Fish in a Tree

  “How about if I excuse you from homework for learning how to play?”

  I stop like my feet are strapped to thousand-pound blocks. Did he just say that? I turn around. “What’s the catch?” I ask.

  “No catch. If you stay after to learn chess for a few days, I’ll excuse you from homework on the days you stay.”

  “Am I going to have to write a paper or something?”

  “No papers. Promise.”

  “I just come in here and play a game and I get out of homework? No catch?”

  “Well, you can’t tell anyone in the class. I’ll call your mom about it, though.” He holds his hand out to shake. “We have a deal, then?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  I can’t say no to that deal. Homework is only one step above death.

  I’m so happy about skipping some homework that I’ll keep remembering it and being happy over and over again.

  But what really gets me is that in order for Mr. Daniels to come up with this plan, he must have thought of me outside of school—when he didn’t have to think of me. I bet other teachers have never let me sit in their head one second longer than they had to.

  CHAPTER 29

  Fish in a Tree

  Albert, Keisha, and I get off the bus for our class trip to the Noah Webster House. With no written work today, I’m thinking it will be a silver dollar day.

  Albert starts collecting acorns from the ground and filling his pockets. I’m tempted to ask why, but I’m afraid the answer will take an hour.

  Oliver picks up acorns and whips them at the trees. Max joins in. Max hits a tree every time. Oliver, not so much. Mr. Daniels walks over and says something to make them stop.

  I pick an acorn up, too, and it reminds me of a little Frenchman with a pointed chin. Perfectly shaped head and a little beret. I name him Pierre and stick him in my pocket. I decide that I’ll do a drawing of him later. Maybe dancing with a lady at the Eiffel Tower. My grandpa always said he was going to take me to see it.

  Albert’s pockets are bulging by the time we line up to go inside. Shay is rolling her eyes at him and laughing. When Mr. Daniels looks in her direction, she stops like she has an on/off switch. When he looks away, she laughs at Albert again.

  “Don’t laugh at him,” I say.

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll laugh at you.”

  “I don’t care if you laugh at me.”

  Albert just stands there, looking a little lost.

  “Albert,” I whisper. “Why won’t you tell them to go jump in a lake or at least to leave you alone?”

  “Albert.” Keisha talks to him in her you-better-listen-to-me voice. “Hunched over and silent is no way to meet the world.”

  Albert bends over, picking up more acorns. He looks up at us. “It isn’t logical,” he says. “It will only let them know it bothers me.”

  “So it does bother you?” I ask.

  He stands up straight. “Well, no one likes to be insulted. But let’s say that my worry about Shay is a drop of water in the ocean compared to my other worry right now.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “These acorns,” he says, holding one up. “This green coloring on the side looks like moss, but I am concerned that it is actually a fungus. If this is the case, all of these trees may be in danger. I have collected samples and will do further research.”

  I lean in and look at the acorn. I like how Albert cares and is able to see things that other people wouldn’t. But I wish Albert would care about himself as much as the scientific world.

  Mr. Daniels puts us into groups. I pray that I end up in his group or with Keisha and Albert. I get part of my wish and am in a group with Albert. Mr. Daniels is with a bunch of boys, including Oliver and Max.

  We get the drill about behaving, things being old, and how we’re not supposed to touch them. We break into our groups and head upstairs and into a bedroom.

  “So,” our guide says, straightening her bonnet. “Does anyone know where the term sleep tight came from?”

  Albert raises his hand and she calls on him with a smile.

  Albert points to the underside of the bed. “Mattresses were held up with rope so they were off the floor and away from the bugs. When the mattresses would sag, they’d tighten the ropes, making the bed more comfortable. Hence the saying, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “Well, if anyone would know about bedbugs, he would,” Shay whispers.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, the fireplace is big enough to stand in. The lady tells us that girls didn’t go to school as much as boys—that they typically stayed home to learn how to take care of the house. My mind bites into that and I can’t stop thinking about it.

  No more school.

  Ever.

  I lean over. “Albert, do you think that time travel is possible?”

  He whispers, “Albert Einstein had extensive theories on its possibilities. And I certainly wouldn’t argue with him.”

  “Me neither,” I say to him. “How do you think I would look in one of those dresses and bonnets?”

  He looks puzzled.

  Finally, we go to a colonial schoolroom and join the rest of our class.

  A lady talks about what a visionary Noah Webster was to create the first American spellers and dictionaries. Before that, people used to just make up spellings—there were no right or wrong ways to spell.

  Some visionary. This spelling stuff is all his fault, since he’s the one who got it in his head that we all needed to spell the same way.

  I’m thinking Noah Webster was a scoundrel and they should have put him in jail for this.

  The lady tells us it took him twenty years to write the dictionary, and he also wrote the first schoolbooks and grammar books. I think he must have been tipped off his rocker, as my grandpa used to say.

