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

a genuine two-wheeler, Princess Charity,” he announced one Saturday morning. “Every princess needs a stallion.”

The Thinkers said I could never ride a bicycle.

Never say never to my dad.

He did not tell Mom about his plan, not right away. As Safety Sheriff of the house, she would have outlawed it. He waited for a day when Mom was shopping with Gram.

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he told me.

Turns out Dad was a decent Safety Deputy too. It took him twenty minutes to suit me up in a helmet, elbow pads, double knee pads, and a pillow duct-taped to my back. I bounced around like a multicolored marshmallow. When we got to the big, empty parking lot at the high school, he opened the trunk and pulled out a brand-new bike with a basket in front, purple metallic streamers on the handlebars, and twenty-eight silver, shiny spokes on each wheel.

“Your stallion, m’lady.”

My heart jumped to the sky. My hands clapped.

He lifted me onto the seat and placed my hands and feet in position.

Then I looked down.

No training wheels?

“Let’s begin with a slow trot.” With one hand on the handlebar and one on the seat, he jogged the bike in a big circle. “Pedal your feet. You can do it, Cherry!”

Dad pushed me for more than an hour till his T-shirt was soaked in sweat. Little by little, my feet got the idea to push down on the pedals.

“You got it, Cherry. Keep going!”

He took his hand off the handlebar and ran alongside with a hand on the seat to keep me steady.

“Haha! I knew you could do it!”

I noted his face stretched tight with a grin, and my chest puffed up with pride.

On the next lap, my feet pedaled a little faster. Dad let go of the seat and pretended to gallop beside me.

“Careful, honey. Not too fast.”

Then my bulldog impulse took over—that’s the part of me that acts on instinct instead of logic. I love my bulldog, Hero, but he barks at his own reflection and attacks the vacuum cleaner on a regular basis.

My feet heard the word “fast” and shifted into hyperdrive. I started pushing the pedals quick as a cheetah chasing prey.

Push, push, push.

Page 32: The fastest land animal, the cheetah can run up to 75 miles an hour in short bursts.

I sped along the black pavement, feeling the wind on my teeth because I could not stop smiling. For the first time in my life, I felt freedom, pure freedom.

Push, push, push.

“Squeeze the brakes, Cherry! Squeeze with your hands!” Dad’s screaming reached my ears.

I guess braking should have been lesson one. My eyes focused forward. My mind screamed.

Danger! Thorny bushes ahead!

My hands could not grip the brakes. My brain hollered STOP!

Probability of crashing? Falling? Bleeding? HIGH!

I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath.

A second later, I was on the ground. My shoulder stung from where it scraped branches.

Dad lifted me up, breathing hard, his eyes full of fear. “My poor Charity. My princess. It was all my fault. Are you okay, honey?”

He dusted the dirt and leaves off my jacket. His eyebrows scrunched together with worry. “Let’s get you home and make sure you’re okay.”

I squirmed out of his arms and pulled my bike out of the bushes with Dad’s help. I quickly scanned its parts—the purple streamers, the white basket, the raspberry-colored seat, twenty-eight silver, shiny spokes on each wheel . . . thank goodness it was still in one piece.

I grabbed the handlebars and swung my leg over.

Dad shook his head and wiped his forehead on his arm. “No, honey, I think it’s . . .”

My feet tried to pedal, but he held the handlebars tight. I pushed my leg hard as I could and grunted like a wild boar. “Grrrrraaaaaaaa.”

Dad’s eyebrows jumped, and a grin lit up his face.

“That’s my girl. Right back on the horse.”

Yes, it did hurt, but I cannot stand pity.

Especially not from my dad.

Boredom Academy

The wedding disaster weekend was followed by the usual miserable Monday. Mom pulled up to the drop-off curb, and Miss Marcia poked her head into our car, wearing her same orange, saggy sweater. Her breath stank like a cigarette-smoking donkey, even with all the wintergreen mints she stashed in her cheeks like a squirrel. When she talked, she was a symphony of crunching and sucking sounds.

“Morning, Mrs. Wood [crunch]. Hope you packed more of Charity’s extra clothes. She’s been having lots of accidents lately [suck].”

Mom gave me a worried glance. “That’s strange. She hardly ever has a problem with this at home.”

Miss Marcia unbuckled my seatbelt. She yanked me out of the car with one hand and grabbed my Wonder Woman backpack with the other.

What a joke—a helpless girl with a superhero backpack.

Still, I sometimes imagined my body spinning round and round—I love to spin—and in a burst of smoke I would transform into Wonder Woman. Strong and powerful. Ready to kick butt.

“I put three dollars in Charity’s front pocket so she can buy hot lunch today,” Mom said.

Miss Marcia smiled sweetly, putting on her angel face, her I-care-deeply-about-your-child face that she wore in front of parents.

“Oh, I’ll make sure she gets it,” Miss Marcia sang. “Sloppy joes today. I know how much she loves those.”

“And I packed some of her sixth-grade vocabulary flashcards we’ve been working on,” Mom said. “Could you go over those with her as well?”

“Of course, Mrs. Wood.”

As soon as Mom’s car drove away, Miss Marcia’s smile disappeared. She reached into my pocket, pulled out the three dollars, and stuffed them into her own pocket. I saw her do this to other kids too, and I knew I would not be eating sloppy joes today. I also knew the flashcards would never leave my backpack.

If I ever do become Wonder Woman, watch out, Miss Marcia. You are first on my kick-butt list.

Kids who cannot talk are easy targets for bullies. At Borden, I learned teachers can be bullies too.

Probably the only thing I ever learned at Borden.

…

My first few years of school, I was