Ana nodded and led me away. On the way out, I glimpsed two girls bent over laughing. Darcy and Lilly.
Mom drove me directly to the hospital’s urgent care, where they performed a hearing test. Mom helped me type my responses, and the doctor ruled out a hearing problem.
Then the conversation got weird.
The doctor scrunched up his nose. He had about four strands of hair combed over the bald part of his head and glued in place with gel. Did he think that would cover it up?
“Was your daughter under any particular stress at the time?”
Even now that I could communicate, the Thinkers were still talking about me instead of talking to me.
Mom steadied my arm so I could answer.
Always stressful to live in my body.
“Does your daughter ever hear voices?” he asked Mom.
“Do you ever hear voices, sweetheart?” Mom repeated.
I typed:
Yes. Whenever people talk.
“Charity, you know what the doctor means. When people aren’t talking do you hear voices—that is what you mean, isn’t it?” Mom looked at the doctor, a new wrinkle added to her forehead, thanks to me.
He turned to Mom. “Sounds like an auditory hallucination—she is hearing things that are not there. Hallucinations like this can indicate a serious psychological disorder. Has your daughter been seeing things that aren’t there as well as hearing things?”
Honestly, some of these Thinkers are as sharp as bowling balls.
“Why are you saying she’s having hallucinations at all? You didn’t let her answer.” As usual, Mom’s voice got higher as she became more jittery.
She turned to me. “Charity, have you been seeing things . . . things that are not real, sweetheart?” She shook her head no, expecting that to be my answer. But I was not sure how to respond.
The guy who saved me at the pier. Was he real? Was he only a dream? Maybe my life here was the hallucination.
Diagnosis: delusional.
Hello, Pine Valley.
Mom held my hand up to the keyboard. I pulled it away and folded my arms over my chest.
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
They both stared at me a few seconds.
The doctor held a stubby finger up to his puffy face. He looked like a blowfish.
Page 19: One blowfish contains enough toxin to kill twenty adults.
“We will need to do more tests for certain, but given the severity of her symptoms . . .”
What do you mean symptoms? This is who I am. Why are people always trying to cure me?
“I can prescribe a psychotropic medication to control the hallucinations. I can also recommend a facility that uses electrical stimulation devices to modify unwanted behaviors.”
My heels kicked the metal examination table in a protest that echoed on the white brick walls.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Mom’s voice thundered above my noise. “What do you mean by electrical stimulation? Are you talking about shock therapy?”
My mind flashed to news reports I had seen about this on TV—kids wearing wires, strapped to a board, shocked over and over for things like flapping their hands. One autistic boy was shocked thirty times for not taking off his coat when he was ordered to. Shocked for having a mind-body disconnect. Shocked for screaming about being shocked.
Controlling someone is not the same as curing them!
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Cold fear swept through my body.
The doctor wore a tight frown. “Electrical shock treatments have been performed safely since the 1940s, and I assure you . . .”
“Treatments? Treatments?” Mom’s voice filled the room. “It’s nothing less than torture! This can’t even be legal for prisoners of war!”
She pointed her finger in his face and backed him to the wall. “How could you dream of subjecting my daughter to this cruelty?”
Mom pulled me out the door before the doctor could put together a sentence in his own defense.
…
Back home, Mom poured me green tea with honey—no more warm apple juice—while she told Celia about Dr. Blowfish and his torture prescription. Celia sat with us at the kitchen table, munching one of Dad’s famous cranberry-walnut cookies.
“I’m afraid I lost it with him,” Mom said, “but I can’t stand people who think Charity should be treated like a lab rat because she’s different.”
Mom balled her hands into tight fists as she described the shock therapy he recommended.
Celia nodded. “My grandmother never uttered a curse word her entire life, but at times such as this, I think they come in handy.”
She turned to me with her usual let-me-help-you gaze. “Charity, querida, do you know what caused your outburst today? Is something upsetting you?”
That noise in class. I heard it so clearly. Was it my imagination? Were my emotions ringing a fire alarm in my head?
I typed to her about the worries that clawed at my mind.
My heart breaks for Isabella and all the kids left behind at Borden. I escaped and they are still suffering. I feel helpless.
“You are not helpless, not anymore.” Celia’s golden, dangly earrings shimmered in a finger of sunlight. “You have a voice now. Use it to lead.”
But how? My letter to the superintendent failed. Isabella’s mom will not listen. What can I do now?
Celia squeezed my hand. “You were born a leader, Charity. Just keep being who you are. You are already making a difference at Lincoln.”
You really think I am a leader?
“Absolutely. In fact, I believe you carry the wisdom of many lifetimes.”
Then why is God punishing me in this life?
Celia smiled. “We are all children of a perfect God. You were put on earth for a reason—and that reason you already know.”
Math Knights
“You don’t have to tell me the answer. Just tell me if I’m on the right track. Somewhere in the ballpark.”
Mason spread out his scratch paper on the table in front of me. Numbers littered the page, like maybe a chicken wrote it.
Ana supported my arm.
Correct up to step three.
“Geez, okay. What is step three?”
With Ana’s help, I pointed to the number with the missing exponent. “Hey, stop
