . .
“All we can do is hope for the best,” Dad said. “And if it doesn’t work out . . .”
Mom threw the rag on the floor. “If it doesn’t work out, then that’s it.” Her voice got higher. “The next stop is . . .” She paused and looked at Dad like she might throw up. “PV,” she whispered.
I knew exactly what she meant. Pine Valley Developmental Center.
The last time we went there, I almost did not come home. The thought made me want to throw up too.
…
I was eight years and fifty-three days old. My parents had fought to get an appointment with some superstar neurologist after a nightmare week of my body going berserk and me not sleeping.
When I do not sleep, nobody sleeps.
We walked in looking like zombies and were led to a
refrigerator-cold exam room, where we waited for twenty-four minutes. Mom and Dad did not speak. The buzzing fluorescent lights grew louder every minute. My worried legs kicked the metal exam table beneath me.
Bang-bang, bang-bang.
Dad helped me down and held hands to jump with me, singing a peppy Beach Boys tune. “And we’ll have fun, fun, fun . . .”
Hop-hop right foot, hop-hop left foot.
We were still jumping when Superdoc burst through the door without knocking. He raised one eyebrow, and Dad lifted me back onto the table. No time for chitchat. Same as all the Thinkers before him, he treated me as if I were a dog that could not be trained. He adjusted his glasses and started giving commands. I’m not sure what he had for lunch, but his breath smelled of stinky garlic and every few minutes, he let out a low burp.
“Stack these cups.” [Burp.]
There were six cups in bright colors, and I knew how he wanted me to stack them—so that they nested one inside the other, same as the beautiful Russian dolls Gram kept in her dining room cabinet. But my hands decided to line them up alphabetically, according
