My mouth feels like a sandpit, but I don't get in line at the gym water fountain. There are trade-offs you have to make in middle school, and sandpit mouth beats whatever Charlie has in mind for me any day. Fortunately, someone knew enough to give us LD kids our own water fountain outside the Resource Room, my next-period class.
LD stands for "learning differences." It used to stand for "learning disabilities," before they decided to make us sound a little less tragic. The Resource Room is where LD kids go to get organized, catch up, and not get yelled at so much.
Everyone in the Resource Room has "issues," or as my mother says, "stuff" that gets in the way. Mine is ADD—attention deficit disorder. ADD is a lot like ADHD, which might be even worse, because that "H" stands for "hyperactivity," meaning you have way too much energy for your own good. My "H" isn't really so bad, though, so I'm just ADD.
People think having ADD means I can't focus, but that's not really true. I focus very well—just on the wrong things. Instead of hearing the assignment, I'm watching a ladybug crawl along the windowsill. When I'm supposed to be reading the chapter in our textbook called "Changes Down the Road: The Assembly Line," I'm staring at the head-on picture of a Model T, thinking how it looks like my great-uncle Herman. Also, I flinch at loud sounds, can't fit my writing between the lines, and hate the feel of scratchy wool, but I don't know if that's the ADD or something else altogether.
For me, every day in middle school is a little bit like the Running of the Bulls. That's something I saw on TV that happens in a place called Pamplona, in Spain. Once a year, they let a whole herd of bulls out free in the streets, and people try to outrun them, or else duck into a back alley to avoid being gored to death. That's kind of how I feel. I try to keep up, or stay out of the way, or find someplace to hide.
My back alley is the Resource Room. My teacher here is Mrs. T. Her real name is Mrs. Teitelbaum, but she likes "Mrs. T" better. She's an upbeat person who dances down the "extra help hallway," singing songs like "All the Single Ladies." I know she's married, though, because she has a picture of her husband on the wall by her desk, along with her two dogs, George and Ringo.
Mrs. T likes polka dots and the color pink. Her hair is short and a little spiky and she has a habit of running her fingers through it. Sometimes she just forgets and her hand stays perched up there, making her look confused, or, when she wears pink, like an upside-down flamingo.
After gym I take about ten gulps of water at the Resource Room fountain and come in to see Mrs. T in just that position. She's holding the daily bulletin in one hand, with the other one on top of her head. She reads the bulletin out loud to us every day to make sure nothing important gets by us, and, trust me, it would.
"Attention, journalists," Mrs. T begins as I plop into my seat. "Come to a meeting on September fifteenth in Room D-1. Our monthly paper, The Inkwell, needs writers to report the news you want to know!"
I try to imagine what The Inkwell would look like if it really did report the news kids wanted to know. The headline today would be TALL GIRL COMES TO LAKEVIEW! OUTPLAYS LOCAL BULLY!! It would tell where she came from and what her name was and how she knew that my life was in mortal danger at that very moment.
Danielle Symington volunteers for The Inkwell, and Mrs. T says, "Excellent, Danielle," takes her hand down from its perch on her head, and writes on the board in purple, "Danielle: Sept. 15—Inkwell meeting."
She goes on reading. "The Spanish Club will meet on Tuesday, September thirteenth, in Se?ora Finnegan's room at three fifteen. No Spanish necessary."
"But it's a Spanish club," says Danielle, who seems way too together to be in the Resource Room. "How can there be no Spanish necessary?"
"Maybe you'll learn about Spain's beautiful culture," suggests Mrs. T. "Dancing, music ..."
"I speak Spanish," says Trevor Holcombe, who's sitting on a bookcase. "Taco, burrito, gordita ..."
"Nachos, chalupas, enchiladas," adds Sanjit Chaudary, which sets off a flood of "fajitas" and "tamales" and "chimichangas," and makes me think of the Running of the Bulls again.
"Okay! Enough," says Mrs. T, but she waits patiently until we've run down the entire list of Taco Bell menu items.
"Moving on," she says in a loud voice. "This is important. The renovation of our middle-school track is complete. Lakeview athletics will now include a seventh-grade track and cross country team. Let's get Lakeview running! Come to a meeting after school tomorrow, Friday, September ninth, in Room D-5."
"Running isn't a sport," says Trevor. He's swinging his heels and they bang the shelves of the bookcase with a thunk, thunk.
"What do you mean, it's not a sport?" says Mrs. T. "And get down off the bookcase, please, Trevor."
"I mean it's not a real sport, like basketball or football," says Trevor.
"Like you're the quarterback?" mutters Sanjit.
"Running is stupid," adds Trevor, just to make sure we all get it. He jumps off the bookcase, knocking a copy of Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key to the floor.
"It certainly is not stupid!" says Mrs. T. "It would be great for all of you." And then, for some completely crazy reason, she looks at me. "Joseph," she says, "this is exactly the kind of thing that you should try."
"Me?" I say. "I'm terrible at sports."
"Don't be negative, Joseph. You can run. I know you can."
"Yeah, away from the ball," mutters Trevor.
"I'm the slowest kid in the grade," I say.
Sanjit nods. "Really, Mrs. T. He's not kidding."
"You don't have to be fast," says Mrs. T. "You start slow and get faster. Running is something you can do your whole life."
"But I can't ..." I start, but I know right away it's a mistake. She stares me down.
"We don't say 'can't' here, Joseph. We take things step by step and ..."
"We believe in ourselves," I fill in halfheartedly, because it's kind of Mrs. T's motto.
"So how about the rest of you? Who'll go to the meeting?"
Sanjit raises his hand. "I like to run. I'll go." Sanjit really likes Mrs. T and always tries to be agreeable.
"Me, too," says Erica Chen. I think she likes Sanjit a little bit.
"Excellent!" says Mrs. T. She writes down Sanjit and Erica's names. "Joseph?"
"Go on, Joseph," say Danielle and Trevor, in a way that I sense is not completely supportive, but I'm never really sure about things like that.
I have no good excuse. It's not like I take clarinet lessons or do judo or anything. Most of my afternoons are spent trying to do my homework and getting frustrated and distracted, or distracted and frustrated, depending on the day. Sometimes I watch nature shows, but I turn them off when something's about to get killed.
Also, I worry. I worry a lot.
But Mrs. T is waiting for an answer. So even though running isn't the first thing on my To Do list—like I even have a To Do list—I say okay. I'll go to the meeting. And Mrs. T dances back over to the whiteboard and adds my name in red: "Joseph: Sept. 9—Track Meeting, Room D-5."
