him melt down before.
I nudge my best friend
Misty, who’s watching
the tetherball wind
and unwind around the pole.
“Look.”
Uh-oh, she says.
We’re all the way across
the field, so we can’t hear
what the boys are saying.
But when Cal looks up,
his expression is easy to read.
Annoyed.
Anxious.
Angry.
Think we should intervene?
Misty asks. Like the counselor
told us to do in that assembly?
“Yeah. We probably should.”
But before we can, Vic kicks
the book, and when it goes
flying, Cal jumps to his feet.
The other boys laugh
and move in toward him.
Some kids might respond
by raising their fists.
Others might shrink back
against the wall.
Cal screams.
Like a siren.
Piercing.
Panicky.
Painful.
Everyone stops
what they’re doing.
Turns to stare.
The playground-duty
teachers go running.
Vic and Bradley
slink off into the shadows.
Laughing hysterically.
And Cal
is still screaming.
Definition of Mortified:
Totally Embarrassed
Our principal, Mr. Love
(yeah, I know), comes
to see what the problem is.
He puts an arm around
Cal’s shoulders, steers
him toward the office.
Well, that was special,
says Misty. Your cousin
is weird, you know.
My cheeks were already
hot. Now they’re on fire.
“Hey, it’s not my fault.”
Misty sniffs. I didn’t say
it was your fault.
No one thinks that.
“So why is everyone looking
at me? I’m mortified!”
Hannah, you’re the most
popular girl in the sixth grade.
Don’t even worry about it.
“Okay, fine.” But my face
is still burning when the bell
rings and we go back inside.
Luckily, Cal isn’t here.
Mr. Love has him working
in the office, where it’s quiet.
That’s an “accommodation”
of Cal’s IEP. That means
Individualized Education Program.
Kids who have a hard time
learning get accommodations. It doesn’t
mean they’re not smart.
Cal is, for sure. But when
he has a meltdown like that one,
he can’t pay attention in class.
Neither can anyone else.
Especially not me. Mom
swears Cal can’t control it.
His therapist says when
too much comes at him
at once, his brain crashes.
Crashing brain!
Siren screaming!
Sometimes he throws things.
I get that it’s not all his fault.
No one wants to be pushed
aside and made fun of.
I wish I knew how to help
him. I wish I could figure
out how to be his friend.
But that’s hard
because I’m not exactly
sure who he really is.
Definition of Disguise:
Hide; Mask
See, Calvin Pace
is a fake kid.
Oh, he isn’t like a
robot or
a cyborg
or a mannequin.
He doesn’t
run
on
batteries,
and you don’t have to
plug him
in to charge
him up.
Nope. Cal is
flesh and
blood
and bones,
freckled skin,
curly red hair,
and I guess
he’s pretty much human.
But what you see
on the outside
is like a shell
he hides behind.
Something he built
to disguise
the person
who lives inside.
Who’s the real Cal?
Sometimes I wonder.
FACT OR FICTION:
My Full Name’s Calvin Lee Pace
Answer: Everyone knows that’s a fact.
The questions get tougher
from here, and answering them
is painful. Which is why
I invent fictional responses.
Or say nothing.
Guys like Vic and Bradley think
they bother me, but I’ve lived
through some awful stuff.
Growing up with a dad like mine,
I’m lucky to be all in one piece.
Only my brain is broken.
I don’t talk about that.
Instead, I read. Books quiet
the noise inside my head.
I’m like a rubber band,
mostly loose. But once in
a while I get stretched too tight,
like all the way to breaking.
I hate when I snap.