Authors: Walter Greatshell
Mad Skills (12 page)
A gap of uncomfortable silence opened between them, their smiles so tight Maddy could almost hear the tendons creaking. The strain was broken by the school bell.
“Shoot, there’s the bell,” said Stephanie with relief. “I gotta go. We’ll talk at lunch! Meet me over by the Media Center—that’s where the upperclassmen hang out.”
Maddy heard:
This is to tell you I’ve moved on, and I can’t look back. I’m telling you this right up-front so I don’t hurt your feelings, okay? It’s not my fault. I know you’ve been through a lot of horrible stuff, and I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can ever go back to the way we were. I don’t want to. Maybe I just need more time, but I’m a senior now, and I have other things to think about—please don’t push it. You don’t belong with us. You’re so different, Maddy, I don’t even know if you’re still really you anymore.
There it was: the very thing Maddy had been asking herself all week. Staring back at Stephanie, she desperately wanted to shout,
Yes! It’s me! It’s me! The same girl who used to play Barbies with you after school. Who went Goth with you in seventh grade. Who cleaned you up when you got sick at Ryan’s party. Who brushed your hair and kept all your secrets. Your best friend.
Yes! It’s me! It’s me! The same girl who used to play Barbies with you after school. Who went Goth with you in seventh grade. Who cleaned you up when you got sick at Ryan’s party. Who brushed your hair and kept all your secrets. Your best friend.
But Maddy could only nod, and say, “Okay.” She barely believed these things herself, and none of it made any difference anymore. They were strangers to each other.
Then Stephanie and her posse were gone, a flurry of bouncing ponytails, gray woolen skirts, black stockings, and shiny heels flashing up the marble entrance. Upstairs with the rest of the senior class.
THIRTEEN
SPECIAL NEEDS
MADDY, on the other hand, was going downstairs. Down to the Special Needs Room in the basement.
It was okay—she actually was looking forward to it because her vague memories of that place were all good. She associated it with the homey smells of oatmeal cookies and warm laundry. Snack times, playtimes, nap times. Feelings of love and acceptance, which she desperately needed just then.
She had been told she had friends there, and a woman who was practically a second mother to her: Miss Sally McNulty, whose pillowy arms and huge enfolding bosom offered refuge from any storm. Maddy didn’t really remember much about Miss Sally other than those few vague impressions, but they were enough to take the sting out of being denied her seat among the seniors … or even, for the time being, the juniors.
Who cares?
she thought bitterly.
I’m Special.
she thought bitterly.
I’m Special.
It helped to know she was only going to the special-needs class for a short period of evaluation—a few weeks at most, just to ease her return. As soon as she proved herself capable, they would transfer her into the regular system, and things would get back to normal. Perhaps she could even skip straight to senior year! That would be fantastic.
But something was wrong.
On some level, Maddy had expected it to go wrong, had come to realize by now that nothing was going to be the way she hoped it would be. That she was fated to be disappointed by everyone and everything … and ashamed at her own disappointment.
Shame was the main thing, and as she stared into the Special Needs Room, her cheeks burned with it.
There were twenty or so students milling around the big, colorful space, several in wheelchairs and the rest basically ambulatory but with varying degrees of mental or physical impairment. At least half clearly had Down Syndrome, while others wore protective headgear or specialized shoes to accommodate their disabilities. A few drooled, screeched, or twitched and flapped their arms like chicken wings.
Had she really been one of these people? This had to be the wrong place … and yet Maddy knew very well it wasn’t. She wanted to back out, to run, but before she could react, they saw her.
With a delighted cry—
Maddy!
—the students rushed forward and caught her up in a moist-fingered scrimmage of affection. Pulling her inside the room, they barraged her with questions and random, incomprehensible details about themselves, so that Miss Sally, emerging from the back in an apron, had to shout to make herself heard above the din.
Maddy!
—the students rushed forward and caught her up in a moist-fingered scrimmage of affection. Pulling her inside the room, they barraged her with questions and random, incomprehensible details about themselves, so that Miss Sally, emerging from the back in an apron, had to shout to make herself heard above the din.
