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

puzzle? Where does she think I am, in kindergarten?

I tried hard to focus on the puzzle and keep my body under control as I listened to Ivy chat with Rachel and Lilly for the next twenty minutes about celebrity gossip. When class was over, a few more people high-fived Ivy and told me I was lucky to have such a fun aide.

Right. Lucky me.

“Ready for lunch, girlfriend?” Ivy asked. “I’m actually craving some gross cafeteria food. Maybe they’ll have those little Jell-O bowls with canned grapes in it,” she said, laughing.

She grabbed my backpack and walked out the door without me at first, then turned around. “Oops, almost forgot my sidekick.”

After loading a cafeteria tray with food—not even asking me what I wanted—Ivy plunked the tray onto an empty cafeteria table and pulled out her phone. I looked over at my friends. Jaz shook her head. Julian motioned for me to come over to the welcome table.

As Jaz would say, Ivy was clueless as a jock at a comic book convention.

Celia found us a few minutes later and sat down.

“How are we doing, ladies?”

How could I tell her if I had no one to help me type? I took one of Ana’s cleansing breaths and stared at my beefaroni, which Ivy kept calling “barfaroni.”

“We’re great,” Ivy said, putting down her phone. “It’ll take a while for us to get our flow going. But we’ll soon be BFFs. Don’t worry.”

Ivy went back to checking her phone.

“Ivy, dear,” Celia said, “unless you have an urgent call to make, you shouldn’t be on your phone during school hours. It sets a bad example for the students. And your focus should be on Charity.”

“Oh!” She sounded surprised. As if she were allowed to text friends all day at her previous jobs. Did she even have any previous jobs? She stuck her phone in her back pocket.

“It’s cool. We’re cool.”

She glanced at my tray.

“Done with the barfaroni? Don’t blame you, girlfriend.”

She picked up my tray, but Celia put her hand on Ivy’s arm.

“Ivy, dear, you need to actually ask Charity. That is what the keyboard is for. Don’t assume you know what she is thinking.”

“Oh yeah. Here, girl. All done with lunch?” She sat down and got in position to help me type.

I typed “Y.”

“What do you mean why? It’s almost time for science. Gotta eat quick and go, girl.”

“The Y stands for yes,” Celia said. A big sigh escaped her lips.

“Oh, right. That’s what I mean about flow. We’ll get there. Let’s get rid of these trays and get your booty to class.”

When Ivy left with the tray, Celia leaned in and whispered, “I will find you another aide, querida. Pronto!”

The next day, Celia said a new communication aide could not start until the following week. “Maybe we could ask your mother to help you communicate at school while we wait.”

That was the last thing I wanted. Mom already caused enough trouble for the week.

I did not complain. I figured a bad helper was better than none at all. At least sometimes I got a sort-of readable sentence out.

One advantage—I was getting a taste of how it felt to be popular. Every time we walked into a classroom, kids came up to us and gabbed with Ivy about school gossip or fashion or music.

For an adult, she fit in pretty well with the junior high crowd, with her “Up top” high fives and girlfriend this, girlfriend that.

She was gabbing with the girls that afternoon in science lab while I sat staring at a snakeskin, trying to identify the species by its markings.

Darcy walked up to us. She glared at me for a second then turned to Ivy. “How come ever since Ana left, Charity basically speaks gobbledygook?”

“Huh?” Ivy had no idea what she meant. But I could hypothesize where Darcy was headed. Ripples of fear shot up my spine.

“Well, a few of us have noticed that without her aide, Charity isn’t such a brainiac anymore. She’s back to being, how shall I say it . . . STU-PI-DO.”

She said that last word slowly, as if she were talking to someone who was hard of hearing.

My breathing sped up. My body shook.

“Get out of here, Darcy.” Stuart jumped to my defense. “You’re jealous she gets better grades than you.”

“Well, think about it, Stuart,” she said, pointing in his face. “This girl has not said one smart thing since Ana left. It was Ana’s words that made her look smart. It was probably a scheme so they could get more money for all the retarded students and give them the privileges that we’re supposed to have so that everyone in town could be all like Aren’t we so great, even our dumb kids are really smart!”

Darcy spoke fast, getting louder with every word. Stuart looked confused. His head turned between me and Ivy.

“Hey, hey, hey, Missy,” Ivy said. “Don’t go trashing my girlfriend here. We’re still working on our flow. We’re getting better and better. Let’s show them, girlfriend. What do you have to say?”

She whipped out the keyboard, but I was too agitated to type. My hands flapped, my feet tapped.

Flap-tap-flap-tap-flap-tap-flap-tap.

Ivy grabbed my wrist. I pulled it away.

I wanted to scream. Stop!

She grabbed it again and held on tight.

Stop! Do not do this!

Ivy was using my finger to type her own message. I tried to pull away. I did not even want to look at the words on the screen. I turned my head, hoping Mr. Harding would see the panic in my eyes.

Help me!

Finally, Ivy let go. “Here’s what my girl had to say to you, Miss Thing. She typed, ‘Go to hell, you loser in cheap jeans.’”

Ivy laughed and nodded at me. “Yeah, girl. Tell it like it is.”

Ivy spoke loud enough for the whole class to hear, including Mr. Harding. Everyone stared in silence.

“Charity!” Mr. Harding said. “Go to the principal’s office immediately and discuss this inappropriate language with him. I expect better from you.”

Ivy rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand