Fish In A Tree

by Lynda Mullaly Hunt

My mom’s eyes got all wide and shiny when she heard that, and I felt sad and embarrassed for her having to be my mom.

I wish she could understand my world. But it would be like trying to explain to a whale what it’s like to live in the forest.

Reading for me is like when I drop something and my fingers scramble to catch it and just when I think I’ve got it, I don’t. If trying to read helped, I’d be a genius.

Grandpa used to say that Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole was just like real life. I didn’t used to understand what he meant, but I do now.

I watch a mind movie of me being the only girl without flowers marching in to see all the parents. And the look on my mom’s face. How she’d be the only sad parent in a sea of smiling ones. And how I’d feel like I was less than everyone else. No one should ever feel like that. I feel my fingertips dig into the center of my bouquet to separate the thick stems. It takes some twisting to work half the flowers out of the fancy ribbon, but I put some muscle into it. Stems crack and leaves and petals fall, spinning in the air. Landing all around my shiny new shoes. Mrs. Muldoon has turned around to stare. Her mouth is open wide enough for a bird to build a nest in. I hold her gaze as I hand half the flowers to Keisha. “Well, she can have some of mine, then.” In the end, neither of us had flowers when we walked into the auditorium. But we had bigger smiles than anyone else.

He reaches over and takes the box. Taking the elastic bands off, he opens the box to show us all what’s inside. It’s two glue sticks tied together with string, and then the ends of the string are taped to the sides of the box, leaving the glue sticks hanging in the middle. He comes over and does something a teacher has never done even once in my whole life. He high-fives me.

People act like the words “slow reader” tell them everything that’s inside. Like I’m a can of soup and they can just read the list of ingredients and know everything about me. There’s lots of stuff about the soup inside that they can’t put on the label, like how it smells and tastes and makes you feel warm when you eat it. There’s got to be more to me than just a kid who can’t read well.

“Imagine if every single time you got on your bike, you had to worry that the wheels would come off. And every time you ride, they do. But you still have to ride. Every day. And then you have to watch everyone watch you as the bike goes to pieces underneath you. With everyone thinking that it’s your fault and you’re the worst bike rider in the world.” “Why in the world are you talking about bikes and wheels coming off?” “My brain,” I say, leaning my forehead against the cold wall. “My brain will never do what I want it to do.” “C’mon. It’s not like your brain is broken. So you’re not the best speller. So what? Your brain seems fine to me.” “You don’t understand what it’s like to be different than everyone else.” “Wait. Have you noticed how different I look than everyone else in our class?” “It’s not the same.” “Look, you’re my friend. The best friend I have here. If you want to say things like that and make it hard to be your friend, then . . . well, I’ll just wait for you to come to your senses.” Oh. “You’re talking like a fool saying I don’t understand what it’s like to be different. But the thing is . . . I’m only different to the people who see with the wrong eyes. And I don’t care what people like that think.”

“One thing’s for sure. We’re not gonna fit in, but we’re gonna stand out.

I can’t say no to that deal. Homework is only one step above death.

“Nobody is ever going to be able to help me. Not ever. They all said I should have a dunce cap and they’re right. That’s the thing. They’re right!” “Oh my . . . Ally, you actually believe that, don’t you?” I can hear that it’s a shock to him. I finally look up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Now, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? You know, a wise person once said, ‘Everyone is smart in different ways. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life thinking that it’s stupid.’”

I M / P O S S I B L E “I want you to rip the paper in two pieces. Right where that line is.” I do. “So, now, Ally . . . that big piece of paper in your hand says possible. There is no impossible anymore, okay?” I swallow and look down at it and I feel a little dizzy. The way he says it makes me feel like it could actually be true. “Now, throw that little piece with the ‘I-M’ on it in the trash. It’s gone forever.”

My grandpa used to say to be careful with eggs and words, because neither can ever be fixed. The older I get, the more I realize how smart my grandpa was.

Shay is the queen. The piece with the most power to move and frighten. The piece most protected and sacrificed for. I realize that dealing with Shay every day is like playing chess. She is always looking for your weakness, always trying to get you flustered and force you into a mistake. Against her, you have to remember that the board is always changing and moving. Keep your eyes open. Be careful. Have a plan. Realize that you can only stay on the defensive for so long—eventually, you have to take a stand. But no matter what, don’t give up. Because, every once in a while, a pawn becomes a queen.

“I’m on yours,” Jessica says. But it isn’t the sound of loyalty. It’s the sound of fear.

Whatever was going to happen at the lunch table is something I’m lucky to have missed. It’s the first time ever I’ve been grateful not to be able to read.

Then I pat Albert on the back. “Just wanted you to know that you can always count on us.” “Well, that would make you either a set of fingers or an abacus.” “Uh, Albert. Seriously?” Keisha shakes her head and then leans forward. “It means we think you’re a cool dude.” “We’re allies.” I smile. He goes back to arranging his papers. “Yes, I know,” he says softly. “I am most grateful.”

Usually when I find myself unable to speak, it’s because I’m humiliated. I like this feeling a lot more.

“Elephants feel a wide range of emotions, but their behavior remains constant. On the outside, happy and sad often look the same.” I can’t remember the last time I had nothing to say about something. All this time, I thought that Albert was the science guy with as much feeling as a pinecone. But I was wrong. All that watching he does. All that thinking. He really does understand things. He definitely gets me.

My father says that the field of science was like Pinocchio as the puppet, and Einstein changed it into a real boy.”

“Never, never, never quit. Winston Churchill.”

think of that word Mr. Daniels used when he talked about the famous people with dyslexia. Grit.

“My dad has always said that violence is something to avoid at all costs,” Albert tells us. “But he has also said that you never hit a girl. And so I had to weigh the two. I just . . .” Then he stops walking and he’s wide-eyed looking at me. It gives me a chill the way he does it. “But really,” he says, “it just made everything hurt inside to watch them hurt you two, and I would have done anything in the universe to stop it.”

“SOMETIMES THE BRAVEST THING YOU CAN DO IS ASK FOR HELP.” —C. CONNORS

And there’s another mind movie. Of me being happy. Reading and making my art and finding a special Ally-shaped place in the world.