Fish in a Tree (10 page)

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I run into the bathroom and hide in the stall at the
end. I stand, pressing myself up against the wall. Embarrassed and humiliated and never wanting to go back.

The door opens and someone comes in.

“You okay?” Keisha asks.

“
No.
I’m
not.
”

“You won an award. Who in the world runs from an award? I’d think you’d be happy.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t win for
real.
”

“What are you talking about?” she asks. “Of course you did. I was there.”

“No. Trust me. I didn’t. He just . . . He’s just trying to be nice.”

“Why don’t you come out of there?”

“You don’t understand. Just go away.”

“You’re right, Ally. I don’t understand. I don’t know why you’re mad about an award.”

I feel so much worse than just mad. “Look,” I say. “When you get on your bike, don’t you expect it to hold you up? Not fall apart when you pedal?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Imagine if every single time you got on your bike, you had to worry that the wheels would come off. And every time you ride, they do. But you still have to ride. Every day. And then you have to watch everyone watch you as the bike goes to pieces underneath you. With everyone thinking that it’s your fault and you’re the worst bike rider in the world.”

“Why in the world are you talking about bikes and wheels coming off?”

“My brain,” I say, leaning my forehead against the cold wall. “My brain will never do what I want it to do.”

“C’mon. It’s not like your brain is broken. So you’re not the best speller. So what? Your brain seems fine to me.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like to be different than everyone else.”

“
Wait.
Have you noticed how different I look than everyone else in our class?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Look, you’re my friend. The best friend I have here. If you want to say things like that and make it hard to be your friend, then . . . well, I’ll just wait for you to come to your senses.”

Oh.

“You’re talking like a fool saying I don’t understand what it’s like to be different. But the thing is . . . I’m only different to the people who see with the wrong eyes. And I don’t care what people like that think.”

I laugh a little. “Albert says that the problem is that white people don’t have enough melanin. He says that’s the thing that makes human skin darker.”

“Well, that boy is bonkers, but he is a smart one.” She sounds happy. “Now, come on out.”

I lean against the wall for a minute more because it’s easier to say my next thing without seeing anyone. It comes from a place so deep inside, it’s like it’s coming out of the ground. “I just . . . I just want to fit in for once. I mean, I really do. Just to be the same as everyone else.”

Keisha doesn’t answer for a while. “Look. You don’t fit in. I don’t fit in. Albert doesn’t fit in, either. Who says who fits in, anyway? People like Shay? That girl is just mean. Who cares what she thinks?”

The stall door is still closed, but I smile as I imagine Keisha’s expression. I’m lucky to have her.

“Come on, Ally. Who wants to fit in with people like Shay and her worse-than-awful friends? Thankfully we’ll never fit in with people like that.” Keisha laughs again. “One thing’s for sure. We’re not gonna fit in, but we’re gonna stand out. All three of us. You wait and see. You’re going to be a famous artist and Albert is going to cure cancer or invent talking fish or something.”

“Talking fish? What would they say? ‘Please don’t fry me’?” I push the door open, and her face is just like I imagined. “And you’re going to have a big baking business, right?”

“Maybe in my spare time. I’m also going to rule the world.”

I laugh. Then swallow hard. “Thanks for being my friend, Keisha.”

“Don’t go thanking me for that. Thank me for this: I’m going to go tell Shay she has a spot on the back of her fancy riding jacket so we can watch her try to look. Then we can eat that ice cream that you won.”

H
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Keisha invites Albert and me over to her house for
a “surprise.” When I arrive, Albert is already there and Keisha is wearing a baker’s hat and apron.

“So, when do we eat?” Albert asks.

“No free ride here, Albert. We have to cook first,” Keisha says, putting a cookbook on the table.

Albert seems disappointed.

“You’ll be able to eat. Don’t worry. And in the meantime, think of this as a science experiment. So it’s two of your most favorite things, Albert.”

I am pretty happy until she opens the cookbook and slides it over to me. “You’re in charge.”

“Of what?”

“The recipe! What do you think?”

What? Is she kidding?

“And Albert, you can be in charge of rolling the dough. Going to try cookie dough today to see if the letters cook at a similar rate to cake.”

I’m freaking out over having to be in charge of the book. I’d rather be in charge of teaching cats to play hockey.

And my mind spins into
that
mind movie. When I start laughing, Keisha asks me what I’m doing. I have to shrug. Push the picture of a goalie cat with skates and a mouth guard out of my head.

“
Ally?
” Keisha pokes me.

“Yeah?”

“I asked, what’s the first thing?”

Albert appears next to me. “I’d rather do the book. You want to trade, Ally? You can roll out the dough.”

“Sure, Albert. If that’s what you’d rather do, I don’t mind switching.”

Albert begins reading the ingredients while I roll out the cookie dough. It’s sticky and hard to roll. Keisha points to a package of flour. “Hey, sprinkle some of that on.”

