The Birth of Super Crip
Read The Birth of Super Crip Online
Authors: Rob J. Quinn
Tags: #bully, #teens, #disability, #cerebral palsy, #super power
The Adventures of Red O’Ryan
Rob J. Quinn
Copyright 2015 Rob J. Quinn
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
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Dedication
To three brothers who treated playing basketball,
football, and baseball, on their knees in the basement like it was
a normal thing to do.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Red closed his locker, the clang of the metal door
being slammed shut coming just before the bell signaling the end of
lunch for juniors. He stopped at his locker once a day after lunch
because he knew he could steal a little extra time in between
periods. Kids with disabilities were always allowed to leave class
a minute or two early to try to get a head start on reaching their
next class before the halls filled with students at the bell. Some
teachers were sticklers about them not leaving too early even if
the lesson ended a few minutes before the bell. But lunch monitors
rarely said anything even if they left as much as five minutes
early, and even then a request to use the restroom always sufficed.
He pushed the lock up, pressing the shackle against the inside of
the hole in the handle of the locker to clamp it down, and he used
his thumb to move the dial away from the final digit of his
combination. He put his book bag over the back of the seat of his
power wheelchair, which most people referred to as a scooter
despite his protests, and turned to head for his next class only to
find Chuck Groslin blocking his way.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Chuck asked. The
football player towered over Red. Chuck’s stocky build was imposing
to most of the kids in school.
Looking up at the familiar crew cut and lettered
jacket that Chuck would wear even on the hottest days of the year,
Red rolled his eyes. “It’s fifth period, Chuck,” he said. “Try to
keep up. I’m going to the same place every time you do this. Social
studies. It’s high school. Pretty much the same schedule every
day.”
“What?” Chuck said again, adding a look of disgust.
“I can’t even understand you when you talk.”
Red felt himself tense up, even feeling slightly
light-headed for a second. Cracks about his speech disability
always got under his skin the most. “So maybe you shouldn’t keep
asking me questions, Einstein,” Red said, dismissing any thoughts
of making light of the daily ritual. The hallways started to fill,
and Red noticed Chuck’s girlfriend approaching him from behind. Red
slowly started to steer his wheelchair past him.
“C’mon, Chuck,” Tara said, trying to gently push him
on his way. “Just go to class.”
Instead, he took a step to his left to block Red’s
path. “Did I give you permission to leave yet?”
Red glared at him, tempted to take a swing at the
football player. “Move,” he growled.
When Chuck just stood there, Red made another attempt
at steering around him. Suddenly, he felt the bully’s hand on his
chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” Chuck asked again,
standing right next to him and leaning down into his face.
A wave of energy surged through Red as he reached out
to grab Chuck’s jacket, but he caught nothing but air. Blinded by
darkness that came and went so fast that he wasn’t sure it
happened, Red suddenly felt light-headed and saw dots everywhere.
He heard a loud bang as if someone had slammed a locker. He caught
a jumbled glimpse of Tara’s bulging eyes as she covered her mouth.
Grabbing the armrest and handlebars of his power chair to steady
himself, he wondered if he was having a seizure, though he’d only
ever seen a couple of his friends have them. Other kids were
pushing against him, a small crowd gathering to see what had
happened.
Finally, his eyes started to focus. Chuck was lying
on the floor with his head against a locker, and Tara was on her
knees beside him trying to offer comfort. Did he slip? Red
wondered. How did he get on the ground? He looked up again and
noticed the other kids were starting to head to class.
Red took the opportunity to finally make his way
around Chuck. His head felt as though it was swirling, almost like
the momentary dizziness he often felt after getting out of a pool,
but it wasn’t going away as fast. He purposely tried to take a deep
breath, getting a good inhale on the second try. Exhaling, he was
pretty sure that whatever he’d just experienced was starting to
pass. It felt as though something was receding from his head. He
didn’t look back at Chuck until he was several feet down the hall.
His tormentor’s eyes looked up at him, seemingly as confused as he
was. Feeling a couple pats on the back, Red vaguely heard kids say,
“Nice job” and “Way to go.” He looked up at them, wondering why
they were congratulating him.
Chapter 2
Though it wasn’t completely unusual for his father to
be home before he got dropped off by the school bus, Red felt a
pang of panic when he saw his dad’s car in the driveway. Red knew
his dad often said that sometimes the sales just weren’t there and
it was time to call it a day. But Red wondered if a call from the
school was what had brought his dad home early.
