He pulled out his phone and slid it in front of me like a spy passing top-secret intelligence. I read it and felt my heart slip out of my chest and skid across the cold cafeteria floor.
It said: No retards in advanced classes. Tell Jergen.
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
I slid his phone back so no one else would see. It would not help me to have Mom ranting to Jergen—or worse—Jaz mowing down cheerleaders in the hallway.
My hands drummed on the table.
Slap-slap. Rock. Slap. Rock. Slap-slap. Rock. Slap.
“Everything alright here?” Ana popped her head into our discussion.
That’s the problem with needing an aide to communicate. No privacy. She took hold of my typing hand. I pulled it away.
Mason stuffed his last bite of pizza in his face to avoid further questions.
Slap-slap. Rock. Slap. Rock. Slap-slap. Rock. Slap.
I closed my eyes and retreated to the world inside my mind. All the sounds and colors of the world, so beautiful and bright.
Charity is not home at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.
I could hypothesize which cool kid posted the message. Was Jergen collecting complaints about me? If so, how many strikes before I was out?
Mission Improbable
When the doorbell rang, Mom and Hero hurried to answer it. I held my breath.
Page 36: Mother cougars have been known to battle grizzly bears to protect their cubs.
Isabella zoomed right to me. We danced, our feet flying.
“Mommy, I told you she was my friend! I told you it was Charity!”
Isabella’s mother stepped cautiously inside and gave Mom what Pops calls a dead-fish handshake. Her thin lips turned up in an almost-smile.
“Halloo.” I noted a soft accent. “I’m Emily Moore.”
Mom offered her a seat in our most comfy armchair. “I hope we didn’t scare you at the drop-off line. I had no other way to contact you. We’re not exactly welcome at Borden anymore.”
Mrs. Moore accepted the cup of ginger tea Mom handed her.
“In truth, I thought Isabella had no friends at Borden,” Mrs. Moore said. “She doesn’t talk much about school.”
She took one of Mom’s snickerdoodle cookies and dipped it in her tea.
“Isabella got so excited seeing Charity in your car, I knew we had to pay a call.”
Isabella pulled a colorful book off the coffee table and patted the sofa for me to sit beside her. Like she did at Borden, Isabella turned pages and pointed to each picture for me to follow along while our moms chatted.
After a few minutes, my body grew restless. I bounced up and down on the sofa.
Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce.
My mind begged.
Let me speak.
Mom understood and settled next to me with my keyboard.
Mom explained, “Until a few months ago, my daughter was unable to communicate. Since Charity began typing, she’s told us many things about her time at Borden and how fond she is of your daughter.”
Mrs. Moore smiled—a true smile this time—and nodded at me.
Mom continued. “And because Charity cares so much about Isabella, she has an urgent message for you.”
Mrs. Moore stopped chewing and put down her cup of tea. Without a word, she watched me type for the next few minutes.
My chest sucked in air faster as I tapped the keyboard. The truth begged to come out.
Please let her listen to me.
Isabella stared at me, clapping at every word I typed.
Isabella suffers at Borden.
“Suffers there? What are you saying?”
Borden has zero opportunities to learn. She should transfer to Lincoln.
Mrs. Moore smiled politely. I could sense prickly anger growing inside her.
“Well, good for you, my dear. You’ve moved on. My own daughter does not have that option.”
“But she does, Mrs. Moore,” Mom said. “By law, your daughter should be placed in the least restrictive environment. From what Charity tells us, Borden does not bother teaching the children anything . . .”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Wood, you don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.” Mrs. Moore stood. “Come on, Isabella. Time for us to go.”
My body shook. My hands flapped.
Flap, flap, flap, flap.
I wanted to shout.
No, please stay! Please listen!
Isabella clung to me. “No, Mommy. I want to play with Charity.”
Mom pleaded, speaking faster. “Charity has told us about abuses there. She was slapped and kicked and locked in a time-out closet for hours at a time. They’re not doing right by these kids.”
Mrs. Moore’s face turned red to match her hair. Her voice filled the room.
“My daughter will never be a normal child. I will not be throwing her to the wolves for your daughter’s amusement, or whatever sick game this is.”
Mrs. Moore grabbed Isabella’s hand and yanked her away from me.
My voice hollered.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AHHHHHHHHGH!
Mrs. Moore bolted out the door, and all my hope sank into my sneakers.
Pep Rally Princess
“It’s entirely lame.”
Jaz complained nonstop about the football pep rally.
“I can’t believe Celia is forcing us to make posters. As if we actually support this sort of chauvinistic anti-intellectualism.”
She liked using big words when she was angry.
Pep rally. It sounded like a happy tradition. But I was not happy ever since Isabella’s mom pulled my friend out the door. If only Mrs. Moore could see Skyler bouncing up and down, her paintbrush dabbing a giant yellow poster board.
“Here, Cherry Tree, you paint something purple.” She handed me the paintbrush already dipped in paint, and I made a few angry squiggles on the canvas.
“Good job! You made a purple sky!”
“I mean, we’re a junior high,” Jaz said. “It’s not like we’re headed to the Super Bowl. Why does everyone take this so seriously?”
Skyler guided Jaz’s brush to paint delicate poppies in a grassy meadow.
“Skyler, this poster is not exactly following the pep rally theme,” Jaz said. “But I like it even better. Let’s paint some dog poop nuggets in the grass to show how much this whole tradition stinks.”
Peter pointed to Jaz and laughed at her joke. “Poop nuggets . . . HA! Good one!”
Celia walked over with wide eyes. “Skyler, querida, you are such a