I manage to get the dough rolled out, but I have my doubts about all of this. I look at the alphabet cookie cutters she uses to make letters. “What do you want me to spell?”

“Well, the letters are kind of big for cupcakes, so it can only be three-letter words. Spell whatever you want.”

I spell “cow” because it’s the first word I think of. Then we stand the letters up in the bottom of each cupcake mold and cover them with batter.

Once Keisha slides the first batch into the oven, Albert asks, “Can I have some milk?”

Keisha shrugs. “Sure,” she says, taking a glass and filling it.

Albert gulps it all down and asks, “May I possibly have some more? We switched to water at home. I really miss milk.”

She hands him the gallon. “Help yourself.”

He sits with the milk and wraps his arm around it like he’s protecting it.

I laugh. “You’re not getting that back, Keisha, I hope you know.”

“I have a question,” Albert says after licking the milk from his lips. “If you spell ‘cow’ inside a cupcake, can a vegetarian eat it?”

“Boy,” Keisha says. “You really take everything seriously, don’t you?”

“Hey!” I turn to the oven. “Is it supposed to be smoking like that?”

Keisha pulls on a mitt. When she opens the door, smoke fills the kitchen. The cupcakes have oozed all over the tops of the pans and fallen on the bottom of the oven. It’s a mess.

She groans. “Oh, man!”

“You should wait until the oven cools before you wipe it,” Albert says.

Keisha turns to him. “Yeah. Thanks, Albert.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

She’s disappointed that cookie dough will not work for letters. She and Albert figure out that the cookie dough expanded more than we thought it would and that’s why it made such a mess.

But I just keep thinking that whenever I write something, it turns into a big mess.

D
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“Ally?” Mr. Daniels calls me to him as the classroom
empties for lunch.

“Yeah?” I ask, heading over.

“So, I’ve been thinking a lot about some of the answers you give during discussions. I love it when you share your opinions.”

“Thanks,” I say, wondering why he really called me up here.

“And I loved your thoughts on Roy G. Biv. I overheard you asking Suki about her grandfather and comparing him to yours. Well, Ally . . . I am impressed by you.”

I shrug. What am I going to say? That he’s crazy if he thinks I have anything for brains but a pail full of grasshoppers?

“Really. You have some wonderful gifts. And your explanation of
lonely
and
alone.
That was clever.”

I glance up at him but stare at my shoes by the time I answer. “That was just because I know about those words,
alone
and
lonely,
that’s all. It was just an unfortunate stroke of luck.”

He laughs. “An unfortunate stroke of luck, huh?”

I nod.

“I see.”

Yeah.

“Ally, how many kids your age use phrases like ‘unfortunate stroke of luck’?”

I feel like a fish in a wire cage rather than a tank. “Can I go to lunch now?”

“Not just yet. I’m wondering. Do you ever think one word but a different one comes out of your mouth?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

“Does reading sometimes give you headaches?”

I nod, more nervous.

“When you look at letters, do they ever seem to move?”

I’m confused. “Of course they do.”

“They do?” He is wide-eyed.

I nod but I’m not sure if I should.

He just looks me for a while, and I think I know how Keisha’s cupcakes feel when she watches them in the oven.

“One more question,” he says.

I shift my weight.

“Have you ever heard of a game called chess?”

“Yeah!” I say, happier. “It’s from
Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking-Glass.
My grandpa read it to me a gazillion times. It’s the game that uses a checkerboard and the castle pieces, right?”

He brightens. “Yeah. That’s the one. Do you know how to play?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want to learn?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “I think you’d like chess. I could show you how to play after school. You know, if you’d like.”

“I’d have to stay after?”

He thinks for a second. “Well, I was thinking of starting a chess club. I thought you could come first so I could teach you to play. If it works out well, we could invite other kids. It might be fun. Something different.”

It’s not like I was born yesterday. I know he’s up to something. Teachers don’t volunteer to stay after school to play games. I kind of want to say yes because Mr. Daniels is cool and I don’t think there is any reading stuff in chess. And my grandpa would have liked to know I could play. But it scares me. “Well, I don’t think so. But thanks anyway.”

He seems disappointed. I turn to go.

“How about if I excuse you from homework for learning how to play?”

I stop like my feet are strapped to thousand-pound blocks. Did he just say that? I turn around. “What’s the catch?” I ask.

“No catch. If you stay after to learn chess for a few days, I’ll excuse you from homework on the days you stay.”

“Am I going to have to write a paper or something?”

“No papers. Promise.”

“I just come in here and play a game and I get out of homework? No catch?”

“Well, you can’t tell anyone in the class. I’ll call your mom about it, though.” He holds his hand out to shake. “We have a deal, then?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

I can’t say no to that deal. Homework is only one step above death.

