Real by Carol Cujec (snow like ashes .txt) 📕

on our voicemail that made Mom and Dad jump up and down. I could attend Lincoln on a trial basis for one month. Mr. Jergen used the phrase “trial basis” five times.

I was excited too.

Then I realized the torture I could face as possibly the strangest mammal ever to enter their doors.

I braced myself for the longest month of my life.

Chance of Snow in Mexico

Do most kids look forward to the first day of school? Nervous butterflies were ready to explode through my chest like an alien in Dad’s late-night movies.

On Aunt Kiki’s advice, Mom dressed me in actual teenager clothes—jeans and a T-shirt with a sparkly violet heart on it. Mom French-braided my hair to keep it out of my face and painted my fingernails bright pink. When my pink fingers went into my mouth, Mom gave me my animal flashcards hooked together on a key ring to keep my hands busy. I flipped them one by one.

Aardvark, flip, badger, flip, cobra, flip.

“You look maaaarvelous,” she said.

Yeah, I thought . . . I could almost pass as a real girl.

“I don’t think a backpack is supposed to weigh twenty pounds, Gail,” Dad said, breezing into the kitchen for breakfast.

He poured himself a cup of coffee before planting a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll do great, Super Cherry. I’ll whip up my sunrise special to give you megawatts of energy.”

Mom packed and repacked my backpack—zebra-striped instead of Wonder Woman, thank goodness—as Dad dished up his yummy avocado tofu scramble with salsa. I needed extra help eating because my body was already energized with too many megawatts.

After breakfast, Dad helped us to the car, and at 7:12 a.m., I took my first steps into Lincoln Junior High.

One foot at a time. Do not let the humiliation start on day one.

My legs shook like a newborn giraffe.

Page 87: Newborn giraffes are about six feet tall and weigh 150 pounds.

Sun from skylights dotted colorful murals on the walls. I drank in the blues, yellows, greens, and reds until the images came into focus—portraits of Abraham Lincoln and other famous people. I paused at a portrait of Thomas Jefferson and stared into his gray-wolf eyes. In gold letters below his face were painted his famous words, “All men are created equal.”

I wondered when those words would apply to me. When would “all” really mean all?

Other heroes of liberty lined the halls—Frederick Douglass, Susan B. Anthony, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Cesar Chavez, Nelson Mandela. The last one was a portrait of Malala, the young woman from Pakistan fighting for girls’ education.

Malala’s brown eyes looked into mine. I inched closer until my nose touched the dimpled concrete. My eyes swam in the rose and orange brushstrokes of her headscarf.

Giggles erupted behind me from a group of girls.

“Time to go, sweetheart.” Mom turned me around.

How long was I standing there?

The girls laughed at something on their phones.

At least they were not laughing at me.

Were they?

The tallest girl wore her pink hair—pink hair?—in a sloppy bun. Another girl stared straight at me, holding her sparkling emerald fingernails over her mouth, ready to burst.

“Celia told us room 129,” Mom said, pulling me forward.

We continued past the cafeteria—pepperoni pizza cooking—to a long hallway lined with brown, steel lockers.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

I covered my ears at the sound of the morning bell. The high-pitched sound stung my brain.

Ouuuuuuuuuch!

The hall flooded with students rushing to homeroom—a sea of denim and multicolored backpacks. Mom tugged on my hand.

Move, feet, move!

“Come on, Charity. Celia is expecting us.”

Rubber soles squeaked on the waxed floor. Smells of perfume, shampoo, and stinky armpits hit my nose. Too much too fast.

Mom’s voice urged, “Keep going, sweetheart. Almost there.”

My feet stuck to the tiles.

Page 86: Geckos use microscopic hairs on their toes to stick to smooth surfaces.

Someone bumped my shoulder. My hands clamped into tight fists. Jergen’s trial basis might end on day one.

My knees bent up and down.

UP-down-UP-down-UP-down.

Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

“My newest addition is here.”

I heard Celia’s voice behind me, felt her curly cinnamon hair on my cheek, and my feet obeyed her hand guiding my back.

“Querida, all will be well,” she whispered in my ear.

She led us into her office and shut the door. Once I escaped the roar of the hallway, my heartbeat slowed.

“Please sit down, ladies. I’m so glad to see you.”

No leather jacket today, but a tangerine tunic with a silver cross around her neck.

Photos and artwork filled the top of her desk, and my hands wanted to touch everything. Celia pulled up a chair next to us and handed me a plastic snow globe.

“Look at this, Charity. From my trip to Acapulco, Mexico, last summer.”

I smiled inside, thinking of a snow globe from a city where it never snowed. Shaking the globe sent flakes swirling around a white cathedral with a sea-blue dome. I held it to my eyes.

Shake, swirl, shake, swirl.

Celia went over my schedule for the day, actually speaking to me instead of about me. Talking to me like I was thirteen instead of three.

“Charity, you will spend the first few weeks working with your aide to improve motor control.”

At least I will not have to watch Barney.

“What happens after that?” asked Mom.

“As much as possible, I want to support her full participation in regular classes.”

Wait. What?

Mom looked confused, but Celia kept talking.

“I believe in my heart—and research supports this too—that all students benefit from learning together. With the help of key faculty members willing to work with us, we have been successful so far.”

I loved what she was saying. But did this woman really think I could join in a math or science class . . . with no words and a body I cannot always control?

Mom’s face lit up. “That would be incredible. This is just what she needs.”

Shake, swirl, shake, swirl.

“But there is something else I want you to know.” Celia took the snow globe from me and placed it back on her desk. “Lincoln is heavily supported by donations from families. Our computers, science