  “Students in colonial times didn’t use paper and pencils like you do now.” The lady holds up a little chalkboard in a wooden frame. “They used slates like these and wrote their answers down to show their teacher.” She passes out slates, which are fun to write on. I draw a picture of Pierre with his beret and wish I had some green chalk to add a little smudge in honor of Albert.

  The woman takes out a pointed white hat. “Now, this is something teachers began to use in schools toward the end of Noah Webster’s life. It is called a dunce cap. As a punishment for misbehavior, a child would have to wear it and stand in the corner facing the wall.”

  I hear giggling. Shay is showing her slate to a bunch of other kids.

  There’s a head wearing a dunce hat and “Ally” is written underneath.

  “What’s the fuss about?” the guide asks as she walks over. Then she turns to them. “That isn’t very nice. Erase that, please.”

  I stand, willing the tears that come to my eyes to stop. Knowing they will only give everyone more to make fun of.

  “Are you all right?” the guide asks me.

  Everyone is quiet now. They are all watching me. It’s worse than the laughing. So I run out.

  Out of the room and out of the museum. A woman calls to me, but I keep going. Out the door and around the back. Across the lawn of a beautiful light green house. I find a swing set, which reminds me of my grandpa, and how we spent hours on them at the park. I try to think about what he’d say now and am sad that it’s hard for me to remember his voice exactly.

  My hands slide down the chains as I sit on the seat, thinking of when I was little. When my world wasn’t such a heavy place. I used to love to swing as high as I could—leaning back, reaching for a bright blue sky with my feet—and it made me feel like I could do anything. Reach anything.

  I lean my cheek against the cool chain, feeling like I can’t reach anything anymore. Then the tears come.

  And then, standing in front of me, are feet. The shoes on them belong to
Mr. Daniels.

  He stands for a while without saying anything until he finally says my name. All I can do to respond is sniff.

  “Can you tell me what happened in there?”

  I don’t know what to say. Such a small question and such a giant answer. “Please just leave me alone.”

  He takes a couple of steps away and stays quiet for a bit. Then he says, “My brother and I used to love to write in the sand on the beach. When my family would go to Maine.”

  I don’t answer him.

  Then he picks up a stick and writes something in the dirt under the swing next to me. More words. Why can’t I ever get away from words?

  He turns toward me and I stare at his knees. “Ally,” he says, holding out the stick, “do you want to write something?”

  I shake my head. I think of flying on swings through bright blue skies and away from words like dumb and freak and loser.

  He squats down in front of me. “I’m sorry about whatever it was that upset you. Let me help.”

  I take a deep breath, and when I let it all out, the words come with it. “Nobody is ever going to be able to help me. Not ever. They all said I should have a dunce cap and they’re right. That’s the thing. They’re right!”

  “Oh my . . . Ally, you actually believe that, don’t you?” I can hear that it’s a shock to him.

  I finally look up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you are most certainly not dumb, Ally.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, I’m not, actually. For one, you are amazing on those bus driver math problems. You’re one of the kids who gets the really harder ones correct.”

  I look up into his face with the bright sun behind him and blurt out, “But how come I can’t read?” It’s the first time I’ve ever asked the question out loud. I guess because I am so desperate for an answer.

  “Aw, Ally,” he says, “this thing that makes school hard for you . . . I think you might have something called dyslexia. And it means that, although it’s hard for you to read, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb.” He laughs a little. “In fact, you, Ally Nickerson, are far from it. Your brain just figures things out differently than other people.”

  I’m different; he’s got that right. But no way am I smart like he says. “You don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, Ally, I think I do.” Then he leans in. “And you know what? You’re brave.”

  I so want to be brave, but I’m not.

  “Coming to school every day, knowing what you’re in for. Knowing school will be hard. And that other kids are going to razz you. And you still come every day and decide that you’re going to try again.”

  I stay quiet, just thinking about what he said. Hoping he knows what he’s talking about.

  “And you know something else? In some ways, you’re a lot smarter than other kids. You can also do things they can’t. For one, you’re an amazing artist. Those drawings of yours! Wow, Ally. You’ve got talent there. What do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you’re going to die but at least people are going to bring you flowers.’”

  He laughs really hard now. “See that? Seriously, Ally. Only smart people say things like that.” His voice drops. “It’s going to be okay, kiddo.”

  I have never hoped for something so much as this.

  “You and I are going to figure this out together. As a matter of fact, I already spoke to Mrs. Silver and Miss Kessler, the reading consultant at school. I was already planning to call your mom and talk to you tomorrow. We’re going to give you some tests.”

  I deflate. “Oh, no. Please, no tests.”

  “Not the tests you’re used to. You’ll see. These are more like puzzles and games than tests, but the results will help us help you.”

  I feel like I can look up for the first time.

  “You are smart, Ally. And you are going to learn to read.”

