Fifty-Four Things Wrong with Gwendolyn Rogers, page 18
My heart stops.
Believed?
Was exhibiting?
Why past tense?
Mom sputters then freezes with her mouth open. “In all the therapists and psychiatrists and counselors we’ve seen, I’m not sure any has ever apologized,” Mom says. “And believe me some of them really screwed up.” She sits.
I’m still standing.
“I don’t have ADHD anymore?” I ask, my voice small.
Dr. Nessa sighs. “Well, that’s irrelevant now.”
Irrelevant?
I-R-R-E-L-E-V-A-N-T.
Unimportant? Not of use?
Irrelevant?
It’s the most relevant thing ever. It’s why Tyler and Hettie and everyone forgave me so quickly. It’s why Mr. Olsen should keep a stupid pencil for me. It’s what makes me make sense.
“It’s not irrelevant!” I scream.
“Oh!” Dr. Nessa looks surprised at my volume but she doesn’t correct me. “You’re right. Of course. What I mean is . . . We talked about trial and—”
“How can my ADHD not matter?” I yell.
Dr. Nessa and Mom both look at me.
“The thing about a diagnosis,” Dr. Nessa says, slowly, like she’s making room for me to interrupt her again if I need to, “is that it only matters insofar as it helps you. We don’t know if you have ADHD, but we do know the treatment doesn’t help you.”
“I need to know if I have it,” I say. “I need to know what my letters are.”
“Letters?”
“Marty and me. We’re the letter friends.” The words are pouring out of me because I don’t have a filter, and I don’t have any impulse control, and now nothing can help me with that or with any of the fifty-four things. “You can take away the meds but I still need my letters.”
“I’m not sure what you—”
“And the meds did help with some things. They made it so . . . I don’t know . . . I need to have ADHD because . . . because . . . my brain needs a name.”
“Are you saying life was easier with the stimulants?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“No,” I say, exasperated.
Mom is staring at me, openmouthed. Like she somehow didn’t realize that losing the letters would be the worst part of this. Like the only thing that matters is my behavior and not why I am the way I am.
“What are you saying, Cupcake?” she asks.
“ADHD is something,” I say. “Something people understand. Something people make space for in places like PowerKids and school. If I go back to just having”—I stop myself before I say fifty-four things wrong with me—“you know, general problems, then no one ever helps me. No one ever understands.”
“But not having a dis—” Mom starts. Dr. Nessa interrupts.
“That sounds frustrating, Gwendolyn,” she says.
“It is. And it’s lonely.”
Dr. Nessa gives me a small, sad smile. “It must be so lonely,” she says. “And I’m not saying you’re neurotypical. I believe you have some neurological particularities that make it harder for you to function in the environments that you just listed because of how they’re dominated by neurotypical culture and neurotypical people.”
That’s a weird way to say it. It’s almost like she’s saying that’s hard for me because people don’t understand me instead of me being the one who’s . . . wrong. Bad.
“I can see how a diagnosis would make it easier for you to ask for what you need in a way that people can understand.”
I nod.
“The truth is tricky, and it’s not what you want to hear, but I always tell you the truth, OK?”
“Yeah,” I say. I inch closer to Mom but she doesn’t notice. I wish she’d put her arm around me.
“So here it is: the typical treatment for someone with ADHD didn’t work. It’s going to be more complicated to diagnose you and to treat you, and that may make it more difficult for you to access the kind of modifications you deserve in the world. And that . . . stinks.”
I giggle. Relief slips around my bones. I want to have ADHD, but the second best thing is talking to someone who understands me.
“And I know you’ve already been dealing with it. You’ve already had so many professionals fail you because your case is complicated.” She turns to Mom. “But just because helping Gwen will be difficult, perhaps even more difficult than it is with other neurodivergent children, that doesn’t mean she deserves the help less. You deserve help. Real help. You both do. And my job is not finished. That is, if you’ll let me try again. I’d like to fix the mistake I made.”
I expect Mom to answer, but she doesn’t. She’s staring at me. After what feels like a long silence Dr. Nessa says, “It’s OK if you need some time to think about it, Gwendolyn.”
