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

did you have a daughter who went to Borden Academy?”

“Wrong number.”

Click.

“Leave a message after the beep.”

Click.

Click.

Eight people hung up on her.

Finally, one did not.

“Who is this?” a woman demanded.

“Mrs. Collins, my daughter Charity attended Borden Academy with your daughter Abby.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Charity is investigating Borden Academy in order to end abuses there, maybe shut them down. She would like to interview you about your experience.”

Click.

She hung up.

My one lead. Gone in an instant.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom said. “It must be unbearable for Mrs. Collins to relive those memories.”

Hypothesis: This will be the shortest paper in history.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrring!

We both jumped.

A small voice spoke. “I’m sorry. I will try to help you. Where do you want to meet?”

…

The next day after school, we went to Mrs. Collins’ house. She was a round woman with a face wrinkled like a tortoise.

Mom introduced me. “This is my daughter, Charity.”

I was surprised when Mrs. Collins gave me a hug.

“I didn’t know any of Abby’s classmates. I’m so happy to meet you, Charity.”

When I did not reply, she turned to Mom. “My Abby wasn’t able to talk either. I think these children are the most helpless. Anyone could do anything to them. A million and one hurts were done to my Abby until her gentle soul exploded in fear and anger.”

Mrs. Collins took my hand and led us to the kitchen table. The chair had a red, plastic cushion ripped on the side. The plastic poked my leg when I sat down. She held up a bowl of mint candies. My hand wanted to reach for one, but the smell reminded me of Miss Marcia.

Mom pulled out the keyboard. With each word I typed, Mrs. Collins frowned harder.

I could feel Abby’s struggle. I am sorry I could not help her. I want to help now by saving other kids.

“Amazing.” Mrs. Collins ran her hands along the keyboard. “I tried typing with Abby so many times, but she couldn’t do it.”

People like me need help to type. I can be a voice for kids like Abby.

“But maybe she could have.” Mrs. Collins put her hands over her eyes.

“How is Abby doing now that she’s left Borden?” Mom asked with a hopeful smile.

Mrs. Collins held her head in her hands. She spoke in a crackly voice. “You have no idea how difficult it was. She couldn’t control herself. Every outburst was more destructive than the last. I had no way to communicate with her, and I didn’t know how to help her. I was terrified she would hurt herself or someone else.”

She turned to Mom. “My husband and I divorced a decade ago. I had no one to support me.”

She blew into a tissue then spoke in a quiet voice. “Abby is living at the Pine Valley Developmental Center. I pray so hard every day she is being treated well, but when I visit, she doesn’t even seem to know I’m there.”

Mom hugged Mrs. Collins a long time. After a few minutes, she was ready to answer the questions I prepared, and we recorded her answers. In two years at Borden, Abby transformed from gentle and cooperative to explosive and full of rage.

“I think she was depressed,” Mrs. Collins said, “but the doctors would never call it that.”

Mom helped me respond.

I felt the same when I was there. The Thinkers do not believe we are real people with real human emotions.

“I keep wondering if I had had the courage to pull her out of there sooner, things would be different today.”

Mom put a hand on Mrs. Collins’ shoulder. “Based on what Charity has told us, we now know this was an abusive environment. I couldn’t believe it myself. We kept Charity so well protected, so safe in every other aspect of her life, and here she was being mistreated by people we trusted to educate her.”

Before we left, Mrs. Collins named two more parents she remembered. Their children also came home from Borden with bruises on their wrists or backs or faces. Over the next week, I spent hours interviewing them with Mom’s help.

With the essay due in a week, we stayed up until midnight every night, typing letter by letter all I discovered. Typing and revising, typing and revising.

One.

Letter.

At.

A.

Reach, tap—t. Reach, tap—I. Reach, tap—m. Reach, tap—e.

“Keep your rhythm going.” Mom supported not only my arm but also my jittery mind.

Reach. Tap.

“Is that the letter you want?”

Typing one letter at a time is S—L—O—W. A drowsy sloth might move faster. No one could hypothesize how much energy I used keeping my body in check and my racing mind focused on the next key.

Reach. Tap.

“Do you want punctuation here?”

Reach. Tap.

“Eyes on the keyboard.”

Waiting for my thoughts to form drop by drop on the screen must be like watching paint dry on a humid day for Mom.

Patient as a monk on a mountaintop, Mom encouraged me with each tap, never judging.

Did it sound improbable for a thirteen-year-old to say she was on a mission? How could I say that without sounding like I was full of baloney, as Pops says?

After three days of typing, I told Mom,

Delete everything. I have to start again.

She did it, no questions asked.

I needed to get the words royally right. People’s lives depended on it.

Then on Monday, I handed my report to Ms. Beckett.

She found me in math class later that day.

“Charity, I have a friend who is a journalist for the Bay Tribune. She covers articles on education. Would you mind if I mailed her your paper? She may want to investigate this further.”

I was too excited to type. My body jumped and clapped.

“I think that means yes,” Mom said.

Sounds like Torture

“You gonna finish your pizza?”

Mason held my arm and I typed:

Go for it.

He reached over to grab my second slice. I was not feeling hungry these days. Sassygirl was on fire in the gossip app, accusing me of cheating on assignments. Kids looked at me differently now in class. No one asked me math questions anymore.

One bright spot in