Real by Carol Cujec (kiss me liar novel english .txt) 📗

had words.

Skyler gave me a mega-hug. “I knew you could do it, Cherry Tree,” she said.

Julian typed me a message on his tablet.

“Your soul is now freed to tell its truths.”

I envied how his aide did not have to support his arm anymore. Ana said his independent typing came after years of practice.

“Wow,” Jaz said. “Compared to you typers, most of us talkers sound like mindless parrots.”

Julian typed his response.

“For us, each word is a gift.”

Mr. Jergen came to see me type again.

Hypothesis: He wanted to make sure it was not a fluke.

“I am indeed sorry I misjudged you, young lady,” he said. “I look forward to hearing more from you.”

Sounded like he really meant it.

Pandora’s Box

Mom tangoed into the kitchen Saturday morning all excited to ask, “What do you want for breakfast, sweetheart?”

Wow. No one ever asked that before. So many possibilities came to mind.

“How about some of my special power oatmeal?” She held the keyboard and steadied my eager hand to type.

I hate oatmeal.

Mom looked surprised. “What?” She laughed. “Well, I guess I owe you about a thousand apologies for that. What would you like?”

I typed the first thing that came to mind.

strawberry shake.

Mom yelled toward the next room. “Steve, you need to run to the store for some ice cream!”

Dad strolled in, wiping his face with a towel. “Ice cream at 9 a.m.?”

“This girl wants a strawberry shake, and she’s already waited thirteen years for it.”

That morning, the three of us slurped shakes for breakfast with extra whip. The whole time, Mom and Dad grilled me with questions—favorite foods, books, clothes, TV shows—those million little things that families already know about each other.

“What’s your favorite color?”

I love all colors. But never dress me in pink again.

“Wow—you’ll need a whole new wardrobe, then.” Dad laughed.

“How about favorite music?” Mom asked. “You’ve been putting up with my corny country tunes for years now. Here’s your chance to complain.”

All music brings joy. Except for Tubby Trash Bag jingle.

My stomach churned back and forth with each question, like the time Mason and I rode the teacup ride at the fair when we were five. Violent waves of emotions pulled me in opposite directions and made me want to barf.

A wave of joy—Wheeeeeeeee!

Anger—Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Relief—Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

Sadness—Ohhhhhhhhhhh!

Guilt—Whoaaaaaaaaa!

Typing had opened a crack in my heart, and a thousand gallons of emotion were ready to spill out.

“What are your feelings on pasta? Red or white sauce?” Mom asked.

I pushed away the keyboard.

“Charity? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

All my hurts piled against the dam ready to burst through. Years of being treated as a nobody. People calling me . . . that word. Years of abuse at Borden. The pain of all the kids left behind. Especially Isabella. And here my parents were asking if I preferred red or white pasta sauce?

These are not the important questions.

Pandora’s box—my mind kept going back to that story from ancient Greece. A woman named Pandora is given a gift by the god Zeus—a box or a jar, depending on which version you read—but she is told not to open it. So really not a gift at all. Zeus had tricked her. He knew she could not resist. When she finally peeked inside, all the evils of humanity escaped into the world—sadness, anger, regret, fear, hate.

Push the pain back inside. Superglue the lid shut!

Too late.

The lid on my Pandora’s box had been ripped off.

My mind flashed to Borden. Sitting there in the musty trailer that’s supposed to be a classroom, being serenaded by ancient Barney videos. Being dragged to the time-out closet.

Page 268: Tasmanian devils fly into a rage when threatened.

So many voiceless kids who will never be heard. So many lives wasting away.

Tasmanian devils growl and screech.

Everyone deserved to be included in the world, to be counted as worthy.

Devils bare their sharp teeth.

Isabella in tears.

They tear apart prey with their powerful jaws.

Frustration boiled in my belly and shot out through my arms, legs, throat.

They devour their prey, bones and all.

Our little celebration turned to disaster.

Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.

I dropped to the floor. My arms and legs kicked and swung. My voice howled.

GGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

“Charity, Charity,” yelled Mom. “Please, type with me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.

If only they could hear the screaming in my head.

It’s not fair. It’s not freaking fair.

Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.

Dad got down on the floor with me. “Take some deep breaths, honey. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. We’re here with you.”

You do not understand. How could you possibly understand thirteen years of agony?

Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.

“How can we help you?” Mom yelled over my screams.

Thirteen years in PRISON!

Kick-kick-punch-kick-punch-punch-kick.

At last, my arms and legs collapsed. My chest heaved up and down.

Hero waddled over and licked my ear. The tornado had passed. But the sadness was going nowhere.

Dad lifted me onto the sofa. Mom sat down to offer support. Holding up the keyboard, she pleaded, “Talk to us, please. Tell us what you’re feeling. We’re listening.”

Borden I want to go to Borden.

“But it’s Saturday,” Dad said. “Borden is closed today.”

I want to go to Borden.

Eighteen minutes later, we pulled up to the front office, its windows plastered with colorful cardboard tulips. I headed for the gate.

“I’m sure everything is locked tight,” Mom said.

I pushed down on the handle, and the rusty gate squeaked open. I marched across the playground with its shiny swing set and slide where no kids actually played. The playground where I was abandoned for hours at a time.

My body led us to the classroom where three years of my life were wasted, 136 hours and seventeen minutes spent in time out. I charged the door like an angry bull.

KICK, POUND, SLAM, SLAM, POUND, KICK

One strike for every wasted day, every hour left sitting on the grimy blacktop, every hour locked in the time-out closet, every useless test I failed, every “progress” report that made me feel worthless. Every lost opportunity.

KICK, POUND, SLAM, SLAM, POUND, KICK

Mom tried to grab my hands. “Charity, Stop—you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Dad pulled her back. “No, Gail, she has to let it out.”

KICK, KICK, SLAM,