Out of My Mind (The Out of My Mind Series)

by Sharon M. Draper

By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had meanings. But only in my head. I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old.

I can’t talk. I can’t walk. I can’t feed myself or take myself to the bathroom. Big bummer.

I suppose it’s a good thing to be unable to forget anything—being able to keep every instant of my life crammed inside my head. But it’s also very frustrating. I can’t share any of it, and none of it ever goes away.

Mostly, though, I remember words. Very early I figured out there were millions of words in the world. Everyone around me was able to bring them out with no effort.

Everybody uses words to express themselves. Except me. And I bet most people don’t realize the real power of words. But I do. Thoughts need words. Words need a voice.

I didn’t want to fall or even mean to. I couldn’t help it. I had no balance at all. None.

Dad never spoke baby talk to me like my mother did. He always spoke to me as if he were talking to a grown-up, using real words and assuming I would understand him. He was right. “Your life is not going to be easy, little Melody,” he’d say quietly. “If I could switch places with you, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You know that, don’t you?”

Here’s the thing: I’m ridiculously smart, and I’m pretty sure I have a photographic memory. It’s like I have a camera in my head, and if I see or hear something, I click it, and it stays.

Doctors. Where do I start? Doctors really don’t get me. Mom’s a nurse, so I guess she speaks their language, but they sure don’t know how to talk to me.

I’ve seen dozens of doctors in my life, who all try to analyze me and figure me out. None of them can fix me, so I usually ignore them and act like the retarded person they think I am. I paste on a blank look, focus on one wall, and pretend their questions are too hard for me to understand. It’s sort of what they expect anyway.

I knew the words and melodies of hundreds of songs—a symphony exploding inside my head with no one to hear it but me. But he never asked me about music.

Dr. Hugely, even though he had been to college for like, a million years, would never be smart enough to see inside of me.

“it is my opinion that Melody is severely brain-damaged and profoundly retarded.”

“It takes time to accept the limitations of a beloved child. She has cerebral palsy,

“You’re lucky she has the ability to smile and laugh. But Melody will never be able to walk on her own or speak a single sentence. She will never be able to feed herself, take care of her own personal needs, or understand anything more than simple instructions. Once you accept that reality, you can deal with the future.”

She crumpled up the tissue she held and stood up. “Let me tell you something, Doctor. There is no way in heaven or hell that we will be sending Melody away to a nursing home!”

She wasn’t finished. “You know what?” my mother said as she angrily hurled the brochure into the trash can. “I think you’re cold and insensitive. I hope you never have a child with difficulties—you’d probably put it out with your trash!”

“I think you’re wrong—I know you are! Melody has more brains hidden in her head than you’ll ever have, despite those fancy degrees from fancy schools you’ve got posted all over your walls!”

“You’ve got it easy—you have all your physical functions working properly. You never have to struggle just to be understood.

“You’re not so intelligent, sir— you’re just lucky! All of us who have all our faculties intact are just plain blessed. Melody is able to figure out things, communicate, and manage in a world where nothing works right for her. She’s the one with the true intelligence!”

I have been at Spaulding Street Elementary School for five years. It’s very ordinary—filled with kids, just like the schools I see on television shows. Kids who chase each other on the playground and run down the hall to get to their desks just before the bell rings.

Kids who shout and push.

Kids who sing in the choir, learn to play the violin, and take gymnastics or ballet or swimming lessons after school.

Kids who, for the most part, ignore kids like me.

Gloria is our rocker. She rocks for hours in the corner under one of the dumb smiling flowers. The teachers are always trying to coax her out, but she wraps her arms around herself like she’s cold and keeps on rocking. She’s autistic, I think. She can walk perfectly well, and she talks when she has something to say. It’s always worth listening to.

But for the majority of my life, I’ve had the communication tools of a little kid on my board. It’s no wonder everybody thinks I’m retarded. I hate that word, by the way. Retarded.

It’s like I live in a cage with no door and no key. And I have no way to tell someone how to get me out.

Once I started school, however, I discovered I had a much bigger problem than just falling out of my chair. I needed words. How was I supposed to learn anything if I couldn’t talk? How was I supposed to answer questions? Or ask questions? I knew a lot of words, but I couldn’t read a book. I had a million thoughts in my head, but I couldn’t share them with anybody.

I may not be able to make clear sounds, but I can make a lot of noise. I screamed because I hated stuff that was just plain stupid. I screeched because I couldn’t talk and tell her to shut up!

And that made me cry because I’d never be able to tell anybody what I was really thinking. So I screamed and yelled and shrieked. I cried like a two-year-old. I would not stop.

I wanted to tell Mom that I was sorry she was so sad and so scared. That it wasn’t her fault. That I was just the way I was and she had nothing to do with it. The part that hurt the most is I couldn’t tell her any of it.

Life sure would be easier if they had only one child—one with working parts. I once got one of those electronic dolls for Christmas. It was supposed to talk and cry and move its arms and legs if you pushed the right buttons. But when we opened the box, one of the arms had come off, and all the doll did, no matter which button you pushed, was squeak. Mom took it back to the store and got her money back. I wonder if she ever wished she could get a refund for me.

Garfield is a cat who has a lot to say, but all his words are written in little circles above his head. He can’t really talk, of course—he’s a cat! But sometimes that’s how I feel—like wouldn’t it be cool if I had somebody to write the words over my head so people would know what I’m thinking? I could live with that—large floating bubbles above me, speaking for me.

I make my mother pick out my nicest clothes on Wednesday morning—cool outfits like the other kids wear.

None of the girls gossip with me about some silly thing a boy has said. Nobody promises to call me after school. Nobody asks me to come to a birthday party or a sleepover. Not even Rose.

“You know how athletes get ready for the Olympics? They swim early in the morning and late at night. They run around the track for hours and hours without a crowd to cheer them on.”

“My name is Paul, and I’m the stage manager.” His huge hand swallows mine as he shakes it. “I’m glad you’re here early. Let’s see if we have you set up correctly. We’re really glad to have you participate.” He spoke directly to me, not Mom or Catherine! I like him right away.