p . . . p . . . p
This isn’t working. I am stuck on the first letter.
“Keep going, Charity,” Dr. Peterman said. “What’s the next letter?”
Favorite food . . .
Page 208: Pandas eat bamboo.
Her questions encouraged me to move to my next target.
i
One letter at a time.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
How many ticks of the clock would it take to type one letter?
z . . . z . . . z
“Is there more?” she asked.
Breathe in hope.
Breathe out despair.
Giant pandas can eat 600 bamboo stems in one day.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
At any moment Jergen might find us.
After what seemed like forever, I looked up at the screen and saw the letters my finger had typed.
pppizzza
Dr. Peterman pressed a green button, and a mechanical voice spoke my messy word. My one word. My first word.
Mom gulped air as if she was coming up from drowning.
“Excellent,” Dr. Peterman said. “Let’s try another question. Do you have a pet? Y for yes, N for no.”
I reached my finger.
y
“What is your pet’s name?”
Each letter seemed like an impossible target. But Dr. Peterman supported me, and I moved my finger to the different keys.
H . . . e . . . r . . . o
A sigh or maybe a sob escaped Mom’s lips, but I forced my eyes to stay on the keyboard. After about four more questions and answers, my body still cooperated, but my hand was starting to shake.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Charity,” Dr. Peterman said. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”
A handful of typed words would not convince Jergen that I could handle this school. It was not enough to prove I was not brainless like people thought. If this was my only chance to stay, what I typed next would be the most important words of my life.
I knew what I wanted to say. My first words—at age thirteen—had to count. With each letter, tidal waves of emotion traveled from my brain, out through my right pointer finger—decorated coral pink with Mom’s nail polish.
My forehead dripped sweat, as if I were running a marathon instead of typing slower than a snail on a keyboard. When I finished, everyone stood to look at the screen. Dr. Peterman read my words out loud.
I am intelligent.
“Yes, Charity. Yes, you certainly are.” Dr. Peterman nodded at the spectators.
I turned to see a fourth person had joined the audience, his mouth wide open.
Mr. Jergen.
He stared at my words. “Well, would you look at that.”
Celia and Ana leapt up and tackled me with hugs and kisses.
Mom sat in her chair and let loose a sea of tears. After a few moments, she stumbled to her feet and wrapped me in her arms. “I can’t believe it . . . my Charity, my precious Charity.”
“Well, now,” Jergen said, “given this new development, I will . . . speak with Darcy’s parents and see if they will dismiss their complaint.”
Translation—I am still a Lincoln student. For now, at least.
For the next hour, Dr. Peterman worked with Mom and Ana, showing them how to support me, how to keep me going, how to be patient while I chose the letters I would type.
Then Celia ordered us to go home and let it all soak in. “This changes everything, querida.”
She was royally right. I smiled. At least I think I did—I am never sure without a mirror.
Today should be my new official birthday. My rebirth day.
First Words
“I can’t believe it, Charity. All this time, we could have been communicating with you. I mean, really talking.”
Mom and I drove straight from school to buy a portable keyboard to connect to her iPad so I could type my words at home.
Mom sniffled the whole way. “Oh, my goodness, I have so many things to ask you—so many things I’m sure you want to tell us too. When I think of the wasted years . . . the time you suffered at Borden . . .” She inhaled deeply. “My precious girl.” She turned to look at me. “My sweet, smart girl.” She reached over to squeeze my hand. “I guess we can’t dwell on lost time. We can only be grateful you finally have a voice.”
Is it possible to feel every emotion at once? That’s how it felt inside my mind as I stared at passing cars. Joy, anger, relief, triumph, sadness.
Fear.
Would I finally be seen as a real person? Was I Alice waking up from her dream?
Mom did not call Dad to tell him the big news. When we made it home, we got right to work practicing typing. My sixth sense felt my mom’s jitters, which spilled over onto me. My finger hit more wrong keys.
Can I still do this?
Thank goodness, the technique actually worked. Sitting side by side on the sofa with Hero at our feet, Mom supported me as I typed a message for Dad. After a day full of excitement, each letter was a struggle, but I did not want to stop.
Dad strolled in at 5:25 p.m., as usual, smelling of fish and coconut sunscreen.
“Steve, Charity has something to tell you.”
He took in the scene, and focused on the keyboard in our lap. Mom pressed a button, and it played my prepared message.
Dad, you are my best friend. Thank you for believing in me.
He looked confused. Then Mom held my right elbow as I typed the final line.
I love you.
Dad shook his head and tears welled in his eyes. “Is this . . . is she . . . you mean she can finally . . .”
He ran a hand through his hair and let it sink in. Then he started blubbering. “Charity . . . Cherry Girl . . . holy crickets.” He wrapped his arms around me and Mom. “This is a dream come true!”
I am supposed to feel happy too, right?
Googolplex words all crammed themselves at the door trying to shove their way out. Some of them were screaming mad.
I pushed those words back.
…
In class next day, Jazmine, Peter, Julian, Skyler and the other EPIC kids crowded around to “hear” me talk with Ana supporting me.
Ana read my message to the group.
Thank you for accepting me even before I
