EMILY DICKINSON
I somehow survived round one at North Ridge yesterday. Today, Mom shoves me back in the ring for round two. We have a horrible meeting with the guidance counselor in the morning, but thankfully first period whizzes by in a blur of formulas and numbers. My math teacher gets my name right today and is a wee bit less turnip-y.
Chatham sits beside me in second period. I appreciate he’s trying to be nice and make me feel welcome, but I hope he’s not sitting beside me out of pity.
“Do you like North Ridge?” he asks just as the bell rings.
“Better than Shermer High School and Principal Rooney.” I smile, trying to sound witty but having a hard time concentrating. My mind’s still back in the counselor’s office.
He studies my face a second, then grins. “Nice. Ferris Bueller. You know the classics.”
I relax a little. This conversation seems safe enough. I can hold my own when it comes to all things movie related. I just don’t want him—or anyone else—to start asking a lot of questions about me that might lead them to my disability.
I never really thought of myself as disabled. Sick, maybe, but not disabled. But when Mom and I met with the guidance counselor again this morning, he said something about scheduling a meeting to discuss my Individualized Education Plan. As if I don’t have enough problems to deal with, apparently I’m also special ed.
It’s just one more reason I’m furious Mom betrayed me and sent me here. She used to be on my side, until Dr. Wellesley started fussing about me being isolated and disconnected. He wasn’t worried about homeschool so much as the fact I’m an only child and not involved in any activities or anything. I should have made more of an effort to get out of the house. I should’ve known better than to spend a whole week in my pj’s. That was some sort of last straw. I crossed an invisible line that resulted in more therapy sessions and then . . . this.
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off isn’t as intelligent as Dead Poets Society. But still . . .” Chatham interrupts my thinking.
I can’t focus on my anger any longer because he just spoke three of the most mesmerizing words in the English language: Dead Poets Society. Now that’s a modern cinematic classic.
I’m about to comment on his good taste when the girl with purple hair interrupts us. “Hey, Big Chat.”
“What’s up, Jules?” he asks.
“I need a quote for journalism about the game Friday.” She nods at me.
“I’ll come up with something after class. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” She gives me another nod before she strolls back toward her skinny-jeaned friends near the whiteboard.
When Chatham turns back to me, the Dead Poets Society moment has passed. He fidgets with his mechanical pencil. “You shouldn’t have had to take the quiz yesterday.”
I shrug. It wasn’t a big deal. “Ms. Ringgold said it wouldn’t count. She’ll just use it like a pretest.”
He clicks lead in and out of his pencil, over and over, like some kind of nervous tic. What could be making him anxious? “Cool. How do you think you did?”
“Okay, I guess.” I study an old pair of initials carved into the desktop. The multiple-choice part of the test was easy, and the written section required only minimal thought, but I’m not advertising that fact. Smart kids don’t usually fare well in movies. It seems safer to blend in for a while than to draw attention to my IQ.
“Really?” He sits up when Ms. Ringgold enters the room with a stack of papers cradled in her arm. “How do you know all those authors and what they wrote?”
“I like to read,” I answer, which is true. It’s also the safest pastime in the universe, second only to watching paint dry.
But he’s not listening. He’s tracking Ms. Ringgold with his eyes.
She walks to the front of the room, turning to face us. Frizzy red hair frames her cheeks. “Guys, you know I love you, but these grades are horrific.”
A chorus of groans erupts. I glance at Chatham, who’s wiping his hands on his cargo shorts.
“If you made lower than a seventy and if you come in for morning tutoring, I’ll replace this quiz grade with your next one.”
A couple of people sigh. Chatham was right about Ms. Ringgold. I like her. Other than my dad, I’ve never known adults who talk to kids like we’re real people.
She hands a paper to Maddie, the girl Chatham introduced me to yesterday in the hall. “Who made the highest grade?” Maddie leans forward expectantly.
Ms. Ringgold remains silent as she slides a paper facedown onto Chatham’s desk. He lifts one corner, and I see a flash of red ink that looks like the number twenty-seven. Do teachers give grades that low? From the look on his face, they must. His jaw tightens, a tendon popping on the side of his neck as he crumples his quiz. Well, that kind of tarnishes my vision of his shiny life . . . and means several of my favorite movies got the charmed-athlete stereotype all wrong.
She returns another paper before making her way toward me. She beams and pauses dramatically. “Our new student made a ninety-nine, the highest grade in the class.”
And there goes my invisibility cloak. Crap. Every head in the room turns to check me out. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Chatham’s eyes bulging. I stare down at my paper, hiding behind my hair.
“We’re so happy to have you, Emilie,” Ms. Ringgold gushes before moving on to the next person.
I don’t hear anything anyone says for the rest of the class period as I wait for the bell to ring. For forty-three minutes, I study the floor, the ceiling, my pencil, anything but faces. Instead, I read some of the quotes Ms. Ringgold has posted around the room. They match her personality and the violets blooming on her windowsill—all upbeat and inspiring.
I pause at the oversized words of Henry David Thoreau written in calligraphy above her head: Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. This guy left all his worldly concerns behind to live alone in nature for two years, which sounds kind of appealing, if you ask me. I’d gladly trade the unknowns of public school for a tent and swarms of mosquitoes as long as I could have Hitch and my books.
Ms. Ringgold’s voice rises, interrupting my visions of s’mores and roasted hot dogs. Her hands flutter excitedly when she starts talking about poetry. I try to imagine what she was like as a teenager. Like me, she probably lived at the library with her nose stuck in a book.
When the bell interrupts her lecture, I grab my binder and sling my backpack over my shoulder, ready to bolt. But Chatham stops me before I can escape.
“Emilie, wait.” He touches my elbow with his hand. “It looks like you survived your first quiz.” He flashes me a smile, seemingly recovered from the shock of his failing grade.
“Yeah.” For one second, I lose myself in that smile. My heart floats like the hang gliders over the dunes behind my house. If anyone looks at my chest, they’ll see my heart swelling beneath my black T-shirt.
“Hey, listen. I could use a little help. I’m . . . failing Ms. Ringgold’s class.” He looks away for a second. “If I don’t bring up my grade, Coach Carnes is going to put me on probation.”
That sucks, but I don’t see where I come into the equation.
Then he raises his eyebrows, his expression hopeful. “You want to be my tutor?”
Ugh. I rack my brain for a quick excuse, but my mind is blank. As I stand there panicking, an artsy-looking girl with platinum hair walks up behind Chatham. She’s Tinker Bell without the fairy costume. Instead, she wears flip-flops and a soft button-down with paint splattered on the sleeves tied at her waist.
Thank goodness—a distraction.
“Hey, Ayla.” Chatham glances over his shoulder. “Have you met Emilie?”
“I have now.” She offers a fine-boned hand, perfect for painting or pottery or whatever creative hobby she enjoys. “So you’re some kind of literary prodigy, huh?”
“H-h-hardly,” I stutter, eyes darting, looking for an escape.
“Yeah, and she’s my tutor.” Chatham grins at me, blue eyes twinkling. I open my mouth to say no, I’m not, but nothing happens. My voice fails me. My big brain fails me too.
“That’s nice.” Ayla nods, transferring her binders from one arm to the other. “So you’re nice and smart. Be sure to count tutoring Chatham here as your community service for the year.” She winks at me encouragingly.
That’s the problem with never speaking up. A voice is like a muscle, and mine must be all flab, because I don’t have the strength to tell Chatham no, especially not in front of this girl who thinks I’m kind and intelligent.
So I just smile and say nothing at all.