Fish in a Tree (11 page)

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Two days later, a lady named Miss Kessler pulls
me out of class early in the day to give me some tests. Mr. Daniels is right. They are more like puzzles and games than those awful bubble tests we do, where I just fill in circles without even reading the questions. She’s really nice, like Mr. Daniels.

After school, Mr. Daniels is setting up a chessboard and pieces at the reading table.

I walk over and he looks up. “So, did your mom tell you that I called?”

“Yeah. She didn’t say much, though. She usually has a lot to say about everything.”

He laughs. “Moms usually do.” He motions toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

I pull out the chair, wondering what this is all about.

“Okay,” he says, loosening his tie like we are going to do some serious work. “Chess is a game about planning. It isn’t like other games where you just capture the powerful piece.” He points to a piece with a cross on top. “This is the king. The object of the game is to trap your opponent’s king, but not actually capture it. When you put your piece in a place where it could take the other king, it’s called ‘check.’ When you give the other king absolutely nowhere to go, it’s called ‘checkmate.’ And that’s how you win.”

Normally, I would be nervous and my mind would go blank, but he just has this relaxing way. His voice makes me calm. Maybe because I know he will never say anything mean. Call me lazy or dumb. And I know he wouldn’t think it, either.

“Got that so far?”

I nod.

“So, then. Are you going to capture my king?”

I hesitate. Did I mess up already? “Didn’t you say that you don’t capture it? That you just make it miserable?”

He laughs. “Yes, I did say that. Good, Ally. Good listening.”

So he goes through the rest of the pieces. The queen is the most powerful and can travel in a straight line in any direction. There are eight pawns that, when you band them together, can be strong. Most players take them for granted, though. He tells me that’s a mistake.

The rooks look like castles and travel in forward, backward and side-to-side lines across the whole board. The bishops travel diagonally in straight lines, and the knights can jump in an L shape. The king can only move one spot in any direction. It stinks to be the one with the target on your back and be the one who can’t go anywhere.

He has made up a sheet with pictures of the pieces and arrows to show how they move. He says it is in case I need a reminder. I turn it over, looking him square in the eye, and say, “I don’t need that.”

He smiles a little but never takes his eyes off of me as he reaches down and moves one of his pawns. “
Good,
then.”

When I start to make some dumb moves, he asks, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

The first game ends fast, but on the second game, I capture his queen. The most powerful piece on the board. I stand up so fast, my knees push my chair back and it falls over. I want to ask if he let me do that, but I’m afraid of his answer.

He holds up his hand to high-five me. “Well done.”

And it is so weird. I don’t have trouble with this game. I like it. I like planning what I will do to trap his pieces. He shows me how you can work it so you put your piece in a place where it can choose between taking two different pieces; then your opponent has to choose which one to let go. That’s called a “fork.” I love the look on his face when I manage one of those and take his bishop. Like it hurts a little, but he likes it, too.

The longer we play, the better I can see it in my head. I can see what the board will look like a couple of moves from now. I learn to predict what he might do.

I see a mind movie where chess pieces come to life. They can travel around on the board all day by themselves and they are happy that they don’t have to just stand there and wait for somebody to pick them up and move them. I know how relieved they are, being able to do something for themselves.

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“So, did your mom tell you that we talked?” Mr.
Daniels asks.

“Yeah.” I take a long breath, noticing that I can feel my own heart beating.

“I have to talk to you about something.”

This doesn’t sound good.

“I need your help.”

“You need
my
help?”

“Yes, I do. You know how Miss Kessler gave you those tests?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it appears you do have dyslexia, which, like I said, makes learning to read difficult, but doesn’t mean you’re not bright. In fact,” he says, half smiling like Travis, “you’re very bright, Ally. The tests show that, too.”

I shift in my seat.

“But you will need some help with learning to read better, and we’re going to get it for you. Thing is, it might take a little time. Sometimes the paperwork and meetings around that take a while.”

“Okay . . .”

“You know how I said we can’t play chess on Tuesday or Thursday? Well, that’s because I’m taking classes to get a degree in special education. Basically, it’s a degree to help me help kids like you. Kids who are smart but have learning differences.”

Smart? Learning differences?

“So I spoke with Mrs. Silver and Miss Kessler.” He leans forward. “And your mom, of course. And we were thinking that I could help you after school a couple times a week. Until we can get you into formal services here at school.”

I open my mouth, but he holds up his hands. “I know. Staying after school with me will be torture. But it would really help me out with the projects I have going on for my degree. You’d be doing me a huge favor. And I’d be so grateful, Ally.” He leans forward. “So?”

I swallow hard. I’m not dumb. I know I’m not doing him a favor as a much as he’s doing me one. And I can’t believe or imagine what I’ve done to deserve help like this. Stay after school? I’d
sleep
at school if it would help.

I nod.

And we shake on it.

And he looks kind of dopey and happy.

I shift in my seat again. “But can I ask a question?”

“Sure!”

“What are ‘learning differences’?”

“Oh! Okay . . .” He thinks. “When you ride your bike home, is there more than one way to go?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so,” he says. “Well, just like there are different ways for you to get home, Ally, there are different ways for information to reach the brain. You have five senses, right? Taste, smell, sight, hearing, and touch.”

I nod.

“So, what if an alien landed in a spaceship and you had to explain what the word
frozen
means without using the sense of touch? What if you had to use just words? I think that would be hard. Do you?”

“Yeah . . . it would.”