“Everyone sit down! Sit down please! I’m sure we’re all pleased to have Miss Grant back among us, but you gotta give her space to breathe!”
The class reluctantly sat down on the floor mats, all taking their prearranged spots. Maddy sat as well, feeling weirdly regressed to infancy. The walls were covered with finger paintings and construction-paper collages, elementary handwriting exercises and spelling tests with words like COUGH and PLOUGH—some scrawled with her name. On the shelves stood a variety of animal figures sculpted from Froot Loops or macaroni, a couple of them also identified as hers. Worst of all, there was an exhibit of class photos, and Maddy was startled to see herself as she must have looked only a few weeks ago: bound to a wheelchair, mouth gaping open, her head canted back at an awkward angle. She was gazing worshipfully at Principal Batrachian.
Miss Sally studied Maddy from across the room, peering curiously over the tops of her reading glasses. She was nearly as wide as she was tall, ruddy-cheeked and heavily freckled, with tiny features bunched close together in the middle of her face.
“Well, if it isn’t Maddy Grant. Look at you, girl! You are truly a sight to behold—if I didn’t see it myself, I’d never have believed it.”
The warmth of the words did not mesh with the woman herself—there was a glaring disconnect. Miss Sally was a ball of hostility and self-loathing, a spinning pulsar of repressed emotion. Her whole body seethed in a perpetual state of crisis, her veins stretched to their limits and her enlarged heart straining against the pressure, all building to some eventual critical mass. At this rate, she didn’t have long to live.
Maddy knew immediately what it was: fear. Miss Sally wasn’t in here teaching disabled kids out of love or saintly compassion, but out of an all-consuming desire to be needed. She was
u
s
ing
them for her own frustrated ends— just as she used food—to assuage her own feelings of worthlessness. She needed to feel needed, and these kids were the ideal captive audience. Something bad had happened to her when she was young and impressionable, and so she hid out in Special Needs, the neediest of the bunch. Which was going to be a problem since Maddy clearly no longer needed her.
u
s
ing
them for her own frustrated ends— just as she used food—to assuage her own feelings of worthlessness. She needed to feel needed, and these kids were the ideal captive audience. Something bad had happened to her when she was young and impressionable, and so she hid out in Special Needs, the neediest of the bunch. Which was going to be a problem since Maddy clearly no longer needed her.
This insight led Maddy to a broader revelation: Looking at the composition of the photos, she realized that Miss Sally was serving higher needs than merely her own. This was not just about her; the torment was bigger than that, the damage more difficult to rationalize. Sally McNulty’s murky fishbowl concealed a bigger fish. By using these kids, she was earning brownie points with someone else … someone she had loved and feared since childhood and who exploited her obsessive worship for reasons of his own. That someone was Principal Batrachian.
Was charity just a by-product of guilt? An extension of greed? Not selfless but essentially selfish, exploiting the helpless to assuage personal fears of helplessness? The weak exploiting the weak? If that was true, saints must be the biggest sinners of all. Evil must be inextricable from good since good couldn’t exist without it. Evil was
necessary
.
necessary
.
Mulling over this disturbing idea, Maddy let herself drift through the morning routine, doing simple language and math puzzles and participating in silly dance-along exercises. It wasn’t so bad. At first she resisted, but the other kids were having such a good time that when they clamored for her to join them, she couldn’t say no.
Finally, lunchtime rolled around. It was a relief to get out of the windowless basement and into the sunlight. Maddy trailed the other kids out onto the quad, then split off in her own direction. Miss Sally’s voice stopped her short.
“Excuse me—Miss Grant!”
“Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“Over to have lunch?”
“Lunch is this way.”
“No, I mean with my friends.”
“Your friends. How nice! Well, we like to stick together if you don’t mind—it makes it easier to maintain the group dynamic.”
“What?”
“You understand. Where would we be if everyone just wandered off in their own direction? Who’s to make sure they get back to class, or prevent them from leaving school grounds altogether? Imagine! That’s why we have our own little corner of the cafeteria set aside just for us.”
“But I—”
“I know you’re feeling very independent, but please think of the others. They’re your friends, too. They won’t understand, and their feelings will be hurt when they can’t follow your example. Come on, be a good sport.”