I’m so happy about skipping some homework that I’ll keep remembering it and being happy over and over again.

But what really gets me is that in order for Mr. Daniels to come up with this plan, he must have thought of me outside of school—when he didn’t have to think of me. I bet other teachers have never let me sit in their head one second longer than they had to.

F
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Albert, Keisha, and I get off the bus for our class
trip to the Noah Webster House. With no written work today, I’m thinking it will be a silver dollar day.

Albert starts collecting acorns from the ground and filling his pockets. I’m tempted to ask why, but I’m afraid the answer will take an hour.

Oliver picks up acorns and whips them at the trees. Max joins in. Max hits a tree every time. Oliver, not so much. Mr. Daniels walks over and says something to make them stop.

I pick an acorn up, too, and it reminds me of a little Frenchman with a pointed chin. Perfectly shaped head and a little beret. I name him Pierre and stick him in my pocket. I decide that I’ll do a drawing of him later. Maybe dancing with a lady at the Eiffel Tower. My grandpa always said he was going to take me to see it.

Albert’s pockets are bulging by the time we line up to go inside. Shay is rolling her eyes at him and laughing. When Mr. Daniels looks in her direction, she stops like she has an on/off switch. When he looks away, she laughs at Albert again.

“Don’t laugh at him,” I say.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll laugh at
you.
”

“I don’t care if you laugh at me.”

Albert just stands there, looking a little lost.

“Albert,” I whisper. “Why won’t you tell them to go jump in a lake or at least to leave you alone?”

“Albert.” Keisha talks to him in her you-better-listen-to-me voice. “Hunched over and silent is no way to meet the world.”

Albert bends over, picking up more acorns. He looks up at us. “It isn’t logical,” he says. “It will only let them know it bothers me.”

“So it
does
bother you?” I ask.

He stands up straight. “Well, no one likes to be insulted. But let’s say that my worry about Shay is a drop of water in the ocean compared to my other worry right now.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“These acorns,” he says, holding one up. “This green coloring on the side looks like moss, but I am concerned that it is actually a fungus. If this is the case, all of these trees may be in danger. I have collected samples and will do further research.”

I lean in and look at the acorn. I like how Albert cares and is able to see things that other people wouldn’t. But I wish Albert would care about himself as much as the scientific world.

Mr. Daniels puts us into groups. I pray that I end up in his group or with Keisha and Albert. I get part of my wish and am in a group with Albert. Mr. Daniels is with a bunch of boys, including Oliver and Max.

We get the drill about behaving, things being old, and how we’re not supposed to touch them. We break into our groups and head upstairs and into a bedroom.

“So,” our guide says, straightening her bonnet. “Does anyone know where the term
sleep tight
came from?”

Albert raises his hand and she calls on him with a smile.

Albert points to the underside of the bed. “Mattresses were held up with rope so they were off the floor and away from the bugs. When the mattresses would sag, they’d tighten the ropes, making the bed more comfortable. Hence the saying,
sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
”

“Well, if anyone would know about bedbugs, he would,” Shay whispers.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the fireplace is big enough to stand in. The lady tells us that girls didn’t go to school as much as boys—that they typically stayed home to learn how to take care of the house. My mind bites into that and I can’t stop thinking about it.

No more school.

Ever.

I lean over. “Albert, do you think that time travel is possible?”

He whispers, “Albert Einstein had extensive theories on its possibilities. And I certainly wouldn’t argue with
him.
”

“Me neither,” I say to him. “How do you think I would look in one of those dresses and bonnets?”

He looks puzzled.

Finally, we go to a colonial schoolroom and join the rest of our class.

A lady talks about what a
visionary
Noah Webster was to create the first American spellers and dictionaries. Before that, people used to just make up spellings—there were no right or wrong ways to spell.

Some visionary. This spelling stuff is all
his
fault, since he’s the one who got it in his head that we all needed to spell the same way.

I’m thinking Noah Webster was a scoundrel and they should have put him in jail for this.

The lady tells us it took him twenty years to write the dictionary, and he also wrote the first schoolbooks and grammar books. I think he must have been tipped off his rocker, as my grandpa used to say.

“Students in colonial times didn’t use paper and pencils like you do now.” The lady holds up a little chalkboard in a wooden frame. “They used slates like these and wrote their answers down to show their teacher.” She passes out slates, which are fun to write on. I draw a picture of Pierre with his beret and wish I had some green chalk to add a little smudge in honor of Albert.

The woman takes out a pointed white hat. “Now, this is something teachers began to use in schools toward the end of Noah Webster’s life. It is called a dunce cap. As a punishment for misbehavior, a child would have to wear it and stand in the corner facing the wall.”

I hear giggling. Shay is showing her slate to a bunch of other kids.

There’s a head wearing a dunce hat and “Ally” is written underneath.

“What’s the fuss about?” the guide asks as she walks over. Then she turns to them. “That isn’t very nice. Erase that, please.”

