Mr. Terupt Falls Again (12 page)

A
fter the episode, and I’m referring to Mr. Terupt’s stuttering and stumbling, not Jeffrey’s explosion, my research felt urgent. I ended up learning more about post–head trauma than I think I wanted to know.

Simple things like dizzy spells or stuttering can be an indication of some recurring bleeding at the site of an injury. There’s also a possibility of seizures. Seizures are a result of sudden, abnormal electrical activity in the brain. There are people who have seizures regularly, but that’s because they have a brain disorder called epilepsy. Epilepsy didn’t apply to Mr. Terupt, so I didn’t spend much time reading about it. However, seizures can also happen to anyone with a problem in the brain, and head trauma can cause a problem. Seizures can last from a few seconds to several minutes, and they can range from mild, which might be Mr. Terupt stopping
midsentence and spacing out for a moment, to severe, in which case we would know, because Mr. Terupt would be on the ground, convulsing. Convulsions are when the body shakes out of control. I didn’t want that to happen to Mr. Terupt, but if he was already having dizzy spells and stuttering, wasn’t this next?

I
t didn’t take long for me to get bored at home. Plus I was missing Asher. So I decided to get Mom out and take her to the center.

I didn’t bother asking if she wanted to go. I simply told her we needed to go, which was the truth, more or less. It was part of my research.

We walked into the center and Nurse Barry greeted us.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” she said. “We haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve been at home. I brought my mom with me today.”

Nurse Barry reached out to shake my mom’s hand. “Hi. I’m Nurse Barry. We love having Jeffrey visit. He’s great with all the kids, especially Asher.”

“I know he loves coming,” Mom said. “Thanks for letting him.”

“We wouldn’t ever say no.” Nurse Barry turned to me. “Asher’s in his room, Jeffrey. He’s probably starting to get hungry again. Would you like to change him and give him his next bottle?”

“Sure,” I said.

In the beginning, Asher couldn’t take a bottle very well. His suck reflex wasn’t strong enough. There was no telling whether that was a result of his being abandoned, but it was one of the reasons he needed the center. He was much better now, though, and I loved feeding him. Mom and I started off toward the back.

“Jeffrey,” Nurse Barry called after me.

I turned around to face her. She didn’t say anything else at first. Probably because she had something difficult to tell me.

“The police are closing the investigation,” she finally said. “They haven’t been able to find Asher’s parents. He’s almost fully recovered, so he’ll be ready for a permanent home soon. He’ll go to foster care until he’s adopted.”

I nodded and tried a smile but could only manage a fake one. Asher was healthy again. This was good news, but I felt like I was losing another brother all over again. I wished there was a way for me to keep him forever.

Asher had his own room because he was the only infant at the center. I heard his little jibber-jabbers before we even walked in. His dark brown eyes stared up at us. Mom looked down at him and immediately her hands flew up and covered her mouth. I watched her fingers press against her lips and her eyes soften. I was ready for her to cry, but instead she surprised me by reaching down and picking him up. She
rocked Asher in her arms and started humming softly. She carried him over to the changing table, at which point I stood in complete shock. I hadn’t seen my mother like this in a long time. She looked peaceful. Mom talked and played with Asher. I got the supplies she needed in order to change him and feed him. I did that without talking because I didn’t want to break the spell. Once they settled in the rocking chair I left them alone.

Mom and I were quiet on the way home. I really didn’t know what to say. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing and ruining everything that had just happened. After she parked the car in our driveway, Mom turned to me and said, “Thank you for bringing me to the center, Jeffrey.” Then she leaned over and kissed me on the top of my head before climbing out.

I sat there thinking—about a lot.

“H
ey, Lukester,” Mr. Terupt said. I was sitting at a computer in the lab working on my post–head trauma PowerPoint. I was going back over my slides to see if I had any mistakes or if there was anything else I should add. “Your work looks terrific,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Seems like you’ve learned quite a bit.”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing up at him. “More than I thought I would.”

“Why don’t we go and have a chat at one of the tables? Save your work and I’ll meet you over there.”

The computer lab was in the back of the library, so it was easy for us to find a place where we could talk privately. The rest of my class continued working. I knew what Mr. Terupt was going to tell me. “I’m okay. Don’t worry.” I could hear it
coming. But I didn’t know if I could believe him—not after all that I had researched. I sat down across from him.

“Luke,” he said, placing his hands on the table in front of me, “I can’t let you share your presentation.”

I couldn’t believe it. That wasn’t what I expected.

