Fish In A Tree

by Lynda Mullaly Hunt

You can’t make people unhear something. I should be used to this, but it still takes a piece out of me every time.

Keisha steps up to Shay and says, “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?” I like Keisha. She isn’t afraid. And I’m afraid of so much. Shay turns, looking like she’s ready to swat a fly. “Like it’s your business?” she asks her. “That’s right. It’s not my business, but it’s as much yours . . . as it is mine,” Keisha replies. Shay lets out a small gasp.

No matter how many times I have prayed and worked and hoped, reading for me is still like trying to make sense of a can of alphabet soup that’s been dumped on a plate. I just don’t know how other people do it.

sit in the principal’s office staring out the window, silent. I wonder what it would be like to be able to relax at school and not have to worry every second of every minute.

I wish I had my Sketchbook of Impossible Things. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not a waste of space. I like to watch the pictures in my head become real in my book.

And then I decide that the craziest, strangest, most unbelievable thing I could ever draw i...

The letters on the poster look like black beetles marching across the wall. I could probably figure most of them out, but I’d need a lot of time. And when I’m nervous, forget it. My brain goes blank like an Etch A Sketch turned upside down and shaken. Gray and empty.

pull out a book and open it, but the letters squiggle and dance. How are other people able to read letters that move?

Alice in Wonderland—a book about living in a world where nothing makes sense made perfect sense to me.

“Oh, Ally . . . you’re too smart for this. School is too important to joke about. I don’t want you working long hours on your feet for a bunch of tips like me. I want more for you. And you’re so smart. Good at math. A gifted artist. Don’t you think it’s time to stop clowning around?” “I’m not that smart. You say that, but I’m not.”

When we get into the car, Travis says, “Did you see how that guy in there took me for a fool? Trying to rip me off. Remember, Ally. When people have low expectations of you, you can sometimes use it to your advantage.” Then he looks me right in the eyes and points at my nose. “As long as you don’t have low expectations of yourself. You hear?”

The butterflies do come to me. Their colors and patterns make me wonder why I haven’t been drawing butterflies. They don’t fly like birds. Instead, they kind of fly all over the place. Makes me wonder if I’m part butterfly. I put my arms out like a tree and one, then two land on my arm. I love them. I never knew before how much I love butterflies. I think about the story Albert told in social studies when we were studying Native Americans. He said that they believed butterflies were special creatures and wish givers. And that if you can catch a butterfly, whisper your deepest wish to it, and then set it free, it will carry your wish to the spirits, who will grant it.

Sometimes a person will do just about anything for a wish to come true.

“You know, I had a feeling you would be good at it. I think your mind learns in pictures, and it helps you be a really good chess player. We’ve played several times now and you have learned it fast and improved a lot without much time. Also, thinking in pictures?” He leans forward. “It’s one of the reasons you are such a good artist.”

As I draw my finger through the gooey cream, I think about the words “learning differences.” And I’m filled with fear and happiness and questions. But I’m mostly filled with hope.

My grandpa used to say to be careful with eggs and words, because neither can ever

“Before the United States entered World War Two, there were a bunch of American pilots in China. They were called the Flying Tigers. They flew those planes with the shark teeth on the nose.” “Wait!” I say. “My dad and brother love those planes!” He nods once as I try hard to shake out the mind movie of me as an airplane. “They did not have many planes, so they would repaint them every few missions. Change a bit of the design and the numbers so that the Japanese would think there were far more of them than there really were.” I sort of know what he means. “I’ve watched you. Trying to figure out how to repaint yourself for other people all the time. Trying to make them think one thing about you when the opposite was true. Like with the teachers. Always getting sent to the office.”

“I called you the Baby because when you’re quiet, you’re taking everything in. But when you want something, you’re loud about it and usually get your way pretty fast.”

An elephant is a pachyderm. It means an animal with a thick skin.” I guess we’re all pachyderms, then. Or we pretend to be. His finger picks at the side of his thumb. “Elephants feel a wide range of emotions, but their behavior remains constant. On the outside, happy and sad often look the same.”

“That’s right. As children, they struggled to read even simple words and, based on some other clues as well, most experts now believe that they had dyslexia. But, of course, we know their struggles weren’t because they were stupid. It’s just that their minds worked differently. And thank goodness they did, because otherwise we may not have telephones or lightbulbs or stunning works of art.” He smiles. “Oh. And we wouldn’t have Mickey Mouse.” He is quiet for a while. I think he’s letting it sink in. “So, then . . . for your homework, I have an extra- credit assignment.” He turns on the smart board and there’s writing: Ju jt nvdi ibsefs up sfbe xifo zpv epou ibwf uif dpef.