“But I was supposed to meet someone. I don’t even belong in this class!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I believe that’s for others to decide, isn’t it?”
“As if it isn’t obvious.”
“There’s more to it than test scores, Miss Grant. Personal conduct is also one of the criteria. Leadership. The ability to put others before oneself.”
“Are you serious? I’m not trying to earn my merit badge here. I just want a few minutes free to myself.”
“I’m not going to stand here arguing with you. Maybe you’d prefer to tell it to the principal. Don’t be a rotten egg—come on!”
The other kids were becoming impatient with the delay. When they noticed it was Maddy holding them up, they all began clamoring for her to get a move on—they were hungry and didn’t want to lose their favored place in line. Also, the regular students pouring onto the quad were starting to pay attention, to notice her.
With a sigh, she gave in and followed.
FOURTEEN
DIP VAN WINKLE
FOR a week, things went on that way. Maddy commuted from the stuffy seclusion of home to the stuffy seclusion of Special Needs, with very little peer interaction along the way to hamper the smooth transition. She encountered Stephanie once or twice in passing. As the novelty of seeing the “zombie girl” wore off, people lost all interest in her, averting their eyes and ducking away to avoid facing another awkward exchange. It was so stupid, because Maddy would have loved nothing more than to have a conversation about something other than herself. She was as sick of that topic as anyone—sicker!—and just wanted to forget about the operation and “amazing” recovery. But she knew she still looked like death, and who wanted to be friends with death?
Furthermore, the whole world had aged a year in her absence. A year was a long time; it would take them a while to catch up … and her as well. During that time, Veggie-Maddy had apparently served as a powerful reminder of life’s preciousness and fragility. Everyone took something from her tragedy. But now that they could talk to her, and realized they didn’t want to, those emotional epiphanies felt cheapened.
I’m a time-traveler,
she thought.
Dip Van Winkle.
she thought.
Dip Van Winkle.
At least the local media had forgotten about her, focusing all its attention on the “terrorist attack” on the TV station. Maddy had to laugh about that.
Then, suddenly, it was Friday. She’d survived her first week … or perhaps
survived
was the wrong word. More like
inhabited
. No one had been overtly mean, but since Maddy couldn’t or wouldn’t stop making everyone uncomfortable, they quickly dug a moat around her, diverting all their social energies to either side and leaving her marooned on a quiet little island of her own. In one way, Maddy found that a great relief—nothing was required of her other than she show up, shut up, and be counted. In another way, it was a major drag—nothing was required of her.
survived
was the wrong word. More like
inhabited
. No one had been overtly mean, but since Maddy couldn’t or wouldn’t stop making everyone uncomfortable, they quickly dug a moat around her, diverting all their social energies to either side and leaving her marooned on a quiet little island of her own. In one way, Maddy found that a great relief—nothing was required of her other than she show up, shut up, and be counted. In another way, it was a major drag—nothing was required of her.
Waiting for her dad after school, Maddy could see Stephanie’s group dispersing for the parking lot, all the cheery senior girls calling to one another, making their plans for the weekend. She didn’t resent them for it … or tried not to. It wasn’t their fault. All week long, she had become more and more aware of the gulf between them—not just the seniors, but everyone in school—and had decided not to fight it. Maddy had no more desire to join in that weirdly inane chatter than they had to inflict it on her. So why bother?
She watched Stephanie get into her sporty little red car and pull out of the parking lot. But instead of heading away down the street, Stephanie turned up the school driveway to where Maddy was standing. “Hey, kid,” she called. “You want a ride?”
“Hey, Steph. I’m waiting for my dad.”
“No kidding, doofus. He called to say he can’t make it. Get in.”
Shaking her head, Maddy plopped into the seat. “He called you to give me a ride? Unbelievable. Thanks.”
“No problema. Actually, I’m kind of glad. I feel like I haven’t had a chance to talk to you at all this week. How’s it going?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Have they said when they’re going to get you back into regular classes?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, come on, man! You can’t let them keep you in Special Needs. The longer you’re in there, the more you’re going to fall behind the rest of your class.”
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