Faith Wish (5 page)

While she waited, she found her mind wandering into the past, landing on a stinging memory that took her back to October, when she and her parents met with Mrs. DeShields. Anne-Marie had expected the garden-variety pep talk about organizing study time more effectively, but Mrs. DeShields had dropped a bomb: “I'd like to test Anne-Marie for attention deficit disorder,” she said.

For some moments, Anne-Marie and her parents were speechless. “Attention deficit disorder?” her mother had finally responded. “I don't understand.”

“I believe a good deal of Anne-Marie's academic difficulties may have something to do with a learning disability. I don't think we're talking here about a lazy student who simply won't apply herself. She and I have talked a number of times about her distractibility and inability to focus when she does her schoolwork.”

“A learning disability?” Her father had immediately dismissed the entire notion. “Are you trying to tell us our daughter ought to be in special education?”

Anne-Marie had been horrified enough to echo her father's words: “You want me in special ed?”

“No, not exactly,” the counselor had replied.

“You want me in LD/BD classes?” The idea was simply mortifying.

“No, not exactly, I said. But I would like to test you for ADD to see if it may be a factor in the academic underachievement that seems to be your pattern.”

Her father had leaned forward in his chair with his hands on his knees. “This is crazy. Anne-Marie is a college-bound young woman. And in the middle of her senior year in high school, you're trying to tell us she's learning disabled?”

Then her mother joined the conversation. “What is attention deficit disorder? Even though I've heard a lot about it, I'm not sure I understand what it is exactly.”

“It's an inability to focus,” Mrs. DeShields had replied. “Or maybe better said, it's the inability to maintain focus. People with ADD don't seem to be able to get on task or stay on task. They can't sequence. Their distractibility and restlessness undercut their ability to stay connected with projects. Particularly academic projects. They seem to return to the same material again and again without moving ahead productively.”

Anne-Marie had wanted the conversation to end right then and there. But her mother wanted more information: “If Anne-Marie has this learning disorder, why are we finding out about it now? She's already seventeen years old!”

“We may not be
finding out
anything,” the counselor had replied. “That's why I'd like to test her. As for your question, all I can tell you is that the system is not perfect. Special needs students aren't always identified by the ongoing testing that students participate in. Sometimes people slip through the cracks.”

“Are you telling me,” her father had demanded in his stern cross-examination tone, “that our daughter may have had an undiagnosed learning disorder all these years?”

“I'm telling you it's possible.”

“And that could happen after twelve years in school, twelve years of achievement tests, aptitude tests, and all the other standardized testing that students go through?”

Mrs. DeShields had simply repeated herself by saying, “Yes. It's possible. As much as we test, our systems aren't perfect.”

Her father had kept boring in: “If the school systems' assessment patterns could be that incompetent, what would be the purpose of another standardized test at this point? Is there any reason to believe this one would be more accurate or useful?”

Anne-Marie had relished her father's aggressive manner—it felt like he was standing up for her in court. “I'll tell you one thing,” she'd said. “I'm not going to spend my time coming and going to classes in the west wing. Everybody knows what goes on down there.” She almost used the word
retard
, but caught herself just in time.

Mrs. DeShields had been patient. “If that's the way you feel then, we can simply drop the subject. There's nothing that mandates testing a high school senior.”

But, characteristically, it was Anne-Marie's mother who had been more open-minded. “What would the test entail?”

“It's simply a four-page standardized test that can be taken in an hour.” Mrs. DeShields had smiled and said to Anne-Marie, “I can assure you it would be painless. It's not an invasive procedure.”

“Then what would be the point of not taking it?” her mother had wondered out loud.

“The point,” Anne-Marie had said immediately, “is that I'd be taking classes in that … that
wing. I'm
the one who would have to suffer all the embarrassment.”

“Not necessarily,” the counselor replied quickly. “For all we know, the test will show that you're not ADD. And even if you are, I would only suggest one change in your course schedule. Instead of taking your regular study hall, you would be taking it in the resource room.”

