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

into his already stuffed mouth—to help mush up the burrito I guess—picked up his tray, and left.

Nothing like a relaxing thirty-second lunch.

No one knew he was my cousin. I am sure Mason wanted to keep it that way. I am also sure that dear Aunt Kiki had told him to eat lunch with me. I imagined her saying, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have lunch with your cousin Charity, sweetie? You know she probably has no friends.”

Now he could go home and report mission accomplished.

He was out of earshot—or at least pretended to be—by the time Peter thought to ask him, “Wanna hear a joke?”

Back in the EPIC room, Ana brought out the wobble board, which is curved on the bottom and flat on the top.

Here we go again.

The goal was for me to stand on it and balance as long as I could without falling over. It reminded me of standing on the surfboard with Dad.

While standing on the wobble board, I had to beat a drum and rock in rhythm to the songs she strummed on a guitar. The first hundred times or so, I fell off after a few seconds. But with lots of practice, I got pretty good at it.

“Music therapy helps you with movement,” Ana explained.

She was right. Now, when my body got stuck on freeze, she squeezed my arms or legs rhythmically, and that seemed to unstick me. What a relief.

After the wobble board, Ana dragged out the yoga mats.

“Yoga and mindfulness can help regulate your emotions. Let’s start with downward dog,” she said, tapping the mat.

I bent down, spread my fingers on the mat and lifted my hips up while trying to keep my heels on the floor. Same as Hero waking up from a nap—drool included.

A few poses later, we moved on to meditation. Ana told me to choose a mantra, a phrase I could repeat to myself over and over to stay focused.

“The most basic mantra is Om,” she explained. “It simply means It is. But you could choose any phrase you want, like I am at peace or I am stronger each day.”

The first few times, my fidgety body did not last thirty seconds. But after two weeks, we were up to as many as five minutes of breathing and sitting.

Sitting cross-legged on my purple mat, I struggled to tune out the voice inside that said I could not do it.

Breathe in friendship.

I am more than my body.

Breathe out loneliness.

I love and accept myself.

Mom and Dad practiced with me at home too. Our neighbor Dr. Singh did a double take when she saw me and Dad doing the tree pose in the front yard. He balanced on one leg and held his arms—his branches—in the air to feel the breeze.

“Are you two doing ballet again?” she asked. “I don’t think that’s one of the positions, Steve,” she laughed.

Ana also helped me move better by tapping the body part that was supposed to react. When I got stuck sitting on the floor, for example, she tapped my leg and said, “Let’s stand now.” That simple touch usually reminded my legs what they were supposed to do.

After our yoga lesson, Ana helped me play games on an electronic tablet. She supported me gently, making it possible for my hand to tap and swipe.

One program taught me to draw letters with my finger.

“Good job, Charity. Now let’s draw the letter C. Move your finger counterclockwise. There you go . . .”

“Breathe deeply.”

I did not see her mark down any of my failures. For each new task, she gave me as much help as I needed and had faith that I would, eventually, learn it. Same as Mom when she taught me to read and Dad when he taught me to ride a bike and surf and ski. Why couldn’t all teachers be like that?

When I finally drew the letter C with no support, she yelled “Whoopee!” and held up her hand for a fist bump.

Celia joined in for a triple bump, and Skyler did a victory dance. “You did it! We believe in you, Cherry Tree!”

My mind wandered again to Isabella, stuck in that smelly classroom at Borden, probably watching Barney season four, episode ten for the millionth time. How was it fair that I escaped and she had not?

After three weeks, Celia invited Mom to school for my first progress report. Finally, the word “progress” did not sound like a total joke.

“Charity has done a wonderful job adapting to a new and often chaotic environment,” Celia said. “She should be very proud.” Celia turned to me. “Querida, we feel you are ready to attend some mainstream classes starting next week.”

What?

My body tensed up and started to rock.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Mom shook her head, “But things are going so well. Charity seems happier. She’s eating and sleeping better. Couldn’t we keep things as they are for now?”

Back and forth, back and forth.

“Mrs. Wood, Charity has already waited years to attend age-appropriate classes. She shouldn’t waste any more time.”

Ana put her hand on Mom’s shoulder. “It will be all right. I will be there to support her, and the teachers and I have already discussed ways she might participate.”

Mom smiled. She actually smiled. I sensed no worry hiding underneath it.

Maybe Ana really could perform miracles.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Mason’s eyes popped when I stumbled into his math class the following Monday.

My stomach sent up a dribble of morning OJ into my mouth. My polo shirt wanted to strangle me after my nervous fingers had buttoned it all the way to the top. I tugged at the neck.

Ana squeezed my shoulder. “You will be all right, Charity.” I focused on her soothing voice and tried not to look at the sixty-four eyeballs pointed in my direction.

Page 278: A turtle’s upper shell is called a carapace. Its lower shell is a plastron.

If I were a turtle, I would hide in my shell.

Mason turned his eyes down to his notebook, as if he were deep in thought.

Do