I stand, willing the tears that come to my eyes to stop. Knowing they will only give everyone more to make fun of.

“Are you all right?” the guide asks me.

Everyone is quiet now. They are all watching me. It’s worse than the laughing. So I run out.

Out of the room and out of the museum. A woman calls to me, but I keep going. Out the door and around the back. Across the lawn of a beautiful light green house. I find a swing set, which reminds me of my grandpa, and how we spent hours on them at the park. I try to think about what he’d say now and am sad that it’s hard for me to remember his voice exactly.

My hands slide down the chains as I sit on the seat, thinking of when I was little. When my world wasn’t such a heavy place. I used to love to swing as high as I could—leaning back, reaching for a bright blue sky with my feet—and it made me feel like I could do anything. Reach anything.

I lean my cheek against the cool chain, feeling like I can’t reach anything anymore. Then the tears come.

And then, standing in front of me, are feet. The shoes on them belong to Mr. Daniels.

He stands for a while without saying anything until he finally says my name. All I can do to respond is sniff.

“Can you tell me what happened in there?”

I don’t know what to say. Such a small question and such a giant answer. “Please just leave me alone.”

He takes a couple of steps away and stays quiet for a bit. Then he says, “My brother and I used to love to write in the sand on the beach. When my family would go to Maine.”

I don’t answer him.

Then he picks up a stick and writes something in the dirt under the swing next to me. More words. Why can’t I ever get away from words?

He turns toward me and I stare at his knees. “Ally,” he says, holding out the stick, “do you want to write something?”

I shake my head. I think of flying on swings through bright blue skies and away from words like
dumb
and
freak
and
loser.

He squats down in front of me. “I’m sorry about whatever it was that upset you. Let me help.”

I take a deep breath, and when I let it all out, the words come with it. “Nobody is ever going to be able to help me. Not ever. They all said I should have a dunce cap and they’re right. That’s the thing. They’re right!”

“Oh my . . . Ally, you actually believe that, don’t you?” I can hear that it’s a shock to him.

I finally look up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you are most certainly
not
dumb, Ally.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not, actually. For one, you are amazing on those bus driver math problems. You’re one of the kids who gets the really harder ones correct.”

I look up into his face with the bright sun behind him and blurt out, “But how come I can’t read?” It’s the first time I’ve ever asked the question out loud. I guess because I am so desperate for an answer.

“Aw, Ally,” he says, “this thing that makes school hard for you . . . I think you might have something called dyslexia. And it means that, although it’s hard for you to read, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb.” He laughs a little. “In fact, you, Ally Nickerson, are far from it. Your brain just figures things out differently than other people.”

I’m different; he’s got that right. But no way am I smart like he says. “You don’t understand.”

“Yeah, Ally, I think I do.” Then he leans in. “And you know what? You’re brave.”

I so want to be brave, but I’m not.

“Coming to school every day, knowing what you’re in for. Knowing school will be hard. And that other kids are going to razz you. And you still come every day and decide that you’re going to try again.”

I stay quiet, just thinking about what he said. Hoping he knows what he’s talking about.

“And you know something else? In some ways, you’re a lot smarter than other kids. You can also do things they can’t. For one, you’re an amazing artist. Those drawings of yours! Wow, Ally. You’ve got talent there. What do you think about that?”

“I think it’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you’re going to die but at least people are going to bring you flowers.’”

He laughs really hard now. “See that? Seriously, Ally. Only smart people say things like that.” His voice drops. “It’s going to be okay, kiddo.”

I have never hoped for something so much as this.

“You and I are going to figure this out together. As a matter of fact, I already spoke to Mrs. Silver and Miss Kessler, the reading consultant at school. I was already planning to call your mom and talk to you tomorrow. We’re going to give you some tests.”

I deflate. “Oh,
no.
Please, no
tests.
”

“Not the tests you’re used to. You’ll see. These are more like puzzles and games than tests, but the results will help us help you.”

I feel like I can look up for the first time.

“You
are
smart, Ally. And you are going to
learn
to
read.
”

A chill runs through my whole body. I don’t have any choice but to believe him, because I can’t go another day thinking things will be like this forever.

I wipe the tears from my face with the back of my hand. He stands up and we start walking back.

Mr. Daniels looks up at that bright blue sky and says, “Now, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? You know, a wise person once said, ‘Everyone is smart in different ways. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life thinking that it’s stupid.’”

I think hard about that. Could it be that simple?

A mind movie flickers in my brain of an angry fish at the bottom of a tree, banging on the trunk with its fins and complaining that it can’t climb it.

I think of a turtle making a sandwich.

A snake playing the violin.

An elephant knitting.

Penguins playing basketball.

An eagle scuba diving.

But mostly I hope with every tiny bit of myself that Mr. Daniels is right about all of this.