Make It Count (15 page)

Chapter Twenty

C
ROSS
K
EYS
M
IDDLE
School, for grades six through eight, was a squat brick building that bustled with pimple-ridden, brace-faced preteens.

Was there anything worse than middle school? Kat thought not, as she stood in the lobby, watching students whispering to one another as they hustled to class. It was such an awkward age, where most of the girls had hit puberty, their boobs stuffed in ill-fitting training bras. And the boys were an odd mix, some still stuck in prepubescent bodies and others with cracking voices, full of the lovely raging hormones that afflicted men worldwide.

Kat smoothed her skirt and headed into the attendance office.

“One moment,” the woman at the counter said without looking up as the bell over the door sounded.

“No problem. Take your time.” Kat glanced around the office, full of inspirational posters, like that kitten hanging from a tree with the caption “Hang in there!” She always wondered about that poster. Obviously, they didn’t throw a cat up in a real tree. So did they hold a twig over a pillow in case the cat fell? What kind of person volunteered their cat for that? Poor thing. She hoped its owner gave it lots of treats afterward—

“Kat Caruso?”

Kat snapped her eyes back to the attendance desk and smiled. Mrs. Gandy, her neighbor, was still the attendance officer. Which was unfortunate if you wanted to call in sick to lay out in your backyard to get a base tan for the eighth-grade sock hop. Hypothetically.

“Hello, Mrs. Gandy,” Kat said in greeting stepping up to the desk.

“Well I’ll be. Look at you, all grown up. Are you in college now?” Mrs. Gandy wore a pale pink sweater set and her glasses sat on the tip of her nose, the frames attached to a beaded string around her neck. Her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

“I am, at Bowler.”

“Major?”

Kat tried not to cringe. “Oh, um, I’m undecided.”

Mrs. Gandy’s smile dimmed. “Well, you have time to decide. What can I help you with today?”

“Well . . . ah . . . I was hoping to see Mrs. Ross. Is that possible?”

Mrs. Gandy pursed her lips and then relayed some instructions to the other attendance officer. After some typing, she told Kat Mrs. Ross happened to be free with a planning period. They supplied Kat with a visitor’s badge and sent her on her way to Mrs. Ross’s classroom.

When Kat reached the closed, glass-paneled door, she peered inside. Mrs. Ross looked the same as Kat remembered her. She walked around the room straightening up, a tall, black woman with hair shorn close to the scalp. Kat could still hear her voice in her head, a slight Ghanian accent left over from when she moved as a child. She married an American man, hence the last name.

Kat knocked on the door, and Mrs. Ross glanced up. She blinked, then her eyes widened in surprise, and she gestured Kat inside with a large smile. Kat returned the smile and stepped into the classroom.

“Kat Caruso? Live and in the flesh.” Mrs. Ross pulled her in for a hug and Kat breathed deeply, loving the warm, familiar scent of cocoa butter.

“Hello.” She pulled back and took the seat to which Mrs. Ross gestured. The teacher took the seat across the small desk from her.

“So, please, tell me how you’ve been.” Mrs. Ross said.

Kat took a couple of minutes to catch her up with her life since sixth grade.

“And you like Bowler?” Mrs. Ross asked.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I like college. It’s just . . .” she blew out a breath and gave a sad laugh while looking at her hands twisting on the desk. “It’s really hard.”

She looked up, expecting to see disappointment or pity, but Mrs. Ross looked thoughtful. “College is challenging,” she said generically.

Kat bit her lip. “Yeah, well that’s part of why I came today. I wanted to ask you about something. I have this tutor and he . . . he mentioned I might have dyslexia. Does that make sense to you?”

Mrs. Ross cocked her head and frowned slightly. “Weren’t you tested for that in middle school?”

“Um, not that I remember.”

Confusion passed over Mrs. Ross’s face. She opened her mouth, then closed it and looked away.

“Mrs. Ross?”

Her teacher sighed and then turned back to her. “When I had you as a student in sixth grade, I saw some signs of a learning disability. I suspected dyslexia, but I wasn’t sure. I mentioned to your parents that the district could test you or they could take you to a private psychologist.”

Kat’s jaw was close to hitting the desk, it was so low. “I never knew about that.”