Red parked his power wheelchair in the garage next to
the folded-up manual wheelchair that sat along the wall by the
door. He was using the manual more and more on family outings
despite his initial reluctance. It was easier than arguing with his
mom because his dad wanted to take his car instead of loading the
power chair into the minivan, and if they had to walk any
significant distance—into a restaurant or church—he wasn’t slowing
everyone down. He hated to admit to himself that he was happy to
have it on a few occasions when they had to park especially far
away from church. However, he drew the line at using the manual
chair in the house, and even Red was surprised when his dad
remained silent after he sternly said
no
to his mom’s
suggestion.
After making the switch to using a power wheelchair
instead of walking in school, something in Red told him that he
needed to draw a line. He couldn’t give any more ground. He had
always walked at Sunshine Lane, the special education school he had
attended until he was thirteen when he was finally mainstreamed.
The first time that using a power chair came up, he thought it was
a joke. It was stupid, he thought. Kids with muscular dystrophy or
who had more involvement from cerebral palsy used power chairs.
Eventually, he knew he had no choice but to use the
power wheelchair his parents bought. The school practically made it
a requirement to being mainstreamed. At least that’s how it seemed
with all of the badgering from the teachers to use the chair.
A few weeks into regular school he figured it was one
of the few things they got right. He really was fine walking around
Sunshine Lane. His walking was stable enough in that
environment—far fewer kids, everyone was familiar with everyone, no
bustling hallways, and, once he really thought about it, no real
need to walk very far. In regular school, Red knew he would have
been knocked down about five times on the way to his first class.
So he followed the plan, exclusively traveling through halls in his
scooter. Of course, once he got to the high school he actually felt
slightly vindicated when he had to walk up to the second floor for
Computer Programming, but he had mostly gotten over reminding his
parents about it.
Tim was in the kitchen reading the paper when his son
came in through the garage. “Hey, Dad,” Red said, closing the
door.
“How was school?” his father asked, peering over the
top of the newspaper he was reading.
Red went directly to the refrigerator to grab his
regular after-school Pepsi. “Fine.”
Tim watched his son get a table knife out of the
drawer to slide under the tab of his soda to open it and carefully
place the can on the table. He knew his wife would have done it for
him, but Tim was slowly starting to realize that those days needed
to stop. “Your brother just flew in and out of here,” Tim said.
“Says you were in some type of ruckus at school.”
Red finished putting a straw into the can with his
mouth and took a swig before he answered his father. “Scott used
the word
ruckus?
”
“Don’t get smart,” his dad said in a tone just barely
light enough that Red knew he could laugh.
He shrugged. “Nothing really happened.”
“What did happen?”
“Some kid was blocking my way and he fell when I
tried to get around him,” Red said. That wasn’t a lie, Red
thought.
“Did you push him?”
“No.”
His father’s stare told him more of an answer was
expected.
“I didn’t push him,” he insisted.
“Red O’Ryan . . .” Tim just let his son’s full name
hang in the air as he waited for more of an explanation. When none
came, he shook his head. “We sure did name you right. You’re just
as stubborn as they say your great-grandfather was.”
“I thought he got the name
Red
in the
war?”
“He did,” his dad explained. “I remember hearing
stories from his old Army buddies. Used to love sitting in his lap
listening to the old men talk. They said Grandpop was always the
first man leading the charge into a fight—on the battlefield or in
the bar. Always ready for a fight.”
Red, of course, had heard the story of how he was
named plenty of times, but his father always seemed to enjoy
telling it, so he kept quiet. It also seemed to have changed the
subject, which was an added bonus.
“I had a feeling you were going to be our last,” his
dad continued. “So I was pushing pretty hard to name you after him.
Mom wasn’t going for it ’til you were born. They told me you
weren’t going to make it through the night. By the time Mom saw you
the next morning, you looked like a different baby. Your color was
better. Everything. Like nothing unusual had happened. Doctors and
nurses said what a fighter you were. We named you Red on the
spot.”
His dad paused and turned the page.
“But, from what I hear, Grandpop was also stubborn as
hell,” his dad said. “For instance, when he was asked a question he
didn’t want to answer, he just didn’t answer. Which brings us back
to you. Unfortunately, you don’t have the same luxury of not
answering. Now, did you push him?”
“Dad, the guy plays football,” Red explained. “Even
if I had pushed him, he wouldn’t have fallen. He’s probably got
like a hundred pounds on me.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Fine, but he’s at least seventy-five pounds heavier.
I still didn’t knock him over.”