“What the hell is the resource room?” her father had demanded, still twisting in his chair uncomfortably.

“It's an organized study hall,” was Mrs. DeShields's answer. “Mrs. Quinn is the teacher. She works with students individually on organizing their homework, checking assignment deadlines and work sheets, helping with test preparation, and the like. She structures programs to meet the needs of individual students.”

Anne-Marie knew all about the resource room and didn't want any part of it. “It's still the retard wing,” she had blurted out.
There; I finally said it
.

Mrs. DeShields had simply laughed at the remark. “Yep, people call it that.”

But Anne-Marie's father had still been stuck on square one. He said, “We are talking about a college-bound young woman in her senior year of high school. This is simply no time to be redefining categories.”

Her mother said, “But the structured study hall sounds positive. It might give Anne-Marie the guidance she needs to achieve better study habits and better grades.”

“Hey!” Anne-Marie had protested. “We're talking about me here. We're talking about
me
.”

Mrs. DeShields had been understanding. “Of course we are,” she said. “If it's your decision not to take the test, or not to have any connection with the resource room, then I'm certainly not going to force you. I simply think it might be smart to investigate the possibility.”

Anne-Marie had been relieved; she couldn't be forced. Mrs. DeShields folded her hands on her desk and addressed the family as one. “I'm sympathetic here, I really am. I can understand your confusion and frustration as a family. Anne-Marie's sister set the bar of academic achievement awfully high.”

“Please,” Anne-Marie had said. “Don't bring up Eleanor. She's like this giant shadow I can never get out from under.”

“I understand. But just a moment, if I may. Anne-Marie, with an ACT score of twenty and a GPA barely above two point zero, your college choices are going to be limited.”

“Pretty soon you're going to be talking about junior colleges,” her father had interrupted.

“I already am,” said the counselor decisively, but politely.

Anne-Marie was on Mrs. DeShields's side at this juncture. “What did you think, Dad?” she had asked. “I was going to get into a good college just because you say so, or just because my older sister is so special?”

“Don't get smart with me.”

Mrs. DeShields had moved in again: “Whatever college it turns out to be, wouldn't it be better to try to increase Anne-Marie's chances for success between now and next June if we can?”

“It's hard to argue with that logic,” her mother had said to her father.

“Logic? Is that what we're calling it?”

By now Anne-Marie was too crushed to say anything. She'd slumped in her chair and crossed her arms on her chest. “I'm tired of this whole conversation. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

It was Sara Curtis who interrupted the demeaning memory and brought Anne-Marie back to the present. A straight-A student, Sara was one of the runners who took notes from the office to students in class. Not for the first time, Anne-Marie wondered,
Why would that be a reward? You get straight A's so they let you deliver notes
?

“You're not busy right now, huh?” she said to Sara. “I'd like to talk to you.”

“Talk away,” said Sara, with a smile that revealed her oversized teeth. “But if they want me to deliver a note, I have to go.”

“I know, but can you like come a little closer?” Anne-Marie said, while glancing from side to side at the other students. “I just heard that Brother Jackson is leaving,” she said in a voice so quiet it was scarcely more than a whisper.

“It's true,” said Sara. “He'll be here till Friday, and then he's moving on. It's a bummer, huh?”

“Moving on where?”

“I'm not exactly sure, but I think he said something about Kentucky or Tennessee, basically where the Lord leads him.”

Anne-Marie felt numb, a condition that was familiar, but not in this context. Not in connection with an evangelist. Slowly, she took the note from the pocket of her jeans, the one from Vice Principal Rosario. She showed it to Sara.

“Are you here to see him?” asked Sara.

“Yes. But now that I'm here, I want to see you.”

“Because this just means you're supposed to see the vice principal sometime soon. It doesn't have to be today.”

