Every time she said this, I heard snickers behind me. Of course, Darcy and friends were probably saying that Mom did the homework for me.
It got worse when Ms. Beckett talked about plagiarism.
“Who can tell me what plagiarism is?” she asked.
“Ask Charity,” Lilly whispered loud enough for me to hear. “Hashtag faker.”
“Plagiarism is using other people’s words or ideas as your own,” Grace said. She shot an annoyed look at Lilly.
“And does everyone know what our school handbook says about the consequences for committing plagiarism?” Ms. Beckett asked.
Darcy raised her hand. “It says you will get expelled. Kicked to the curb. Tossed out with the trash. Jettisoned with the junk.” She turned toward me with an evil grin.
“Admirable alliteration, Darcy, but that will be enough,” Ms. Beckett said.
I held up my hand to the keyboard and Mom helped me. When I was done, Mom raised her hand. “Charity would like to add a comment.”
“Go ahead, Charity.”
The opportunity to speak is precious to all. I want to do my research on those with no voice.
“That’s a great topic,” Ms. Beckett said. “There have been so many groups throughout our history who had to fight to make their voices heard: women seeking the vote, African Americans, Native Americans . . . which group did you have in mind?”
Children. They have no power in the world, especially if they are different and if they cannot communicate like others.
“You’re right, Charity. Children are the most vulnerable members of our society. They need strong advocates. I look forward to reading your research paper.”
Ms. Beckett went around the classroom reviewing everyone’s topics. When she skimmed my outline, she whistled. “Charity, you’re proposing a genuine investigative report. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Mom steadied me at the keyboard as I typed.
Yes. It is time.
“Well, keep me posted on your progress.”
I had the sickening feeling that my days at Lincoln might be coming to an end. I had one last shot to help Isabella.
After class, Mom asked Ms. Beckett more questions while I finished my puzzle.
That’s when Darcy breezed by and whispered, “If you really are the one typing, then how about this, genius. Say . . . purple elephants. Yeah, the next time you type in class, type purple elephants. Then I’ll know you’re really the one talking.”
I did not want to follow Darcy’s order. But then I thought if I could show her that it was me talking, she’d back off.
The next class was science. Mr. Harding lectured on plant cells while Mom scribbled notes a mile a minute. My heartbeat raced at the same speed as I tried to decide.
Should I?
My feet tapped the floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
I do not need to prove anything to her.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Page 62: Elephants have the largest brain of any animal.
They are definitely not purple, though.
“Does anyone have any questions?” Mr. Harding asked. He turned to me. “Charity, do you have any insights on our discussion?”
I took a deep inhale, and Mom helped me as I typed, letter by painful letter, Darcy’s silly words. I saw Darcy smiling at me from across the room with hope in her eyes. Maybe this would finally convince her I was real.
Mom looked at the screen and shook her head. “Is that what you meant to say?” she whispered.
I typed “Y.”
“You want to say this to the class?”
y
“Go ahead,” Mr. Harding said.
“Well, Charity would like to say . . . I mean, I’m not sure what it means . . .”
“Mrs. Wood, your daughter often makes comments that challenge us to ponder the topic from a new angle.” He smiled and nodded at me. “Please share her thoughts.”
Oh no! Do not do it, Mom!
I buried my face in my hands.
Mom cleared her throat. “Purple elephants.”
The class burst out laughing. Even Stuart.
“Is this some kind of joke, Mrs. Wood?” Harding asked in his I-mean-business voice.
Mom supported my arm to type more, but I pulled away.
I glared across the room. Darcy was laughing so hard she could hardly catch her breath. “Must have hit a few wrong keys there, Mrs. Wood,” she gloated.
How stupid I was.
She tricked me. She only wanted to embarrass me.
Slam dunk.
Breadcrumbs of Truth
If I wanted to save Isabella, I had to expose Borden, so I made that the topic of my research paper. I told Ms. Beckett I would interview parents and collect evidence of kids being abused. The superintendent had my one complaint, but there must be other evidence out there of Borden’s abuses. How to find it?
After school, Mom and I searched for complaints against Borden posted online. Every search came up empty. Every breadcrumb of a clue had been gobbled up by some hungry pigeon.
Finally, one crumb turned up on a business review website.
Only one?
Mom read it: “My daughter attended Borden Academy for two years. At the end of this period, she was despondent and depressed. Because she was nonverbal, she could not report any abuse, but she regularly came home with bruises on her arms. We finally removed her from the school. Our precious daughter suffered there.”
Sounds like the work of Miss Marcia.
The review had a name: Veronica C.
“It was written two years ago. You probably knew this girl, Charity.”
I searched my memory for another girl who could not talk. My mind flashed to an older girl named Abby Collins, probably about fourteen. She left Borden soon after I got there. I typed what I remembered.
She was usually silent and still. But a few times a week she burst into rages. Miss Marcia would grab her arm and drag her to the time-out closet. When she left, I got sent there more often. Miss Marcia did not let it stay empty for long . . .
I could not type anymore. Mom put the keyboard down and held me. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to continue with this project?”
I have to save the kids.
“Okay. Nothing left to do then but phone every Collins in the phone book.”
Mom put the phone on speaker so I could hear and began dialing.
“Sorry to bother you, but
