Out of My Mind (9 page)

The teacher looked around the room, expectation on her face, I guess hoping that somebody would volunteer to take me. At that moment I would have given
anything to be back in our bluebird room instead of sitting there with thirty kids staring at me.

Finally, a girl got up out of her seat and walked over to my chair. She squatted down and looked me directly in the face. Then she smiled. It was the girl with the long hair who had frowned at her friends for laughing. “I’m Rose,” she said, her voice soft.

I smiled back, and I tried really hard not to kick or grunt or make a noise that would scare her away. I held my breath and thought about calm, quiet things, like ocean waves. It worked. I inhaled deeply and slowly, then pointed on my board to
Thank you
. Rose seemed to understand.

I showed her I could power my own chair, and I rolled to where she’d been sitting. We sat together for the rest of that class. And I didn’t do a single embarrassing thing! It ended way too soon.

But ever since, every Wednesday, our little class of outcasts gets to join Mrs. Lovelace’s music class. It’s awesome!

Jill, Ashley, and Carl eventually became a part of the group. Each one of us has been assigned a “buddy” to sit next to and interact with.

Once they met her, all the girls rushed to be Ashley’s buddy. I think it’s like playing with a pretty little doll for them, but Ashley seems to like the attention.

Claire and Molly eventually got their chairs returned, but they haven’t chosen to be buddies for anybody yet. That’s fine with me.

Elizabeth and Jessica have stuck with Gloria and Maria. Jill sits contentedly next to a girl named Aster Cheng. Rodney actually comes over at recess and talks to Freddy. Sometimes he pushes Freddy really fast in his chair. Freddy loves that.

And I get to sit with Rose every single Wednesday. On Tuesday, I can hardly sleep because I’m so excited. I make my mother pick out my nicest clothes on Wednesday morning—cool outfits like the other kids wear. I screech at her until she gets just the right combination. I make sure she brushes my teeth so my breath won’t stink.

I think about Rose all the time. I worry that she will change her mind and not like me. But Rose talks to me like I understand, and she tries to figure out what I’m saying as well. One day I pointed to
new
and
shoes
and
nice
on my communication board, then down to her feet, to let her know that I had noticed she got new sneakers and that I liked them. At first she seemed surprised that I could do this. Especially since it sometimes takes me a long time to make my thoughts make sense using my board. One day I pointed to
music
and
bad
and
stinky
, then I started laughing. Rose didn’t get it at
first. So I pointed to the words again, then pointed to Mrs. Lovelace, who was playing some kind of jazz music on the CD player. I’m like Mom—not a big jazz fan; it confuses me because it doesn’t have a tune.

Rose finally figured it out and said, “Oh! You don’t like jazz? Me neither!” We both laughed so hard, Mrs. Lovelace had to put her finger to her lips to tell us to hush. Never in my life have I had a teacher tell me to be quiet because I was talking to somebody in class! It was the best feeling in the world! I felt like the rest of the kids.

Rose tells me secrets sometimes. I know she bites her fingernails, and she hates milk. She goes to church every Sunday but falls asleep until it’s over. Me too. She has a younger sister just like I do. She even likes country music. Sometimes she tells me about trips to the mall with her friends.

It would be so tight to be able to do that.

By the end of October the inclusion program has been expanded. Maria and Jill have been added to art and gym classes, and Freddy and Willy go to science. Me— it’s the first time I’ve ever gotten to change classes for different subjects in my life!

Now when the bell rings, instead of wondering what’s happening out there in the halls, I’m out there too. It’s awesome. I plow through the crowds in my electric chair like a power mower in thick grass.

Sometimes kids wave or say, “What’s up?” Every once in a while someone will even walk with me to the next class. Cool.

But “inclusion” doesn’t mean I’m included in
everything
. I usually sit in the back of the room, going crazy because I know answers to things and can’t tell anybody.

“What’s the definition of the word ‘dignity’?” one of my teachers asked a few days ago. Of course I knew, so I raised my hand, but the teacher didn’t notice the small movement I’m able to make. And even if she were to call on me, what then? I can’t very well yell out the answers. It’s really frustrating.

