by Christine Sutton
I love traveling on trains. This one is old fashioned, four seats facing each other. We’ve been rattling along for two hours now, passing fields dotted with grazing cattle and slowly moving harvesters. The other passengers are doing what passengers do, read, snooze, gaze out of the window, anything to avoid making eye contact.
Not the boy, though. When he got on, he sat down opposite me and really stared. I didn’t notice at first, but when I looked over, his face split into a big, friendly grin. I couldn’t help but smile back.
In the corner the man in a pinstripe suit cleared his throat. The boy did the same. The man eyed him over the top of his glasses before burying his head back in his newspaper. The boy’s grin widened.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Karen,” I told him. “What’s yours?”
“Kevin,” he answered. He stood up and came to sit beside me.
I noticed the woman to his right glance in my direction. She was dressed head to toe in beige.
“Karen and Kevin, we sound like a singing group!” he said.
“Except that I can’t sing,” I said ruefully.
“Me either,” he admitted, unzipping his jacket to reveal a green tee-shirt with a wolf’s head motif. “I’m going to an outreach center for a week. Where are you going?”
“My mom had to go into the hospital for an operation,” I told him. “I’m going to stay with my Aunt Sal for a while.”
“Can’t your dad look after you?”
I shook my head. “He died in a road accident when I was small. There’s only Mom and me.”
Kevin made a long face. “Gee, that’s sad. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long while ago, Kevin, but thanks. My aunt lives in a house right on the beach. I’m looking forward to swimming in the gulf instead of a pool! Do you swim?”
He nodded. “Like a fish.” I expected him to say more but instead he blurted, “Do you like Twenty-one Pilots?”
I shook my head. I’d heard of them, of course. I could only imagine what they sounded like. I didn’t have long to wait. Fishing in his pocket, Kevin brought out an iPod, flicked it on, and pressed the tiny headphones to my ear. I listened for a few moments.
“Not bad but I’m more a Green Day fan myself,” I told him. Over in the corner, Pinstripe rattled his paper.
“How old are you?” Kevin asked, putting his head on one side and giving me an appraising look.
I raised my brows. “How old do you think?”
“Seventeen,” he decided.
“Seventeen!” I spluttered.
“Mmm. Pretty, too.”
I felt myself starting to blush. “I’m fifteen.”
Across the carriage, the woman in beige smiled.
“I’m seventeen,” Kevin announced. “Well, I will be on Monday. No party though; too old for parties.”
He sounded about as convincing as Homer Simpson refusing a donut.
“I suppose it would be hard to have a party anyway, without your friends around,” I remarked. Even as I said it, I knew what was coming.
“You could come.”
Instantly, the atmosphere in the carriage changed, as every single person awaited my reply.
“What, just the two of us?” I muttered. “That wouldn’t be much of a party.”
“A McDonald’s then?” he persisted.
“I, umm, don’t think they’ve got one where we’re going,” I offered feebly.
“Well, what about the zoo?” he asked, dragging a dog-eared pamphlet for Baton Rouge Zoo from his pocket. He clearly wasn’t about to give up.
“The zoo?” I said levelly. “You want me to go to the zoo with you?”
He nodded, his eyes pleading about like Granddad’s dog when I’m eating a chocolate brownie.
“W-e-l-l,” I hedged, “I’ll have to check with Aunt Sal…”
“YES!” Kevin said, punching the air with delight. Around us, half a dozen smiles materialized. Even Pinstripe managed to crack his face.
“Look, Kevin, I’m not promising,” I warned. “If I’m not there by ten, you go on in, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed.
The train pulled into the station and I saw Aunt Sal on the platform with my cousin, Jessica. I slipped into my backpack when the woman in beige stood up.
“Thank you for that,” she said, speaking softly, “it was kind of you.”
“It’s okay,” I answered, “I’m looking forward to it.”
She seemed confused.
“Monday,” I prompted, “the zoo?”
“You will actually go?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Of course,” I said, “I’ll bring my cousin, too. She and Kevin will hit it off.”
Jumping from the train, I ran across the platform and flung my arms around my beloved cousin. As I looked back, I saw understanding dawning on the woman’s face. She just realized that Jess has Down’s Syndrome, too.
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Labels Can Change
by Paulina Sussman
Palm Springs High School students only went near Room 303 to ditch school, using the “Retard Door” to leave campus. Room 303 was the Special Ed class. Maybe we made fun of these kids to hide the fact we were afraid of what we didn’t understand. Even the Associated Student Body (ASB) never really included them in any school activities. When I became ASB Commissioner of Recognition, I wanted to change that. I started visiting Room 303.
When I entered the room, I noticed a huge rug map of the United States on the floor. I saw the wall ablaze with Day-Glo finger paintings. Mr. Walters, the teacher, was reading a story.
“Hey there, pretty lady,” a student that I came to know as Bill blurted out, somewhat thick-tongued.
The teacher apologized, and I introduced myself. I began daily visits to 303. I asked friends to come along. “Maybe tomorrow” was the usual answer. Finally my friend Laura agreed.
“You are one pretty lady,” Bill said when he saw Laura. Then he kissed her on the cheek. Mr. Walters rushed over and made Bill sit down.
Later at lunch with our friends Laura did a feeble impersonation of Bill. I felt as if I’d been sucker-punched. The bile rose in my throat, but I wasn’t sure if it was from disgust at her imitation or at myself for remaining silent the whole time.
During my visits to Room 303, I noticed that one student, Brittany, was especially polite. She always said excuse me before she spoke. Bill was definitely best comedian. He liked to make people laugh with this impromptu dance moves. That’s when the idea struck—superlatives for each of the students in Room 303. I could recognize them with certificates in front of the entire student body during lunch.
We had already labeled these kids. They had been called names their whole lives. Maybe recognition would give them a new way of thinking of themselves, a new label.
I decided to present the certificates in the quad in the center of campus. It had a stage we used for pep rallies and announcements.
When the big day arrived, the bell rang and my mouth went dry as I watched Mr. Walters and the Special Ed class walk to lunch tables. Kids who regularly ate at the tables raised their eyebrows. My stomach dropped. What if everyone booed or laughed?
I grabbed the microphone and climbed onstage. “I have an announcement to make.” No one looked up. I swallowed hard. “Today we recognize those who often go unnoticed.”
Friends from the football team and the cheerleading squad slowly gathered around. I presented the first certificate to: “Bill, Best Comedian.”
The quad was quiet. My best friend Malorie and I were the only ones clapping. I felt so embarrassed for Bill. But when I looked over at him, his face had lighted up.
“Me?” he shouted. I nodded and smiled. Bill ran over, took his certificate, and started dancing.
More students started to notice. Bill bowed, and a growing throng of onlookers cheered.
I continued to call out names: “Jessica, Best Dressed.” “Aaron, Most Helpful.” Some walked to the stage, some danced, some sadly could not grab the certificate on their own. Still they beamed when I called their names.
Afterwards Mr. Walters came up to me. “You have no ideas what this means to my students.”
The truth is he had no idea what their responses meant to me.
Since that day things have changed at Palm Springs High School. ASB throws bimonthly dances to which Bill, Brittany, Jessica, Aaron, and all their friends look forward. Whenever someone says “Retard Door,” someone else says, “Chill.” I check on Room 303 occasionally. I’ve made friends within a classroom I was once afraid to enter. I see people differently, each of us with something special to contribute. And we can change labels.