“What does this have to do with Charity?” Mom pulled my hand out of my mouth and handed me my animal flashcards.
Llama, flip, manatee, flip, orangutan, flip.
“Well, some parents are worried that having special-needs students in regular classrooms lowers standards and distracts other students.” She looked at me. “Charity, the administration is keeping a close eye on us . . . on you.”
Translation: Jergen wants to get rid of me. I knew it.
Mom gasped. “Why in the world would you tell her that?”
“Charity is a big girl. She should know the truth.”
Celia took both my hands in hers. Her dark eyes stared into mine. “I believe you do belong here, querida.”
For a few seconds, my eyes met hers.
“We will support you to be all you can be. And your success will open doors for other students.”
Thoughts swirled in my head like snowflakes in the globe. Celia’s words echoed in my mind—your success will open doors. My hands flapped.
Flap-flap, flap-flap.
I made an IOU with God at Pine Valley. Maybe this could repay my debt. Maybe I do have a purpose.
My body sprang out of the chair.
Jump, jump, jump. Flap-flap, flap-flap.
Maybe I am not so different from those heroes painted on the hallways of the school. Malala fights for girls’ right to an education. I could fight too. Fight for kids like me. Fight for Isabella.
My tongue fluttered and chirped like a chipping sparrow.
Maybe one day schools like Borden can be closed. Boarded up. Bulldozed to the ground.
“I think Charity is eager to begin,” Celia said with a huge smile.
Then I saw Mom’s face full of worry, and I stopped. Her worry weighed me down.
What am I thinking?
Joy turned to panic.
It would take a miracle for me to succeed. With my wild body and no voice, what chance did I have of being allowed to stay at Lincoln? Chances of snow in Acapulco were probably higher.
I sucked in air and puffed it out my lips.
Suck, puff, suck, puff.
Celia looked from me to Mom. “Mrs. Wood, time for you to go home. Let us take it from here.”
Mom stood up and handed me my backpack. Then she squeezed me like an orange and backed out of the room as if I was boarding a rocket to Mars.
I knew Mom’s stomach would sink every time the phone rang today.
Would I even make it to the next bell?
Humiliation Served Fresh
Celia swung open an olive-colored door with a gold, sparkly heart on it. “Welcome to the EPIC room,” she said. “EPIC stands for Every Person Is Capable. Consider this your home base at Lincoln.”
My eyes scanned the room.
Computer stations!
Shelves of books!
Real art supplies!
Compared to Borden, this place was Disneyland.
Was this a school where I would be treated as equal?
Define equal: Equal does not mean that everyone gets the same. It means each person gets what they need.
Probability: hopeful.
“Charity, meet Jazmine.” Celia high-fived a small girl in a wheelchair. “She will show you the ropes. She is the EPIC room’s official ambassador.”
My first clue about Jazmine was the bumper sticker on the back of her wheelchair. It said, “I speak fluent sarcasm.”
“Nice shirt,” she said. “Much cooler than my dismal polo and khakis.”
She twirled her chair to model her outfit and flipped back her brown hair supermodel-style. I wanted to poke all the buttons on her wheelchair.
“Just to let you know, I may look small, but I’m in seventh grade. Mighty Mouse is what Celia calls me. But you can call me Jaz.”
I looked down at my animal flashcards.
Panda, flip, racoon, flip, salamander, flip.
“Oh, yeah. Celia said you can’t talk yet, but don’t worry. You’ll still learn a lot.”
Talk yet? YET?
“Hey, wouldn’t it be great if we could trade places for the day?” asked Jaz. “I mean, I could have your legs to jump and run and ice skate. I’ve always wanted to ice skate. Twirl around in one of those silly tutus.”
What makes you think I can ice skate?
“And you could have my flappy gums all day and finally tell everyone what you really think of them.”
Wow. That would take more than a day. Just Miss Marcia alone.
Jazmine led me to a back table piled with gadgets in all shapes and textures—spiky balls, twisty plastic tubes, twirly spinners, squishy bean bags.
“We call these fidgets. Some kids hold them to keep their hands busy. It helps them pay attention better.”
I dropped my animal flashcards and grabbed a bumpy, twisty, tangled tube fidget. My hands twisted and squeezed.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
“Have a seat.” She pointed to a bright yellow stool that kind of resembled a turtle shell.
I sat down and felt it move and bounce with my busy body. I could actually move and sit at the same time.
“Or if you get tired of sitting, we have standing desks back there that some kids prefer.”
At one of the desks, a tall boy with thick glasses and a puffy afro stood in front of a keyboard next to his aide. Jazmine led me over.
“Julian, this is Charity.”
Julian looked up for a second. I saw kind eyes magnified in his glasses. Like me, eye contact was not his thing. Why do people make such a big deal about that anyway? I see you. I hear you. Why do I need to be staring straight into your pupils? For me, it feels too intense, like staring into the sun.
Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.
“He doesn’t talk with his voice,” Jazmine explained to me, “but he can type what he wants to say. Maybe you could do that too.”
Sorry, Jaz, that’s where you’re wrong.
I tried typing a hundred times with Mom and Dad. Each time was a failure. I mean, I knew what I wanted to say. I knew how to spell the words, but the signal got lost somewhere between my brain and my finger. I could reach for the letter P twenty times and