She’s talking to me.
“No,” I say. “I don’t need time. I need help!”
Dr. Nessa and Mom both chuckle.
“Let’s talk about what happened in school today,” Dr. Nessa says. “Why did you get sent to the principal’s office?”
“Um,” I say. “I sort of sent myself there.”
“You what?” Mom asks. She’s mad at me again. There’s no magic we anymore.
“Why?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“Mr. Olsen said I could stop being sarcastic or I could go to Principal Dickens.”
“Why did he say that?” Mom asks.
“Because I was being sarcastic,” I say.
Mom lowers her eyebrows. “I don’t think we’re getting the whole story.”
“I usually try to be as good and as still as I can, and hold it all in, and then I end up bursting at PowerKids. Today I went to the principal.”
“Because you’re not on meds?” Mom asks.
“No, because there’s no horse camp,” I say.
“What?” Mom says. I don’t understand how she can be so confused.
“What’s this about horse camp?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“I can’t go to horse camp so there’s no reason to try to sit there and be quiet while Mr. Olsen yells at me anymore,” I say.
Mom’s eyes go big and she starts to speak, but Dr. Nessa shushes her again.
“Let’s rewind back to the beginning. Were you actually being sarcastic with Mr. Olsen?”
“I guess,” I say.
“Why?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“Because he was sarcastic with me,” I say. “He’s sarcastic all the time. He thinks it’s funny.”
“What?” Mom says. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“You never asked,” I say.
“Asked?” Mom says. “How would I even—”
“Hold on, Nina,” Dr. Nessa says. “When she’s talking, let’s try to keep her talking, OK?”
That’s the weirdest thing anyone has ever said about me because I’m always talking.
“What was he saying that was sarcastic?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“He wouldn’t listen to me. I forgot my science report—” I look at Mom. “Sorry. I just . . . I forgot to do it. And I forgot a pencil. And he wouldn’t keep the pencil for me, and he wouldn’t listen when I told him that writing things down doesn’t help me. And then he started speaking in this voice that made me feel so small and stupid . . .”
Mom’s face gets redder and redder. I don’t want my words to keep coming. I don’t want to make her upset. But they pour out of me before I can stop them.
“I tried to make myself feel better by speaking the way he was speaking. So I got in trouble.”
Dr. Nessa nods. “It sounds like you were trying to explain your needs,” she says. “And your teacher responded in a way that made you feel insecure and defensive.”
“Yes,” I say. Relief rushes around inside me even faster.
“That’s a way I may be able to support you. I’ll be contacting Mr. Olsen tomorrow.”
“You will?” I ask, shocked.
“You will?” Mom says at the same time.
“With your permission, yes,” Dr. Nessa says. “Sarcasm isn’t ever great to use with middle schoolers, but it’s especially bad to use with someone like Gwendolyn. Gwen, I can see even more clearly what having a diagnosis means to you. I can see how much easier it would be to explain your needs to someone like Mr. Olsen if you could say you have ADHD.”
“Yeah,” I say. I guess I can’t ever say that again.
“So that means it’s up to me to help you communicate those needs, OK? If you don’t have a diagnosis to lend you credibility when advocating for yourself, maybe a doctor is the next best thing?”
“Oh,” I say. “Um, OK.” I’m stunned.
“Also, bear with me, Nina, but I’m wondering if Gwendolyn actually did the right thing by going to the principal’s office? She was able to calm down. She didn’t end up hurting anyone.”
“Anger didn’t crack my brain,” I say, before I realize that they both won’t know what I mean. I’m not sure they hear me anyway.
“It looks like being freed from the pressure of trying to earn a reward allowed Gwendolyn to make a decision that ended up being good for her.”
“But what if I was at work?” Mom asks.
“Yes,” Dr. Nessa says. “Have you been operating under the idea that the only way to stop school and the after-school program from constantly interrupting your life is to change Gwendolyn’s behavior?”
“Well . . . yeah,” Mom says.
“That’s got to stop,” Dr. Nessa says.
