EMILY DICKINSON
Excellent.” Ms. Ringgold waves me and Chatham to the front. She scurries to her desk, turning on the projector and pulling up the slideshow we emailed her last week.
Chatham waits for Hitch and me to make our way up the tight row before following us. We take our places—front and center, Hitch on my left, Chatham on my right. I try to swallow, but my dry throat constricts. Hitch sits beside me, his leash slippery in my palm.
I’m supposed to start with Dickinson’s biography. Chatham’s going to analyze a poem. We’re supposed to close with a famous quotation or short reading.
The clock above the board behind us ticks. Hitch nudges my trembling thigh, shaking me out of my deep freeze. My mouth opens. “Emily Dickinson is probably America’s most famous female poet. Partially because of her unique voice and style. Partially because of the mystery surrounding her reclusive nature.”
Ayla perches on the edge of her chair. Ms. Ringgold clicks her keyboard, and a grainy black-and-white photo of a plain woman appears on the screen, accompanied by a bulleted list of biographical information. Date of birth—1830. Date of death—1886. Education—Mount Holyoke and Amherst Colleges.
The knots in my throat and stomach loosen as I talk. A girl I don’t know in the middle row smiles. I’m pretty sure I make eye contact with a guy in the back.
Ms. Ringgold forwards to the next slide. I’m supposed to be talking about Dickinson’s personal life—how she was called “The Myth” by her neighbors because she chose to stay secluded in her father’s home and entertained very few visitors. But I go rebel. Before I can stop myself, I’m digging into rumors surrounding her health.
“A popular biography published in two thousand and ten suggested she might have suffered from epilepsy.” I pause, waiting for my peers to acknowledge me. The second hand ticks. Maddie makes eye contact. The girls, who have been following her lead, look up. “Some of you might have seen what epilepsy looks like if you were at the game Thursday.”
No one moves. Even Ms. Ringgold is frozen—speechless.
“I have seizures.” There, I said it. I inhale, pausing to choose each work carefully. “I’m not mentally disabled. I’m not possessed by demons.” My voice rises. “And, no, I’m not contagious.
“It’s like an electrical disturbance in the wiring of my brain. That’s it. Otherwise, I’m normal. And I don’t want to lock myself away from the world like Emily Dickinson because my epilepsy makes me and other people feel uncomfortable. Not anymore.”
Chatham reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. I square my shoulders.
“I want to be in control.” My voice shakes. Hitch nuzzles his head under my free hand, encouraging me. “I want to be a part of this school. If you’re interested, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, so you don’t have to be afraid of me or anyone else who has epilepsy.”
I’ve laid my heart on the line, and all it’s earned me is a bunch of blank stares.
Chatham releases my hand. “I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t feel like talking about meter or syntax after that.” He chuckles, but his weak attempt at humor sails over the heads of the audience.
Everyone looks to Ms. Ringgold. She blinks several times, presses her lips into a thin line, and shakes her head. I’m pretty sure it’s not the fluorescent lighting that’s making her eyes water.
“Then let’s close with an excerpt from our favorite poem.” Chatham steps toward the class, sweeping an open arm in my direction. The boy knows how to work a room.
All eyes are on me. My lips part. “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers—” My voice shakes. I start over.
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all.”
I finish loud and strong, hoping for some positive reinforcement—maybe a few smiles or a thumbs-up. But my classmates just stare.
Tears sting my eyes. My vision blurs. I bite my lip. I absolutely refuse to cry in front of these people. The old Emilie would bolt right about now. The new Emilie stands her ground, glancing around the room. Ayla and I lock eyes, and she smiles.
A slow, methodical, clap-pause-clap sounds to my left. I survey the group for the random applause giver.
It’s Maddie.
Our eyes meet, and she stands, clapping louder and faster. Ayla stands to join her. The rest of the class follows. Chatham wraps his arms around me, his heart beating against mine in an iambic tetrameter that would make Emily Dickinson proud. Hitch barks, and the room erupts in laughter.
Dickinson was a genius. I totally get what she meant. Hope is a thing with feathers. It’s fluttering inside of me right now like hummingbird wings. Maybe that’s what’s been there inside of me all along: hope.
As Chatham, Hitch, and I return to our seats, people pat my back. Someone ruffles Hitch’s fur and congratulates us as we weave our way to the back of the crowded room.
I wish Mom could see this.
Or Dad.
I slide into my seat. The charm bracelet jingles on my wrist. I remember the inscription on the back of the lighthouse.
He will always light our way.
And he did today. He lit my way with industrial strength, thousand-watt bulbs, and I love him.
The class finally settles down, and Ms. Ringgold spends the rest of the period talking about the significance of poetry and prose to enlighten audiences. She keeps referring to how I was able to use Dickinson’s theme of hope to deliver my message today.
With the exception of the near drowning this morning, today has been amazing. In World History, Maddie tells me her cousin has epilepsy. She thought I did a really great thing explaining my seizures to our peers. It’s one more reminder of how self-absorbed I’ve been. Thank God I’ve learned my lesson.
Chatham sits with the lit-mag crew at lunch. Ayla and I make plans to hang out this weekend.
But the highlight of the day is walking out of seventh period with my best friend leading the way in his green-and-red vest and Chatham waiting outside the door to walk me to the car-rider line.
“I could take you home.” He slings my backpack over his right shoulder, pulling me into his side with his left.
I smile. “I know. How ’bout tomorrow? I need to talk to my mom today.”
We push through the front doors. She’s first in line.
Chatham kisses me on the cheek in front of God and everyone. My heart beats out a little happy dance inside my chest. I could still seize at school or with Chatham, but somehow I feel like now that my secret’s out in the open, I can handle it if I do.
He opens both passenger-side doors for me and Hitch and greets Mom.
“Thanks, Chatham.” She leans across the console to speak to him.
“Any time.” He shuts the door.
I roll down the window. “Call me later. Okay?”
“Okay.” He waves as we’re pulling away.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, turning left onto the bypass.
Hitch lays down on the backseat, exhausted from watching over me all day.
“Great.” I turn toward her in my seat. “The bracelet helped.”
She keeps her eyes on the road but takes one hand off the steering wheel to squeeze my arm. “Good.”
The sun gleams on the hood of the car. I inhale, basking in the moment. The world is full of opportunity, like the open sea. My heart is light—lighter than it’s been in ages—floating on a wave of possibility.
Mom and I needed to reset our course. Now that we have, we’re ready to buoy one another, ready to dive back into life—ready to swim.