Mrs. Ross shook her head, her voice heavy. “They declined.”

Kat wasn’t sure she heard that right. “Excuse me?”

Mrs. Ross sucked her lips between her teeth and spoke again. “They declined to get you tested. And they are your parents, they got the final say. Not me and not the school.”

Kat squeezed her thighs so hard, she thought she’d leave bruises, so she shoved her hands under her butt and sat on them. Her parents were told and did nothing? She struggled all this time on her own? She wanted to ask Mrs. Ross why her parents declined to test her, but she thought that question was better directed at the source.

She looked away and bit her lip. “So, this makes sense to you?”

“Kat, you were an incredibly bright student. Very creative, full of imagination. But you had trouble with reading comprehension, spelling and writing that didn’t seem to match up.”

“Is that why you took all that time with me? To show me how to organize and plan? Kat asked.

Mrs. Ross nodded. “And that helped?”

“Oh God, yes, I’m not sure where I’d be without all your help back then.”

Mrs. Ross placed a the desk between them. “Honestly, I’m so impressed you made it into college with no help for your possible learning disability.”

“Would you believe I got by on good looks? Feminine wiles?”

Mrs. Ross laughed. “I do think your charm has most likely saved you more than you think.”

Kat sobered. “What do I do now? I mean, now I have this . . . thing . . . this word
disability
hanging over my head and—”

Mrs. Ross reached out and took Kat’s hands, rubbing them softly, cutting her off. “Kat, dear, this is a good thing. Most colleges have learning support centers. You go and you speak to them. If they determine you do have dyslexia, there are ways for them to help you with your classes. You can get altered assignments to suit your abilities and extra help or time. I think you’ll be relieved to know you have struggled for a reason.”

Kat hadn’t thought of it that way. All the times she labored over assignments that other kids breezed through had only made her feel frustratingly lacking in intelligence.

Mrs. Ross leaned back. “And don’t let anyone make you feel bad about this. There shouldn’t be a stigma about learning disabilities. They can’t be helped, just like any other type of congenital disability.”

Tell that to my parents
, Kat wanted to say. Instead, she shifted in her seat, releasing her hands from their confinement. “Can I hang out here for a little this afternoon?” Kat asked. She wanted to delay going home to tell her parents their child was just like neighbor Elijah and could have greatly benefited from “special classes and nonsense.”

Mrs. Ross patted Kat’s arm. “Of course.”

Kat spent a good portion of her morning learning about Native-American tribes and the multitude of uses for a bison carcass. She didn’t remember learning in sixth grade that the scrotum was used for baby rattles. Mrs. Ross muttered that fact was the result of letting the students pick their own research topics.

The last class before lunch was language arts and Kat migrated to perch on the heater to watch the students write. Their assignment involved picking a Greek god or goddess, writing about his or her attributes and then citing the source from their textbook.

One girl, a little freckled thing with red curly hair, scowled at her page as if she wanted to light it on fire. Mrs. Ross hovered near her and began speaking softly.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t understand.” The girl huffed.

Mrs. Ross knelt down, her knees brushing the girl’s denim skirt. “What are you having problems with?”

Rachel peered at her teacher under bronze eyelashes. “I know Poseidon holds something but I can’t find in the book what it’s called and I’m getting really frustrated.” She threw her pen onto her desk for emphasis, in a little redheaded snit.

Mrs. Ross jerked her head back in surprise but kept her face neutral and kind. “Rachel, honey, remember what we talked about? What to do when you get frustrated?”

Rachel looked chagrined. “Close my eyes and count to ten. Start again when I’m calm.”

“Right, and did you do that?”

Rachel shook her head.

Mrs. Ross patted her hand. “That’s okay, now try again. Read the paragraphs on Poseidon slower and I’m sure you’ll find the name of the object he carries.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ross,” the little girl said.

Mrs. Ross smiled and walked slowly away, her eyes scanning the classroom. Rachel took a deep breath and focused back on her book, reading with her finger moving on each line. Then she gasped, her face lit up with a smile and she scribbled quickly onto her paper. Kat could only guess she’d found
trident
.