Anne-Marie looked at the pimples that peppered Sara's forehead. “I know,” she answered. “But I need a pass. I'm supposed to be in biology right now.”

“That's not a problem. Just take your note from Rosario to one of the secretaries. They'll write you one.”

“I know.” This time she looked into Sara's brown eyes. They were as clear and deep as a mountain pool. Sara couldn't be phony; wouldn't even know how. She could stand around a public school flagpole in group prayer and not care at all what anyone else might think or say.
Will my faith ever be strong enough for that
? Anne-Marie found herself speaking in a whisper: “I've never been very nice to you, have I, Sara?”

The answer didn't come quickly. Sara looked down at the note. “You've never been mean to me, Anne-Marie, if that's what you mean.”

“But I've never been nice to you.”

“A lot of people have never been nice to me. Maybe they're nice to other people. The whole world can't be nice to you. That's just not realistic.”

“I know, but at basketball games, I was cheering and you were in the band. We sat close to each other all the time, but I never tried to be your friend.”

“It's okay. You're beautiful. You're popular. There's pressure that goes with that.”

She means peer pressure
, Anne-Marie thought. If you were truly a Christian though, getting the approval of your peers would be irrelevant. As long as you had the Lord's approval, nothing else would matter. And for that matter, what good was it to be beautiful and popular if you were also superficial and shallow?

“We called you Bucky,” said Anne-Marie matter-of-factly.

“I know,” said Sara with a smile. She obviously wasn't self-conscious about her teeth. “But it was mostly during sophomore year and just in the cafeteria.”

“We did it more often than that. Brooke and Missy and I. We were mean and cruel. And it was so childish. I think we were jealous of you.”

Sara Curtis was the only black member of the student council and a candidate for class valedictorian. She said, “It hurt a little bit, but I mostly just shrugged it off. What was it that made you jealous?”

“Maybe your grades. We knew you would be a valedictorian candidate, and we thought a white person should win that. I'm sorry, Sara. I really mean that.” Anne-Marie swallowed hard.

“So exactly what is it you're so sorry for?”

“I'm not exactly sure how to put it into words. For being a dork, I guess. Maybe there were times I hurt you even if it was just ignoring you.… Okay, that's it … I'm sorry for being a dork.” She could feel tears forming.

Sara touched her hand. Anne-Marie flinched only briefly at the moment of contact. “You're new to the Fellowship, Anne-Marie. Don't feel like the Lord is going to convict you all the time.”

“I don't want to go through the rest of my life finding sin after sin and spending all my time confessing. I'll just be ashamed all the time.”

“You won't have to,” Sara assured her. “The Lord will convict you from time to time, just like he does all of us. But mostly He will forgive you. If you put your trust there, He will never let you down. I forgive you and I'm sure the Lord forgave you a long time ago.”

“Thank you.” For several seconds, Anne-Marie looked into Sara's clear brown reassuring eyes. “I hope you win,” she said sincerely.

“Thank you. So do I. But it's not a big deal. I'm already accepted at Oberlin, and I've got some scholarship money coming.”

“I'm afraid it's going to be junior college for me,” said Anne-Marie glumly.

Sara seemed ready with an answer, but then a secretary summoned her, so she had to make a run. Before she left, she invited Anne-Marie to Bible study, the one she held in her house on Monday nights.

At lunch, Anne-Marie sat with Brooke and Missy Timmons, but her mind was a million miles away. Missy had her term paper for biology finished, and a nice glossy cover of Everglades saw grass she'd made on her computer was the wrap.

Anne-Marie told Missy how good the term paper looked, but wouldn't permit herself to think about it. Couldn't even if she wanted to. Her mind was on Brother Jackson. Why was he leaving, and would he ever come back? If so, when? Would she ever see him again? Would there be another tabernacle meeting where she could? She chewed at the edges of her taco shell halfheartedly all the while; her appetite was still as borderline as her concentration.