Nobody was marching or sitting down for people like me.
Isabella poked her head in the window again and held up a book. She waved at me like a baseball coach waving a runner to home plate. That finally triggered my legs to stand, and I staggered into the classroom.
Mom and Dad only saw this place when it was scrubbed and decorated for parents’ night once a year. If only they could get a peek any of the other 364 days—Mom would have a heart attack. One look at our chaos-filled, zero-education classroom, and Mom would know. She would just know.
And she would save me.
Isabella ran up and squealed my name. “Charity, Charity, Charity is here!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the beanbag chairs. “Come with me to look at books!” Her freckled cheeks puffed up in a smile, and her blue eyes, slanted a little from her Down syndrome, sparkled. Even this rotten place could not squeeze all the joy from her heart.
Isabella could not read, and I so wished I could read to her. She deserved a chance to learn. Everyone here did.
She patted the green plastic beanbag chair, its holes covered with duct tape. I sat down, and Isabella held up a book about elephants for both of us to see. I wanted to tell her all the amazing facts about them.
Page 62: African elephants feel a wide range of emotions, like grief, happiness, and compassion.
Most people do not know that I feel these emotions, too.
Clever Isabella made up her own story about a mama elephant who wanted to take her baby elephant to the hair salon. Her copper curls bounced as she told her tale.
I tried to focus on her sweet smile and eyes that grew wide when she got to the exciting part of her story. But every cell in my body itched to get out of this place, this waiting room for hopeless cases. According to the Thinkers, we were all throwaway kids that did not deserve an education.
Kids in wheelchairs were parked in front of an ancient television in the back of the room, forced to watch Barney for the ten thousandth time.
I wanted to scream.
They have brains, you know! So do I!
My ears were drowning in the noise—shouting and moaning kids, silly singing blaring from the television. It was the singing that made me want to stuff these beanbag chairs into my ears. No escaping the horrible smell either—like a mixture of sweat socks, wet dog, and Miss Marcia’s donkey breath. My brain overloaded.
Woodpeckers chipped at my skull.
Page 320: The woodpecker’s chisel-like bill pecks at a rate of twenty times each second.
I wondered what kids in a real school were learning today—maybe how to calculate the area of a circle, or what Shakespeare meant by “To be or not to be,” or why rotten eggs smelled like farts.
Do those kids know how lucky they are?
Probability: low.
Miss Marcia patrolled the room like a prison guard, snapping at kids to “Knock it off!” or “Put a lid on it!” and threatening to banish them to the dreaded time-out closet. I lived in fear of it every moment. Each lockup chipped away at my already broken heart.
Could I escape it today?
My body felt restless. I got up and shook my hands and legs. Maybe I could shake off the hopelessness.
Shake, shake, shake.
My feet walked toward a boy named Jacob playing with Lego blocks. He could not talk either, but he built amazing structures from the sad, mismatched Lego collection kept in a plastic laundry basket. How could they not see his cleverness? He stacked his bricks in tall towers—seventeen blue, nineteen red, twenty-three green, twenty-nine yellow—all prime numbers.
I reached out to touch a soaring tower, and he screamed with full force.
That made me scream too.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
“You will be okay, Charity. You will be okay.”
Kind Isabella was there in a flash, patting my cheek.
Thank goodness. Her kindness helped my mouth to close and my body to settle. But my peace did not last long. Miss Marcia pulled me by the arm and sat me in the nearest chair. She plunked a jack-in-the-box on the table in front of me.
Behavior data reports were due every day, so it was time for me to fail another test.
“Turn the handle. Turn the handle. Turn the handle.” She repeated the same words robotically.
I begged for words.
First of all, a jack-in-the-box is a toy for a four-year-old, not a thirteen-year-old. Second of all, I would not turn the handle if I could. I do not want to see that white clown face jump out with his creepy smile, yellow hair, and missing eye.
My arm knocked the rusty metal box to the floor.
“You’re tap dancing on my last nerve, Missy.” Miss Marcia sucked and crunched her mints while marking my failure on the useless chart that analyzed my daily progress for the Thinkers.
Progress? What a joke!
Then she picked up the jack-in-the-box, held it two inches from my nose, and twisted the silver, tiny handle.
“Here’s how you’re supposed to do it,” muttering, “for the umpteenth time” under her breath.
Da-ding-da-ding-da-ding-da-ping-ping . . .
Each ding and ping slapped my ear. The smell of her donkey breath hit me in the nose.
Da-ding-da-ding-da-ding-ping . . .
My heart pounded faster. Every note turned up the heat on the boiling kettle inside me. I begged my body.
Please stay in control. Please stay in control.
Miss Marcia smiled. Like the creepy clown.
Da-ding-da-ding . . .
My bulldog impulse took over. My hands squeezed into fists. Firecrackers exploded in my toes.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION. . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
I jumped up—knocking the toy to the floor—and screeched like a bat on fire.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Page 15: Bats can produce sounds louder than a rock concert.
Isabella appeared by my side and jumped with me, clapping her hands.
Oh no! Too late.
Miss Marcia pushed Isabella away and grabbed my arm. I knew what was coming.
Nooooooooo!
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Miss Marcia dragged me. Across the room. Opened the closet door.
Nooooooooo!
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
My mouth moaned. My fingers gripped the door frame.
Miss Marcia