And in a weird snapshot of her life, Kat pictured herself sitting at that same desk in sixth grade, in a perfectly matched outfit and hair in a French braid, feeling frustrated like Rachel. Although her problem was the inability to express her creative ideas on paper and parents who didn’t understand her.

But she had Mrs. Ross. And Mrs. Ross was still there for her.

She remembered something her teacher had told her all those years ago.

I care about every single student. Not just the ones who always get A’s
, she had said, when Kat needed extra help on a writing assignment.

And for once, something actually clicked into place in Kat’s brain. She’d been floundering for so long, she almost missed the feeling of fitting. Of things being right.

She glanced around the classroom, taking in all the posters on the wall and the vocabulary words on the chalkboard. What if this is where she belonged, but on the other side of the classroom. As a teacher and not a student. All her life, she thought she wouldn’t be capable but she had a reason for her problems now. What if she was able to be the inspiration for struggling students like herself?

A
FTER SHE SAID
good-bye to Mrs. Ross, she left the school and stopped for a celebration caramel
mac
chiato
. Extra drizzle. Because nothing said “I might have finally realized my calling” like a thousand-calorie caffeine jolt.

Although, she still had to get her statistics grade back on track before she could declare a major and get a degree. Details.

When she got home, she changed into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top under a dolman-sleeved sweatshirt. Then she dug out a notebook, sat at her laptop and began her research.

She made all the notes on dyslexia she could and visited the website for Bowler’s learning support department. She e-mailed the director to schedule a meeting after spring break. And then she composed an e-mail to Alec, but didn’t send it.

After lunch, she walked to the curb to get the mail. She’d flipped through three credit-card offers and a magazine when she heard, “Kat!”

Her neighbor, Mrs. Carter, Elijah’s mom, walked toward her, wearing a blue tracksuit and holding pink hand weights. She was doing that weird, puckered-mouth exercise breathing.

“Hi Mrs. Carter.”

“Hello.” Her neighbor stopped in front of her, walking in place, swinging her arms. Kat instantly felt lazy. “How’s Bowler?”

“Uh, good. Great.”

Mrs. Carter nodded as Kat was talking and almost cut her off to speak. “Elijah is doing great! He has an internship this summer with a software developer and is going to graduate a semester early.”

On the spectrum, special classes and nonsense.
Kat heard her mother’s voice in her head. Would Kat be graduating early if she had that? If her parents hadn’t brushed her teacher’s concerns aside? She clenched her fist until the envelopes in her hand crinkled.

She smiled politely, happy for Elijah, who had always been a nice, albeit quiet, kid. “That’s great. Please tell him I said congratulations.”

Mrs. Carter beamed, clearly proud of her son.
As she should be
, Kat thought.

“I will. You home for spring break?”

Kat nodded. Mrs. Carter was still walking in place, and it was giving her a headache.

“Elijah is participating in a programming competition in Las Vegas,” Mrs. Carter said. “He was really excited.”

Kat thought it sounded like torture, but maybe he could get to hit a fun strip club or something. “Well, I wish him luck.”

“Thanks, honey. I’m off on my workout since it’s not too cool outside. See you soon!” And Mrs. Carter pranced off, pink-weighted hands pumping.

Kat sighed and walked back inside her house. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and stared into her backyard. Good for Elijah. His label wasn’t holding him back. He had been in some special classes, from what she could remember, but other than that, he’d been in the general school population. He was smart and generally well liked.

Kat recognized her life wasn’t horrible. Her parents were well off, she had plenty of friends and she’d managed to get into college. But she’d still spent her formative years insecure about her intelligence. Her confidence in her grades and ability to function in a professional job hadn’t just taken a hit. It’d been knocked out. For a decade.

She couldn’t have said how she would have reacted if she’d found out she had dyslexia in sixth grade. She’d been eleven. But her parents had been adults.

And they hadn’t done a thing.

She glanced at her watch. They’d be home from work soon, and they were going to have a conversation.

And after that, she needed to make a call to Alec. She was still hurt that he talked to Danica about her, but she saw now he had meant well. And denying her in front of Max? Well, she’d pushed him to do that, hadn’t she? Either way, they needed to talk, because despite it all, she still wanted his arms around her, his hand holding hers, his voice in her ear cheering her on.