Mr. Terupt leaned closer. “Your PowerPoint looks awesome, but I’m afraid sharing it will do more harm than good. Once you teach everyone else about these brain things, they’re going to start worrying—and for no reason.”

I scowled. Worrying for no reason? I didn’t believe him.

“Luke, I’m fine. You don’t need to be concerned,” he insisted.

“Then how do you explain the dizziness and stuttering?” I wanted answers. I needed a sound explanation. Scientists like proof.

“It’s not uncommon for people to experience those things after head trauma. It’s not severe and it won’t be permanent. The doctor thinks my minor spells are simple side effects from the medicines I’m taking.”

“You’ve seen a doctor?”

“Yes. I’m taking care of myself, Luke. Don’t worry.”

I was quiet, mulling over all that he had said. I felt a little better, but I still worried—I couldn’t help it.

“I have another idea I hope you’ll consider for your PowerPoint. It’s something extra special and super top-secret.”

“What is it?” I said.

“So does that mean you’ll keep all that brain trauma information to yourself?”

I didn’t say anything. He waited.

“You’re okay?” I said.

“I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he said.

“Okay, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Now here’s what I was thinking.”

Mr. Terupt leaned closer still and whispered his idea to me. Man, he wasn’t kidding. This was definitely extra special and super top-secret. I was big-time excited.

A
fter lots of hard work, it was finally here—PowerPoint Presentations Day! The classroom looked terrific. We had spent all morning cleaning, decorating, and arranging so we could share our research in the afternoon. We moved our desks into a big U shape so that Ms. Newberry’s fifth graders could sit on the floor—we had invited them. We also needed that space for the cart holding the LCD projector.

The LCD projector is the thing you plug into the computer and then it broadcasts the monitor image wherever you point it. We planned to aim it at the front of the room, where we had the white screen pulled down. Our school owned one LCD projector, which was kept in the library and traveled from room to room on a black cart. Mr. Terupt sent me and Peter to get it.

Getting the equipment was a piece of cake. No need for celebration. But our trip back to the classroom ended with fireworks.

“Here, Danielle. You carry this.” Peter handed me the LCD projector. It wasn’t heavy, but it was a very expensive item. “Watch this,” he said.

The cart was made of hard plastic. It had three shelves, one on top, one in the middle, and one close to the floor, just above the wheels. A side of the top shelf consisted of a strip of outlets with an attached electrical cord. This was so you could plug the cart into a wall outlet and the LCD projector into the cart. When not in use, the cord was wrapped around a couple of hooks.

Peter grabbed on to the sides of the top shelf and placed his feet on the bottom one.

“Peter, what are you going to do? I don’t think this is—”

With one foot he pushed off the ground several times like you would on a scooter. He leaned forward and zipped down the hall, heading straight for a declining ramp. Once he got there, Peter picked up speed and sailed straight down. I’ll admit, it looked like fun, but on the other end of the building, closer to the annex, there was a much longer and steeper downward slope.

“I don’t think you should ride down this ramp, Peter. It’s too big. It’s not safe,” I warned him.

He didn’t listen. Anna had told me that Peter didn’t like to take advice from girls. It was too bad he didn’t learn his lesson the first time he ignored one of us. Instead he got a running start and flew down the hall. And even though Peter traveled at breakneck speed, everything that happened next felt like slow motion.

The black electrical cord slowly uncoiled. The dangling end fell closer and closer to the ground. Then, in a flash,
one of the wheels grabbed the plug and swallowed it. The cart slammed to an instant stop and Peter was launched over the top. He hit the ground and rolled right into the person who happened to be coming around the corner at the most perfectly terrible time.

Mrs. Williams had a talent for perfectly terrible timing. The sudden collision knocked her to the ground and her momentum carried her legs up and back over her head. How many kids actually got to see their principal’s underwear twice? I had a clear shot right up her skirt. And this time it wasn’t innocent flowered underwear. Mrs. Williams needed to go to confession for wearing those things.

I rushed over to help her up. Mrs. Williams brushed herself off and smoothed her clothes. Then she looked at us. “Well, Peter, I’m happy to see you’re having fun again.” And that was it.

I don’t think Mrs. Williams had the heart to discipline Peter. It was still too soon after last winter. Someone else and there would have been consequences. But not Peter. Not yet. He was still healing. I understood, but I wondered how Peter felt about it.

Dear God
,

Thank you for not letting anything go terribly wrong with the cart. Crashing into Mrs. Williams was bad, but thank you for not letting anyone get seriously injured. I don’t think any of us could deal with another tragedy just yet. Amen
.