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

Maybe my pounding body can settle here.

Next, she handed me a book. Not a picture book for first graders, an actual junior high history book with a map of the US on its cover. Her only command was, “Take a look at this, Charity.”

What? You do not want me to touch my nose? Write the letter A? Try to tell a cow from a sailboat? If this is a test, I am not sure what I am supposed to do.

Automatic fail.

I patted the shiny cover and spread my hands to the four corners. I lifted the book to feel its weight. We never got our hands on books more than twenty pages long at Borden. I opened it and flipped through the pages, stopping to look at interesting pictures and read a paragraph or two. I had skimmed lots of history books at Gram and Pops’ house (Pops is a big history buff). I could not read them cover to cover since my hands cannot turn pages very well, but I flipped and read, flipped and read enough times to read most every page.

Ana observed me as I examined the pages and ran my hands over the colorful pictures.

Flip.

The Jamestown Settlement.

Flip.

Gold in Sutter’s Mill.

Flip.

The Battle of Gettysburg.

Flip.

The Great Depression.

I knew about all of these topics. But what did she expect me to do?

“I can tell by the way you are holding and touching the book that you are a tactile and visual learner. You prefer feeling things with your hands and observing with your eyes.” Ana made a note on her pad.

For once it was not an F for fail.

“Which subject would you like to begin with in our tutoring sessions?”

She tore a small strip of paper from her notebook and ripped it into two squares. On one she wrote history and on the other biology. She placed the two pieces of paper on the table in front of me and repeated her question.

“Which subject would you like? History?” She tapped the piece of paper that said history. “Or biology?” She tapped the piece of paper that said biology.

I answered her in my mind.

Biology. I want to learn biology so I can try to understand my own unique brain.

How was I supposed to tell her?

BAM! I hit the table with both fists.

Ana reached over and held my left hand. “Tap your answer with your right hand. Either history,” she tapped on history, “or biology.” She tapped on biology, then tapped under my right wrist.

My left hand wanted to get away.

She repeated, “Tap your answer with your right hand. History or biology?” She tapped each piece of paper and then tapped my wrist.

Biology! It would be so much easier if you could just read my mind.

My right hand tapped one, then the other piece of paper. She repeated her question. “Tap your answer with your right hand. History or biology?”

This time my right hand reached toward her arm and pinched it.

What have I done?

She gently moved my arm back.

“I believe you have a preference, Charity. Please let me know. Tap the subject you prefer.”

I saw the red mark where I pinched her. I felt terrible.

I do not think I can do this.

“You can do this, Charity. Tell me which one. Tap your answer with your right hand.” All this time, her voice showed no sign of annoyance or impatience. I could tell she had no intention of giving up. I repeated to myself her original commands.

Breathe in light.

Breathe out darkness.

Breathe in joy.

Breathe out fear.

“Which one would you prefer? History or biology.” She tapped both choices.

My hand tapped biology.

Finally.

“Just to confirm. You are choosing biology?”

Are you kidding me?

My hand tapped history.

More minutes of random tapping passed, my frustration growing with every unwanted tap. I slapped my hand hard on the table, and Ana put her hand on mine.

She spoke calmly. “We have much to learn from each other. From what I’ve observed today, Charity, it is clear you have sensory movement differences. You do not have full control over your body.”

No kidding.

“But don’t worry, Charity. From my studies, and my work with others, I’ve learned ways we can help you—at least a little—gain more control.”

Breathe out relief.

She has not given up on me yet. Finally, someone who understands.

At lunchtime, Ana walked with me to the cafeteria. Jaz wheeled behind us, frowning.

“Many of the EPIC kids prefer to eat in the classroom,” Ana said. “Personally, I think it is better to get out and see the world a little, don’t you, Jazmine?”

Jaz answered in a half-whisper. “Sure, if you prefer your mystery meat served with a side of humiliation.”

Ana loaded my tray with salad, blueberry yogurt, and a square piece of cheese pizza.

I wanted pepperoni.

From our corner table, we watched a small army of kids pour in. The noise level rose higher and higher. Even with so much chaos, Ana kept me focused on eating one bite at a time.

Jaz nibbled a ham sandwich, her head down and eyes scanning the room. My eyes scanned too.

There he is!

Mason strolled in, sweeping his surfer hair off his face as he walked by with his tray. He saw me. I know it because he jumped a little. Then he made his way to a long table in the center of the cafeteria. A few kids scooted over to make room.

My eyes followed him.

Jaz noticed where I was looking. “That’s definitely the cool kids’ table. Loaded with selfie-obsessed cheerleaders.”

Hypothesis: Jaz is not a fan of cheerleaders.

I watched Mason for a few seconds. He looked cool, sat at the cool table with the cool kids, but I sensed he did not belong. Once in a while, he looked up and laughed at something someone said, but mostly he kept to himself.

Alone in a crowd. That’s how I felt too.

The two giggling girls from this morning passed by our table. Pink hair, green nail polish, and with them a girl with hair the color of . . . honey.

Could it be her?

And