“What?” Mom asks. “How?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going to talk to both places about how and when they call you. I’m going to explain Gwen’s needs and yours. I don’t think we can say they should never call you. Sometimes there are true safety concerns with Gwendolyn but sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes they call me for something so minor my head wants to explode,” Mom says.
I had no idea Mom felt that way.
“Exactly,” Dr. Nessa says. “So I’ll advocate for you until we have a less disruptive plan.”
Mom looks even more stunned than I feel.
“I’m here to help you, too,” Dr. Nessa says. “Your mental health is critical to Gwendolyn’s functioning, and you seem a little . . . overwhelmed.”
Mom has tears in her eyes. “You could say that,” she says.
Dr. Nessa glances at her watch.
“We’re going to be out of time. But, quickly, let’s explore this idea that Gwendolyn was able to think more clearly when she was freed from the pressure of trying to earn horse camp. Do you think that’s true?”
“Yes,” I say. “I wanted to go to horse camp so badly it was all I thought about. And when it seemed like someone would take it away, I got so angry. But now that it’s gone . . .”
Dr. Nessa nods. “This happens a lot with kids like Gwendolyn. The things we do that we think will help—specifically structuring consequences and rewards to influence behavior—often backfire. They’re behaving poorly because they can’t do whatever we’re asking of them, no matter what we threaten or offer. Rewards and consequences just don’t work.”
“So I never should have even hoped for horse camp,” I conclude.
Dr. Nessa shakes her head. “I’m saying the opposite. You should go to horse camp.”
“Wait. So she just does whatever she wants?” Mom asks.
“No,” Dr. Nessa says. “That’s impossible. I’m not saying Gwen should get everything she wants. But I do think she should be allowed to go to horse camp.”
“Why?” Mom lowers her eyebrows.
“Because when I read her original IEP, I was struck by how much success Gwendolyn found with horses. I know equine therapy was frustrating, but that seemed to have little to do with horses and more to do with yet another inflexible therapist that didn’t understand Gwendolyn. When it comes to horseback riding, it seems to me that Gwendolyn was thriving.”
Mom and I both nod.
“We need to get her used to thriving. She’s going to learn the skills she’s missing the same way she learns anything: easy problems first, then harder ones. From what I know about her relationship with her favorite horse—”
“Dandelion,” I say.
“Right. Dandelion. It seems like when you were with her you were able to demonstrate a lot of frustration tolerance. She was a frustrating horse, and yet in her presence, Gwendolyn remained patient.”
“That’s true,” Mom says. “I never understood that. It drove me crazy.”
Dr. Nessa smiles. “That’s an understandable reaction. But what I’m saying is that instead of looking at Gwendolyn as mysteriously inconsistent, we can try to use that experience of frustration tolerance and help her apply it to other environments where she’s less successful.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Mom whispers.
“Of course you didn’t,” Dr. Nessa says. “You’ve been trying to fix everything for everyone. You’ve been trying to do the impossible.”
“Yeah,” Mom says.
“A simpler way to look at this: you know how the meds didn’t help, so we stopped them?”
“Yes?” Mom says.
“Well, when you took away horses . . . did that help her?”
“No, it didn’t,” Mom says.
“Did it help you?” Dr. Nessa asks. She’s talking faster and looking at her watch. I like this conversation but I don’t think I’m ready for it to be over. I don’t like the watch-glances.
“No,” Mom says with a chuckle. “I missed Gwendolyn chatting happily about horses. And I missed having another place she could go and be happy so I could—”
“Exactly,” Dr Nessa says. She cuts Mom off. My mom looks at me. Her eyes are clear, finally. “Gwendolyn, I think you’re going to horse camp.”
She looks so happy, it shatters my heart.
“I can’t,” I say. “Remember? I’m not even in PowerKids anymore.”
Mom’s eyes go wide and she smacks her forehead in frustration.
“Oh,” Dr. Nessa says. “Right. I’m sorry, I’m so rushed. I can’t believe I didn’t lead with this: I already spoke with Ms. Hayley. We tried to come to a compromise. She asked that Gwendolyn apologize to Tyler and—”
“I already did that!” I proclaim.
Dr. Nessa smiles. “I’m not surprised.”
My face feels warm, in a good way.