“I think you’ve had some trouble learning words with just your eyes. We are going to incorporate more of your senses to practice letters and sounds. And I want you to relax about it. We’ll have fun. I won’t give homework on this. No tests to study for or anything like that, okay?”

I nod.

“Have you liked playing chess?”

I nod, hoping we can play today.

“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.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking this all sounds good so far. The only thing that worries me is that it won’t work. I still won’t be able to read.

“Good, then,” he says. “We’re going to practice writing letters. But we won’t use paper and pencil.” Then he pulls out a huge metal sheet and hands me a bottle of shaving cream. “We’re going to use this, and by writing in shaving cream, you’ll use sight and touch, and write large enough to use your whole arm. Just more ways for the signals to get delivered to your amazing brain.”

I smile.

“Now, fill that giant sheet with foam and let’s get started.”

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.

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The day has been pretty good, and it just keeps
coming. When I get outside, Mom and Travis are waiting for me in the car.

“We’re going to head over to a friend’s house to use their computer to Skype with your dad,” my mom says. “We are all missing him so much, I thought it would be good.”

• • •

The screen flickers at first, but then there he is. In his tan fatigues.

“Daddy!” I say, not able to hold it in and sounding like a little kid.

“Ally Bug! You’re so big! How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m good, Daddy. How are you?”

“I’m good but homesick. I sure miss you guys.”

I think how there’s a word for him missing home but not a word for us missing him.

He holds up some of my pictures. “I love the pictures you sent. I hang them up around my bunk. The other guys are jealous.” He winks.

I can tell that Mom wants to cry, but she doesn’t. She says that being a soldier’s wife means being strong for him. She doesn’t want him to know how hard it is without him here. He has enough to worry about over there. I sometimes wish she would tell him. I sometimes wonder if he would come home if he knew.

“Good, Daddy. I miss you.
So
much.”

“I miss you, too, honey. You know I do. How are things? More silver dollar days or wooden nickels?”

“Some of each, I think. But more silver dollars lately. My teacher is cool. He is . . .” And I find I can’t even explain it in words. “
Great.
”

“That’s terrific, sweetheart!”

“And I have two friends, Keisha and Albert. Keisha likes to bake and she’s brave. You’d like her, Daddy! And Albert is like a computer; he is so smart. He’s a little nuts, though. He’s been telling us how he loves all of the standardized testing. He actually thinks it’s fun.”

“Fun?
Testing?
He sounds like a different kind of guy.”

“He is. And there’s a girl named Shay at school who isn’t very nice to me.” I feel rushed, like I have to get everything in fast.

“Well, you’ll always run into people like that. You can hold your own, I bet.”

Mom pats me on the back. “Have to give Travis some time, honey.”

“Okay.” And I watch a movie of myself being strong and saying good-bye and not crying. But I want to be able to step through that screen and wrap my arms around my daddy. It feels like a part of us all is missing and we won’t be whole again until he’s home.

“
Hey,
” Dad says. “Remember, Ally Bug, I
love
you. There isn’t anything in the world I love more than you, your brother, and your mom.”

I nod.

Travis sits down next.

“Hey, son! How are the big plans coming?”

“Not so great.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Travis says.

“C’mon. Maybe I can help.”

Travis glances at Mom and me. “Well, this new manager came in at the garage. The old guy used to let me do my thing, you know. But this one hangs over me. Always asking me to follow the specs in the manuals. If I do something, he wants to know what page I looked it up on. I know how to work on different cars. I don’t need to look it up.”

My dad takes a long, slow breath. “Well, that does sound rough. Have you tried talking to the guy? Or having him talk to the old boss?”

“The old boss is out with back surgery for a while.” Travis shakes his head. “This new guy . . . he just doesn’t get me.” His voice cracks.

My father leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Now he looks like he wants to crawl through the screen. “You’ll get there. I know you will. And this is temporary. Just try to work hard and learn everything you can.”

Travis nods but looks at the floor. I hear him mumble, “There are some things I just can’t learn.”

“I’m proud of you, Trav. You know that.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I’m not there with you.”

“Yeah.” Travis looks up at the screen. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, son. Hang in there. It will get better.”

Travis nods, but I can tell he isn’t buying it. Then he stands. “C’mon, squirt. Let’s give Mom and Dad some time.”

“Why?”

He pulls me over. “So they can talk mushy in private, that’s why.”

We sit down at the kitchen table and Mom’s friend gives us sodas.

Travis cracks open his and takes a deep breath.

“
What?
”

“I’m just so frustrated, Al. There’s so much I want to do, but . . .”

I want to help him. “Maybe we could head out to some junkyards like we used to and see if we can find something worth fixing up.”

“Maybe. I’d love to find another old Coke machine or something in someone’s barn. Buy it cheap and fix it up on my own.” He looks at me. “You know I can turn almost anything around for some good money.”

The words are the same, but they are heavy. There’re no wiggling fingers or talk of being a genius. And my big brother looks so serious.

“I know you’ll have Nickerson Restoration someday, Travis. And it will be part mine because of the name, right?”

He turns back and laughs, but it isn’t real. He spends the rest of the time looking out the window, and I rack my brain trying to figure out what I can do.

Mom calls us back to say good-bye.

Dad puts his hand on the screen.

All three of us put our hands on the screen, too. Just as he flickers away, Mom leans over and leaves a lipstick kiss on the glass. Then she rests her forehead there and stays awhile.