Real Carol Cujec (if you liked this book txt) 📖

Jaz looked up at Julian. “Do you want to say something to Charity on her first day?”

Julian smiled and started typing with one finger as his aide quietly encouraged him by his side.

“We just need to hold on a minute,” Jazmine said.

We waited, me twisting my fidget as Julian pecked at the keyboard.

Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.

After a few minutes, Julian pushed a button, and a mechanical voice spoke his words.

“Pointed to peace, I esteem you. You have treasured qualities that all must see.”

His words . . . I esteem you . . . they rang in my ears. You have treasured qualities that all must see.

“That’s beautiful, Julian,” Jazmine said. “You’re a poet. If I could just get you to write my English essays for me, ha ha.”

Jazmine chuckled, and her laughter rang in my head in harmony with Julian’s poetry. I stood in a trance until a girl with dark braids threw her arms around Jazmine.

“Don’t break the merchandise, Skyler,” Jaz said. “Meet Charity. This is her first day.”

Skyler smiled big with shiny metal braces. Her braids bounced as she lunged to hug me too.

“The girl gives killer hugs,” laughed Jaz. “Literally . . . she nearly strangles me every time.”

Lots of people are afraid to touch me, but I like hugs, especially great big bear hugs like Pops and Gram give me. Skyler’s tight hug felt as warm and homey as Dad’s apple crumb cake.

“Charity is a beautiful name,” Skyler said. “It sounds like cherry tree.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks as if she had a great idea. “Let me make one for you!”

Skyler sat down at a table full of art supplies, grabbed a fistful of popsicle sticks from a bin and got to work.

I could see from Skyler’s bright, slightly slanted eyes that she had Down syndrome like Isabella. Then I remembered Isabella stuck at Borden with broken crayons and dried-out glue sticks.

My spirit sank.

“This girl is an artistic genius,” Jazmine said. “She did all those sculptures over there.” Jazmine pointed to a bookshelf full of creations made of sticks and string, a vase made of shells, and a green toddler toilet seat transformed into a picture frame with fake jewels—twenty-nine of them—glued around it. The picture inside was of Celia dressed as a cat surrounded by a dozen kids in Halloween costumes munching orange popcorn and caramel apples.

They have actual parties at this school?

“My favorite is Alien Barbie over there.”

Jaz pointed to a Barbie posed on a glitter-dusted pedestal, her arms lifted high. Her hair was green instead of blonde. Her skin was salmon-colored instead of milky white. No sparkly mini-dress for this Barbie. Her body was wrapped in brown twine, like a pudgy cocoon.

Jazmine laughed. “That should be the official uniform for all the snooty cheerleaders.”

“Hey, you wanna hear a joke? You wanna hear a joke?” A boy appeared behind us with a huge smile and fast-blinking eyes. “Okay, okay, your mama is soooo fat. How fat is she? Well, she is soooo fat that you took a picture of her a month ago and it’s still printing because she’s so fat it uses a ton of paper. Ha!”

“Charity, this is Peter. He loves to tell jokes.” Jaz rolled her eyes.

Peter told ten more jokes in a row without coming up for air—some knock-knocks, some about farts, some about why something crossed the road, and a few more about my mama being sooooo fat. Jazmine put her hand on his arm. “Thanks, Peter. I think Celia needs to talk to Charity now.”

Jazmine held my hand and led me away, but my mind was already on overload. All the new faces . . . new sounds . . . new smells . . . everyone so kind . . . speaking to me as if I was a real human being . . . with a brain!

This place was 100 percent the opposite of Borden. So why was I panicking?

Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.

Do I even belong here?

Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.

My success will open doors for other students.

Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.

But what if I do not succeed? My failure will close doors for other students.

Panic twisted and squeezed my chest.

Mom is royally right to worry. This will never work.

Twist, squeeze, twist-twist, squeeze.

“I think Ana will be your aide,” Jaz said. “She’s an awesome teacher.”

Yes, but I am sure she cannot perform miracles.

CRASH.

I flung the fidget to the ground and fear flew from my throat. OOOOWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAH!

Kids covered their ears and stared in shock, but my voice had to escape. My legs had to jump. My arms had to shake.

I.

Am.

Doomed.

Two slender hands wrapped around mine.

“You are safe here, Charity.”

Velvety—that’s how I would describe her voice—like the tenor sax solos on Dad’s jazz CDs. I looked into her face—a sweet smile and caring, green eyes framed by short, black bangs. Her words, spoken with a delicate accent, cast a spell.

“Let us slow down your breathing. Breathe in with me.”

She closed her eyes, still holding my hands. My voice quieted.

“Breathe in light.”

I heard her inhale, long and slow, deep into her chest.

“Breathe out darkness . . . Shhhhhhhhhhh . . .” She released her breath through her lips.

“Breathe in joy. Breathe out fear. Shhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .

“Breathe in peace. Breathe out anxiety. Shhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .”

My breath fell in line with hers, and my jumping-bean heart calmed.

“I am Ana.”

My fear, the panic I lived with every day, growled inside my head, but her words tamed the beast.

How did she do that?

My sixth sense kicked in—I could feel her peace flow through my veins.

She stared into me and nodded. Could she hear my thoughts pounding inside their prison?

“We will find a way to let your mind express itself,” she said.

Acceptance. Complete acceptance from the first minute. So different from how most new people react to me. They get stiff. They back away—like maybe I am contagious—and usually talk about me as if I am not there. Or they talk to me as if I am three years old.

Ana led me to a table. “Let’s get started.”

She helped me sit in a chair next to a wall, and she sat next