During parent conferences earlier this month, my parents came in to meet Mrs. Shannon and the other teachers. Instead of leaving me on my own in a corner somewhere, Mrs. Shannon pulled me into the circle of teachers who are involved in the inclusion program. She is so great!

She patted the arm of my chair and smiled. “This child’s got some serious smarts! She’s going to be our star in this program.”

I did my usual screeching and kicking. I think I would have kissed her if I could, but that would have been pretty sloppy, I guess.

“Well, it’s about time somebody recognizes what we’ve always known,” my dad told Mrs. Shannon. “We really appreciate the opportunity to let her show what she can do.”

Mom was especially pleased to find out I’d been assigned a “mobility assistant”—an aide of my own.

“Finally!” Mom said, relief in her voice. “We’ve been asking for this for years.”

“Budget-bustin’ paperwork. A system that runs on grits instead of good sense. I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Shannon replied, shaking her head. “I’m trying to get all the students in H-5 the services they need. But I smacked an aide for Melody way up on top of my list, so we’ll see how it goes. I’m expecting a wonderful school year!”

So cool,
I tapped on my board.

An aide! Wow. This person’s job would be to take me to classes, sit with me, and help me participate. I wondered what she’d look like. Or maybe I’d get a guy. Would he be young and cute, or old and grumpy?

The very next day my new aide was at school before I was, chatting with Mrs. Shannon in room H-5 as we kids were wheeled in. She came right over to me and took my hand. “Hi, Melody. I’m glad to meet you. My name is Catherine. I go to the university, and I’m gonna be your deals and wheels every day.”

She talked to me like I was just like any other student, not a kid in a wheelchair. I tried not to kick, but it was hard to hold in my excitement.

“Cute T-shirt,” she said as she checked out Tweety
Bird on the front of the new lavender top Mom had bought for me.

I pointed to
thanks
on my board.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked then.

I pointed to
purple
, but then quickly slid my thumb over to
green
. I grinned at her.

“You’re quick, Melody. I can see we both like weird colors. We’re going to get along just fine.” Catherine was dressed in purple tennis shoes, green tights, a purple suede skirt, and the ugliest green sweater I’ve ever seen.

I wanted to tease her about her outfit, but I didn’t want her to think I was mean. After all, I’d just met her. I searched all over my board for a way to jokingly make fun of her clothes, but I couldn’t think of a way to do it. So I gave up. It is
so
hard to say stuff.

So now it’s Catherine who helps me at lunch so I don’t make a mess. And Catherine who reads off the answers I point to on my board. She’s added some more words and phrases to it. And she helped Mrs. Shannon order the books I need to read. She even makes sure the headphones don’t fall off my ears.

The “regular” fifth-grade language arts teacher, Miss Gordon, is not much older than Catherine. She almost explodes with energy and makes books seem like live-action plays. She jumps up on the table. Sometimes
she sings. She lets the class act out parts of stories, and sometimes she even turns books into games.

“Vocabulary bingo!” Miss Gordon announced one morning. “Doughnuts to the winning team!”

As they played, my classmates broke their necks to get the right definition, screamed out answers, and groaned when they messed up. In just half an hour every student in the room knew all twenty vocabulary words. Miss Gordon gave doughnuts to the losing team, too, but the winners got the ones with the chocolate sprinkles.

I knew all of the definitions, but the other kids moved too fast for me. Chocolate would have made a mess of my clothes anyway.

One unusually warm day this week, Miss Gordon brought in fans and spray bottles of water and let us eat Popsicles in class. Orange ones, of course, in honor of Halloween, while she read poems about pumpkins and ghosts. Catherine held my Popsicle for me with a paper towel under my chin. We didn’t spill one drop!

Miss Gordon does other cool things too. Like when she decided the class would read the story of Anne Frank, she had kids take turns squeezing into a small space she had built under a table so they could understand how Anne might have felt. I couldn’t do that, but I got the idea.