  A chill runs through my whole body. I don’t have any choice but to believe him, because I can’t go another day thinking things will be like this forever.

  I wipe the tears from my face with the back of my hand. He stands up and we start walking back.

  Mr. Daniels looks up at that bright blue sky and says, “Now, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? You know, a wise person once said, ‘Everyone is smart in different ways. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life thinking that it’s stupid.’”

  I think hard about that. Could it be that simple?

  A mind movie flickers in my brain of an angry fish at the bottom of a tree, banging on the trunk with its fins and complaining that it can’t climb it.

  I think of a turtle making a sandwich.

  A snake playing the violin.

  An elephant knitting.

  Penguins playing basketball.

  An eagle scuba diving.

  But mostly I hope with every tiny bit of myself that Mr. Daniels is right about all of this.

  CHAPTER 30

  Miserable King

  Two days later, a lady named Miss Kessler pulls me out of class early in the day to give me some tests. Mr. Daniels is right. They are more like puzzles and games than those awful bubble tests we do, where I just fill in circles without even reading the questions. She’s really nice, like Mr. Daniels.

  After school, Mr. Daniels is setting up a chessboard and pieces at the reading table.

  I walk over and he looks up. “So, did your mom tell you that I called?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t say much, though. She usually has a lot to say about everything.”

  He laughs. “Moms usually do.” He motions toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

  I pull out the chair, wondering what this is all about.

  “Okay,” he says, loosening his tie like we are going to do some serious work. “Chess is a game about planning. It isn’t like other games where you just capture the powerful piece.” He points to a piece with a cross on top. “This is the king. The object of the game is to trap your opponent’s king, but not actually capture it. When you put your piece in a place where it could take the other king, it’s called ‘check.’ When you give the other king absolutely nowhere to go, it’s called ‘checkmate.’ And that’s how you win.”

  Normally, I would be nervous and my mind would go blank, but he just has this relaxing way. His voice makes me calm. Maybe because I know he will never say anything mean. Call me lazy or dumb. And I know he wouldn’t think it, either.

  “Got that so far?”

  I nod.

  “So, then. Are you going to capture my king?”

  I hesitate. Did I mess up already? “Didn’t you say that you don’t capture it? That you just make it miserable?”

  He laughs. “Yes, I did say that. Good, Ally. Good listening.”

  So he goes through the rest of the pieces. The queen is the most powerful and can travel in a straight line in any direction. There are eight pawns that, when you band them together, can be strong. Most players take them for granted, though. He tells me that’s a mistake.

  The rooks look like castles and travel in forward, backward and side-to-side lines across the whole board. The bishops travel diagonally in straight lines, and the knights can jump in an L shape. The king can only move one spot in any direction. It stinks to be the one with the target on your back and be the one who can’t go anywhere.

  He has made up a sheet with pictures of the pieces and arrows to show how they move. He says it is in case I need a reminder. I turn it over, looking him square in the eye, and say, “I don’t need that.”

  He smiles a little but never takes his eyes off of me as he reaches down and moves one of his pawns. “Good, then.”

  When I start to make some dumb moves, he asks, “Are you sure you want to do that?” r />
  The first game ends fast, but on the second game, I capture his queen. The most powerful piece on the board. I stand up so fast, my knees push my chair back and it falls over. I want to ask if he let me do that, but I’m afraid of his answer.

  He holds up his hand to high-five me. “Well done.”

  And it is so weird. I don’t have trouble with this game. I like it. I like planning what I will do to trap his pieces. He shows me how you can work it so you put your piece in a place where it can choose between taking two different pieces; then your opponent has to choose which one to let go. That’s called a “fork.” I love the look on his face when I manage one of those and take his bishop. Like it hurts a little, but he likes it, too.

  The longer we play, the better I can see it in my head. I can see what the board will look like a couple of moves from now. I learn to predict what he might do.

  I see a mind movie where chess pieces come to life. They can travel around on the board all day by themselves and they are happy that they don’t have to just stand there and wait for somebody to pick them up and move them. I know how relieved they are, being able to do something for themselves.

  CHAPTER 31

  Lots of Ways Home

  “So, did your mom tell you that we talked?” Mr. Daniels asks.

  “Yeah.” I take a long breath, noticing that I can feel my own heart beating.

  “I have to talk to you about something.”

  This doesn’t sound good.

  “I need your help.”

  “You need my help?”

  “Yes, I do. You know how Miss Kessler gave you those tests?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it appears you do have dyslexia, which, like I said, makes learning to read difficult, but doesn’t mean you’re not bright. In fact,” he says, half smiling like Travis, “you’re very bright, Ally. The tests show that, too.”

  I shift in my seat.

  “But you will need some help with learning to read better, and we’re going to get it for you. Thing is, it might take a little time. Sometimes the paperwork and meetings around that take a while.”