Everyone put their hands in for a closing cheer. My arm did not want to join. Thankfully, Dad did not force it.
“Goooooooooo Hornets!”
Girls dispersed to waiting parents, and Coach George patted Dad on the shoulder. “Hey, Charity did a great job today. She’ll make a terrific team mascot.”
Rock, rock, rock.
“Mascot?” Dad took a step back.
“Well, sure, Steve. I thought she could put on the hornet suit and do some funny moves on the court, make some silly faces like she’s doing now. It’ll crack everyone up.”
Translation: I am a joke.
I was puckering my cheeks in a fishy face. Not helping Dad’s point.
Rock, rock, rock.
Coach’s smile faded when he saw Dad’s expression. Dad did not get angry often, but when he did, watch out.
“We have a serious misunderstanding here, George.” He pulled Coach aside, but my supersonic ears still picked it up. “We wanted Charity to play on the team, not be a clown.”
“Well, exactly what did you have in mind? I’m sorry, Steve, but this isn’t the Special Olympics.”
Dad’s face burned hot. “You corn-fed fool. You didn’t even give her a chance!” He turned to me. “C’mon, Charity.” Dad took my hand and pulled me toward the exit.
We stopped mid-court, and Dad turned around and hollered at Coach.
“Take a look at this, George.”
Dad handed me a ball.
“Shoot, Cherry.”
I launched the ball.
Swoosh.
It went in. Same as it usually does when we shoot hoops Saturday mornings. My arms automatically know what to do. If I stopped to think about it, I would probably not be able to do it. One of the few times my brain and body work together—like when I am biking or swimming.
Coach George stood frozen with his eyebrows scrunched together as we walked out.
Two points for Dad.
On the way home, Dad asked, “How ’bout a chocolate shake with extra whip to make us feel better?”
I smiled inside, and Dad pulled up to Pops’ ice cream shop. As usual, Pops greeted me with a spoonful of my flavor of the month. Dad ordered the peanut butter-banana shake—Pops called it the Elvis—and got me my usual chocolate. I really preferred strawberry, not that I could tell anyone. The creamy, cold drink almost made me forget the embarrassment of basketball practice.
Almost.
The door jingled as a group of girls entered.
Grace and her two friends, Lilly and Darcy.
I choked on my shake, and Dad patted my back. “Whoa, slow down, honey.”
Please do not let them see us.
My bad luck, Dad spotted them with their ice cream cones looking for a table—how could anyone miss Lilly with her pink hair?
“Would you Hornets care to join us?”
Dad, how could you?
The girls stared at him for a second.
“Uh, sure,” Darcy said.
They pulled up some chairs. Lilly grinned in our direction before turning to her friends and launching into a conversation about some pop star. Together but separate, same as at practice.
Dad heaved a sigh. Even his positive attitude was taking a hit tonight.
“Girls, Charity can’t talk, but she can understand and maybe react to your conversation. Wanna give it a try?”
I wanted to cry. My jittery feet tapped the tile floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Dad, you cannot force kids to be my friends.
Darcy looked confused. “Uh, give what a try?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Try including her in your conversation. It would mean a lot to her to be included.”
I wanted to crawl under the table. The girls all stared at the floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Grace looked at me and cleared her throat. “Charity, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you the other day in the cafeteria.”
What’s happening here?
Grace turned to her friends. “Charity and I were in the same preschool like a million years ago.”
Dad smacked his forehead. “Well, diggity dog! You’re little Gracie? You’re the girl who used to come over and . . .”
“And make mud pies in the backyard . . . yes, nice to see you again, Mr. Wood.”
Like me in the cafeteria, Dad could not contain his excitement. He jumped up and gave Grace a big hug.
Not only did she remember me, she admitted it in front of her friends.
Lilly and Darcy looked on in shock.
“You remember the princess costumes, Charity?” asked Grace.
I managed a smile and a nod. Lilly and Darcy gasped.
My chair scraped the floor. I needed to move, jump, fly.
Dad took my cue. “Well, girls. We’ll have to continue the conversation later.” He walked me to the door.
Grace called after us. “See ya tomorrow, Charity.”
“Do you think she actually understands us?” whispered Lilly. “Hashtag totally tragic.”
Lilly’s words did not hurt me this time. My mind focused on Grace. She knew me. She remembered me.
And for a few seconds, I felt less alone.
Breathe in Hope
“Knock, knock!”
Peter was on his eleventh joke so far, and Jaz looked like she wanted to strangle him.
Or maybe she wanted to curse Ana, who insisted we eat lunch in the cafeteria again. This time Ana convinced Peter to join us.
“Knock, knock! Who’s there? Wanda,” Peter said.
“Peter, you’re supposed to wait till we say, ‘Who’s there?’” Jaz rolled her eyes.
Peter was more than happy to have a captive audience.
Captive is the right word.
“Wanda hang out sometime? Ha!”
He ended each joke with a loud “Ha!” as if he just played a clever trick on us.
“I can’t stand when food dribbles on my shirt when I’m eating,” Jaz said. “I feel all eyes are on us—especially those dumb cheerleaders with their perfect white teeth and lip gloss and twirly cheer skirts.”
You think the cheerleaders notice us? Probability: low.
Jaz tilted her head toward the cool kids’ table. I noted Mason was not there today.
Ana did not sit with us today. Instead, she sat close by at the next table. “I’ll give you kids your space,” she said. That left me with knock-knock jokes on one side and complaints on the other.
Both conversations stopped mid-sentence when a fourth person joined us.
Mason.
Huh?
Mason put his tray on the table and nodded hello.
Jazmine and Peter’s eyes grew wide.
Shoulders hunched, he crammed a bean burrito into his mouth in three bites, grabbed his milk carton and poured some milk