And she’s assigned other great books this semester. I’m reading —well, listening to—
Shiloh
by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor and
The Giver
by Lois Lowry. And there’s one called
Tuck Everlasting
—the kid never gets to grow up. Staying a child forever is not as cool as folks may think.

Because of Mrs. V, I could actually read the books. But the print is usually very small, and it’s hard for my eyes to stay on the right line. And nobody has figured out the best way for me to hold on to a book without it falling on the floor a million times, so I usually choose the audiobook instead of the written version.

I even take tests now! Catherine reads me the questions, and I point to the answers on the sheets she places on my tray. I pass every single test, and she doesn’t help me one single bit. I would probably get 100 percent on each one, but some of the questions require long answers I just can’t explain with the words on my board.

One time, in spelling, Miss Gordon read the words aloud, and I pointed to the letters on my board. Catherine wrote down what I pointed to so I could follow along with the test. Claire and Molly, who are always watching me, it feels like, began to complain.

“It’s not fair!” Claire cried, waving her hand to get Miss Gordon’s attention.

“Catherine cheats for her!” Molly added.

What
is
it with those two? It’s like they’re jealous of me or something. And that’s just plain crazy.

At the same time, I realized that they actually thought I had it easier! That sure was a first.

Last Monday morning Miss Gordon told the class, “As some of you may know, because I do this every year, our long-range fifth-grade project this year is our biography unit. We will read the biographies of famous people, do a report on a famous person of your choosing, and each of you will also write your own autobiography.”

“Well, it’s gotta be short. What can you do in eleven years?” Connor, the big kid, shouted out. Everybody laughed.

“In your case, Connor,” Miss Gordon replied, “I’m sure you’ll think of way too much.”

“Can I do my report on the guy who invented hamburgers?” Connor asked to more laughter.

“I doubt if we know who made the first burger, but you
can
do your report on the person who founded McDonald’s. He got rich off hamburgers and fries.”

“Awesome. My kind of dude,” Connor said.

Rose raised her hand. I love the fact that she’s in all my inclusion classes. “Miss Gordon, when is all this due?”

Rose is the type of student who takes all kinds of
notes in a bright red spiral planner and never misses a homework assignment.

“Relax, Rose. We’ve got until the end of May, and I’ll walk you through each segment, one step at a time. Tomorrow we’ll talk about how to write your memories.”

Rose seemed satisfied, but I noticed she scribbled almost a whole page in her notebook. I’d give anything to do that. But working on stuff the teachers in the regular classes assign is just plain awesome.

History class is even better than language arts class, even though the teacher, a man named Mr. Dimming, has none of Miss Gordon’s spark. Balding and pudgy, he’s been teaching at the school for over twenty years, and kids say he’s never been absent—not even once. Clearly, he loves what he does. His car is always in the parking lot when our bus rolls in and always there when we leave for the day. He dresses like a TV preacher—in three-piece suits with vests most days. I’ve never seen him without a crisp white shirt and a colorful tie. I wonder if his wife picks them out—some of them are really sharp.

Mr. D loves history. He can quote facts and dates and wars and generals like somebody on a game show. I bet he could win on
Jeopardy
.

The other students don’t seem to like Mr. Dimming much. They call him “Dimwit Dimming” behind his
back. I think that’s sorta mean because Mr. D is really smart—smart enough to run the quiz team.

When Mr. Dimming got to American presidents in class, I rocked! He gave the students a list of presidents and all their vice presidents and told us there would be a test in a week. Catherine read the names to me several times.

“I’ve never even heard of some of these men,” she admitted to me as we went over the list the first time. “Hannibal Hamlin was Abraham Lincoln’s first vice president. Who knew?”

I memorized them all.

When Mr. Dimming gave the test, all I had to do was point to the right answers. He checked to make sure that Catherine wasn’t helping me. I even finished before some of the others.

While Mr. D was returning the test papers, he gave the class a few minutes of free time to sharpen pencils or stretch or talk. I was surprised to see Rose walking toward my desk.

“How did you do on the test, Melody?” she asked. “I only got a seventy-five.” She looked disappointed.