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Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
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of the classroom, where Ms. Rucker is erasing the board.
Ms. Rucker is the one teacher we’re both nervous about. She
is
a machine. Never smiling, never flexing, never sharing anything personal.
Her life is all about numbers, and her demeanor is as severe as her haircut, which is a dark, straight, asymmetrical bob. I’m sure there’s a real person inside her somewhere, but after having her for algebra I and II, I’ve quit trying to find her. I’m just looking forward to being done with math, and being done with her.
She knows who Fiona is. Not only did she have her in class last year, but Fiona’s been getting my assignments from her. And obviously she knows who I am. Still, when she turnsfrom erasing the board, she doesn’t say anything like, Welcome back, or It’s good to see you. She simply sizes me up.
So I’m a little flustered as I go into my spiel about cutting back my homework, and during it Ms. Rucker’s expression never cracks. She just watches me closely.
Absorbs.
It’s like data in, process, response.
Only the response seems to be taking a very long time.
Obviously, she doesn’t like the data I’m feeding her and has no intention of returning anything but
Request denied
. So I open my binder and produce the assignments I’ve completed and say, “I’ve been doing the odds and checking my answers. It’s going to be a lot of work to catch up
and
keep up with the new assignments.”
She takes my papers, looks them over, then says, “Doing the odds seems reasonable.”
And that’s it.
No smile.
No nod.
No quiver of any emotion whatsoever.
She simply returns to wiping the boards clean and asks, “Will you be sitting with Rosa?”
For a moment my mind’s a blank. Then I realize she means the special-needs girl who sits at the back of the classroom.
The girl in the motorized wheelchair.
The girl who rarely talks and, when she does, is very hard to understand.
I didn’t even know her name was Rosa.
“There’s plenty of room at that table,” Ms. Rucker says without looking over her shoulder.
Inside, I panic.
Yes, I’m missing a leg, but the rest of me is … well, it’s
normal
.
Do people think I’m special-needs now?
Is that how they see me?
No! They can’t!
But … but if I start sitting with special-needs kids, that
is
what people will think.
It just is.
Ms. Rucker turns and gives me a cool, blank look.
She wants an answer.
My mind is a flurry of contradictions. I want to lie and say I’m nearsighted. That I need to be up front in my own chair. That I hop just fine.
But I also think about my terror in returning to school. Feeling like a freak.
Is that how Rosa feels?
I’ve never stared at her, but I have … overlooked her.
No—the truth is, I’ve totally acted like she isn’t there.
It’s been easier.
Less uncomfortable.
For me.
“Sure,” I tell Ms. Rucker. “I’d be happy to sit with Rosa.”
She cocks her head ever so slightly, then turns to finish wiping the board.
So I get situated alongside Rosa, and Fiona dashes off to class. Then the tardy bell rings and everyone falls silent, waiting for Ms. Rucker to speak.
There’s no let’s-welcome-Jessica-back. Just business as usual: homework out, papers exchanged, lesson reviewed.
Midway through this process Rosa surprises me by committing a cardinal sin—she passes me a note.
I read it and sin right back. And after several exchanges Rosa’s told me that she has been in a wheelchair her whole life, that she
can
walk but only with arm crutches, and that she was born with cerebral palsy. I also find out that she’s only a freshman, loves sushi, thinks math is easy, and eats lunch in Room 402.
You can join us
, she writes.
We’re fun!
I also learn that she already knew my name. And Fiona’s.
Fiona seems very nice
, she tells me, adding a big, long-lashed smiley.
She’s amazing
, I write back, adding long, curly hair to the smiley.
Rosa gives me a lopsided grin, then writes,
When
Ms. Rucker is the one teacher we’re both nervous about. She
is
a machine. Never smiling, never flexing, never sharing anything personal.
Her life is all about numbers, and her demeanor is as severe as her haircut, which is a dark, straight, asymmetrical bob. I’m sure there’s a real person inside her somewhere, but after having her for algebra I and II, I’ve quit trying to find her. I’m just looking forward to being done with math, and being done with her.
She knows who Fiona is. Not only did she have her in class last year, but Fiona’s been getting my assignments from her. And obviously she knows who I am. Still, when she turnsfrom erasing the board, she doesn’t say anything like, Welcome back, or It’s good to see you. She simply sizes me up.
So I’m a little flustered as I go into my spiel about cutting back my homework, and during it Ms. Rucker’s expression never cracks. She just watches me closely.
Absorbs.
It’s like data in, process, response.
Only the response seems to be taking a very long time.
Obviously, she doesn’t like the data I’m feeding her and has no intention of returning anything but
Request denied
. So I open my binder and produce the assignments I’ve completed and say, “I’ve been doing the odds and checking my answers. It’s going to be a lot of work to catch up
and
keep up with the new assignments.”
She takes my papers, looks them over, then says, “Doing the odds seems reasonable.”
And that’s it.
No smile.
No nod.
No quiver of any emotion whatsoever.
She simply returns to wiping the boards clean and asks, “Will you be sitting with Rosa?”
For a moment my mind’s a blank. Then I realize she means the special-needs girl who sits at the back of the classroom.
The girl in the motorized wheelchair.
The girl who rarely talks and, when she does, is very hard to understand.
I didn’t even know her name was Rosa.
“There’s plenty of room at that table,” Ms. Rucker says without looking over her shoulder.
Inside, I panic.
Yes, I’m missing a leg, but the rest of me is … well, it’s
normal
.
Do people think I’m special-needs now?
Is that how they see me?
No! They can’t!
But … but if I start sitting with special-needs kids, that
is
what people will think.
It just is.
Ms. Rucker turns and gives me a cool, blank look.
She wants an answer.
My mind is a flurry of contradictions. I want to lie and say I’m nearsighted. That I need to be up front in my own chair. That I hop just fine.
But I also think about my terror in returning to school. Feeling like a freak.
Is that how Rosa feels?
I’ve never stared at her, but I have … overlooked her.
No—the truth is, I’ve totally acted like she isn’t there.
It’s been easier.
Less uncomfortable.
For me.
“Sure,” I tell Ms. Rucker. “I’d be happy to sit with Rosa.”
She cocks her head ever so slightly, then turns to finish wiping the board.
So I get situated alongside Rosa, and Fiona dashes off to class. Then the tardy bell rings and everyone falls silent, waiting for Ms. Rucker to speak.
There’s no let’s-welcome-Jessica-back. Just business as usual: homework out, papers exchanged, lesson reviewed.
Midway through this process Rosa surprises me by committing a cardinal sin—she passes me a note.
I read it and sin right back. And after several exchanges Rosa’s told me that she has been in a wheelchair her whole life, that she
can
walk but only with arm crutches, and that she was born with cerebral palsy. I also find out that she’s only a freshman, loves sushi, thinks math is easy, and eats lunch in Room 402.
You can join us
, she writes.
We’re fun!
I also learn that she already knew my name. And Fiona’s.
Fiona seems very nice
, she tells me, adding a big, long-lashed smiley.
She’s amazing
, I write back, adding long, curly hair to the smiley.
Rosa gives me a lopsided grin, then writes,
When
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