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

freckles on her cheeks . . .

Grace? My once-upon-a-time-a-long-time-ago best friend Grace?

GRACE?

On impulse, my body sprang out of my seat.

My brain hollered stop! But my feet ran to her. My legs jumped. My hands clapped.

Her face looked at me, horrified. She shrank backward as if I might bite.

She does not even remember me.

My heart snapped in two. That did not stop my stupid legs from jumping higher . . . my stupid hands from clapping harder.

Kids turned to look. They laughed. Grace covered her mouth. Her friend with green nails pulled her away as if she was a hero rescuing Grace from an oncoming train.

I am in hell.

Ana’s hands on my shoulders turned me back toward our table. She sat me down, and kids went back to eating pizza and staring at their phones.

I tried to calm down.

My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

Alone in a crowd. How is it possible to feel so alone in a cafeteria of two hundred kids?

Back and forth, back and forth.

Page 38: Cows have best friends and become stressed when separated.

Jaz blew air out of her lips. “Sorry, kid. Like I said, a side of humiliation served fresh daily.”

Back and forth, back and forth.

The three girls passed by again on their way out. Pink hair looked at me and leaned in toward her friends. “Can you imagine going through life like that? Hashtag tragic.”

Green nails shook her head. “I’d rather die.”

Grace kept walking.

So much for old friends.

A Warm Hornet Welcome

Dad hung up the phone with a giant grin. So annoying at times like this. “Congratulations, Charity, you’re now officially a Hornet.”

It was all Celia’s fault.

She suggested I join some sort of extracurricular activity to interact more with what she called the neurotypical students. I love that word: neurotypical—as opposed to normal. It means they have typical brains that work in ways people expect. Me, on the other hand, Celia said I have a differently wired brain. Sounds so much better than abnormal, impaired, or worse: that word. Do people think Stephen Hawking had a typical brain? He could not control his body either, but he taught the world so much.

When Dad heard Celia’s suggestion, he jumped into action. A friend of his is the coach of the girls’ basketball team. With one phone call full of charm, I was on the team as an “unofficial participant.”

Whatever that meant.

Even though Dad had taught me how to shoot a basketball, I was in no way coordinated enough to play on a team. That did not stop Dad.

Nothing ever does.

Wednesday afternoon, Dad closed his surf shop early to take me to practice. The gym was a sea of bobbing ponytails and dribbling balls that made the whole room rumble in a nonstop earthquake.

Fifteen girls, fifteen balls, too many dribbles to count.

My feet pranced in nervous circles.

Jump-hop-leap-skip.

Dad strolled up to Coach George, his old surfing buddy, and slapped him on the back. Coach smiled with big, white teeth. He smiled a little less each time he looked over at me.

Hypothesis: Dad did not tell Coach about my unpredictable body.

I could not be angry. My dad was the only person in the world who thought I was perfect just as I was.

Jump-hop-leap-skip.

Then Coach slapped Dad on the back and called out, “Girls, this is Charity. She will be joining us as a very special member of the team.”

There is that word: special. How I hate that word. Charity, the charity case.

“Her Dad was a legend on the court in his day.”

Dad shook his head. “Yeah, about a thousand years ago, George.”

Everyone laughed.

“He’s being modest, girls,” Coach said. “Anyhow, please give Charity a warm Hornet welcome.”

Jump-hop-leap-skip.

That does not make sense. Hornets are not warm. Hornets STING.

Page 101: Hornets release more venom in their sting than any other stinging insect.

A few girls clapped politely, but the look on everyone’s faces said Whaaaaaaat?

Jump-hop-leap-skip.

“Let’s get started, girls.” Coach clapped his hands and began practice, leaving me to watch. Girls dribbled the ball through a zigzag of orange cones and shot free-throws.

I recognized a few of them, including Grace and her two friends. The girl with pink hair was called Lilly. The one with green nails was Darcy. They had already given me a Hornet welcome—I still felt the sting.

Dad kept looking at me and giving me thumbs up, but I sensed his growing frustration. After about fifteen minutes, he decided we should join in the drills with him as my partner.

The girls were working on passing, so we lined up with them, and he passed me the ball. It sailed past me and hit the coach.

“Sorry,” Dad yelled.

Come on, Dad. What were you expecting?

We moved to the sideline to practice dribbling.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

I liked dribbling the ball in one place.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

I could do that all day.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

Of course, Dad insisted I dribble and run at the same time.

Why must you torture me?

Every five seconds Dad had to fetch my runaway ball. A couple of the girls laughed at him after the third time.

This isn’t working.

I walked in circles holding my hands over my ears.

Circle, circle, circle.

Their staring eyeballs pounded me like basketballs to my head.

Circle, circle, circle.

Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

My scream echoed off the walls of the gym.

Balls stopped bouncing. Everyone stared. Darcy and Lilly giggled.

Dad led me to the bench. “Let’s take a rest, Cherry Girl.”

I breathed hard. Why could he not see how embarrassing this was? I stood to leave, but Dad pulled me back on the bench.

“Just a few more minutes, Cherry. When you’re part of a team, you have to stick together.”

I wanted to scream at him.

Can you not see I am not part of this team?

My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.

“Good work, girls. Form a circle.” Coach waved his hand for the girls to come over.

He did not motion for me to join. Dad, of course, pulled me over anyway and a few girls made room—lots of room. As usual, my weirdness made them uncomfortable.

My body rocked