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.

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.

I wonder what it would be like to be able to relax at school and not have to worry every second of every minute.

And then I decide that the craziest, strangest, most unbelievable thing I could ever draw is me doing something right.

I wish I knew what it was I should learn, because I know that I should know a lot more than I do.

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.

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.

I take his hand, but only for a second. My mind is already spinning off. Wondering what terrible things Mrs. Silver has told him. The plans they’ve made for me.

He laughs a little. “What do you like about school?” “Leaving.”

“So, we won’t involve Mrs. Silver anymore, okay? I think she has enough to do around here.” Oh no. Did he just take away my “Get Out of Jail Free” card?

Most teachers seem to like their students to be all the same—perfect and quiet. Mr. Daniels actually seems to like that we’re different.

I realize looking at him that, all this time, I haven’t been looking teachers in the face. I’ve been staring into their stomachs while I sit at my desk and they tell me the things that are wrong with me.

‘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.’”

“You say”—Albert adds and then pauses to think—“that you’ll grow up to be nobody. But logically . . . if nobody’s perfect . . . well then, you must be perfect.”

And I think of words. The power they have. How they can be waved around like a wand—sometimes for good, like how Mr. Daniels uses them. How he makes kids like me and Oliver feel better about ourselves. And how words can also be used for bad. To hurt.

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.