“That means you can go back to PowerKids on Wednesday.”
“What?” I ask, shocked. “They changed their minds? Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be punished as if you were acting on your own, Gwen. What happened was due, at least in large part, to a side effect of a medication you were taking correctly, as prescribed.”
My eyes go wide. Hettie was right.
Mom is stuttering. “I can’t tell you . . . wow . . . what a relief . . .”
“I actually think even a three-day suspension is inappropriate considering there has already been a medication change,” Dr. Nessa is saying. “But, practically speaking, you were already coming here for appointments today and Tuesday. So I’m hoping that you’ll be able to come up with something on Monday, and then this problem will be over.”
“We’ll take it,” Mom says. She almost sounds like she’s singing. She doesn’t even know that Marty and I already solved Monday for her, too.
“Good,” Dr. Nessa says. “Now I have to go. You two have a nice weekend.”
“But—wait,” Mom says, no longer singing. “What’s the plan?”
“We have an appointment for Tuesday, right?” Dr. Nessa says. “You can speak with reception if—”
“No, I mean . . . what do we do this weekend?” Mom says.
Dr. Nessa is half out of her seat. She freezes like that, lowering her eyebrows at Mom like she doesn’t understand.
“I understand what you were saying, I think,” Mom says. “No rewards, no punishments. But then . . . what do I do? What’s the plan?”
“Ah,” Dr. Nessa says with a small chuckle. “No plans this weekend.”
“What?” Mom asks.
Dr. Nessa starts to walk toward the door. “I think you both need a break from plans,” she says over her shoulder.
Mom follows Dr. Nessa, so I follow Mom, but I can see on her face that she’s still confused. And maybe a little worried.
“So I just . . . do nothing?” Mom asks as we reach the lobby.
“Rest,” Dr. Nessa says. “Nina, you rest.”
I can tell we aren’t finished but I guess we need to be.
We walk out of Dr. Nessa’s building. I’m stunned and I think Mom is too. There are no words between us, which is weird.
I always thought the worst possible thing would be if Mom stopped hoping. I thought I’d know she had stopped hoping if she gave up all the plans. But it seems like Dr. Nessa is saying that’s what should happen.
When we get in the car, I ask Mom if I can borrow her phone to text Hettie.
“If you do all your homework focusing and without complaining,” Mom says.
But a second later she tosses her phone into the back seat.
“Never mind. Text Hettie. I’m going to have to get used to this.”
I open Mom’s phone and text U WERE RITE! I’ll be at camp! Then a bunch of horse emojis.
She texts back immediately. I ♥ you.
20
The No Plan Plan
The weekend is weird. I sleep all the way through Mom’s Saturday meeting. When she comes back, she doesn’t tell me to turn off YouTube and do my homework. She spends Saturday at the kitchen table surrounded by paperwork while I spend the day in my room with Mr. Jojo and Zombie and Marshmallow. I watch videos of horseback riding lessons. I try to remember the way I bounced up and down when I’d get Dandelion into a trot and how amazing it felt to soar over an obstacle. Soon, I’ll be on a horse again. Even if it’s not Dandelion.
I’m a little afraid that without a plan, all fifty-four things will get worse. But Anger sleeps all day.
Then again, why would Anger wake up when Mom doesn’t ask me to do anything? No chores. No homework.
By Sunday, I’m bored of YouTube and horses, and I do some of my homework at the kitchen table without being reminded. Mom doesn’t even glance up from her own work. Usually, when I do homework, Mom sits with me and helps me stay on track and organized, and I keep getting off track and disorganized anyway, and we end up fighting. Today there’s no fighting, but there aren’t any words either.
Believed?
Was exhibiting?
Why past tense?
Mom sputters then freezes with her mouth open. “In all the therapists and psychiatrists and counselors we’ve seen, I’m not sure any has ever apologized,” Mom says. “And believe me some of them really screwed up.” She sits.
I’m still standing.
“I don’t have ADHD anymore?” I ask, my voice small.
Dr. Nessa sighs. “Well, that’s irrelevant now.”
Irrelevant?
I-R-R-E-L-E-V-A-N-T.
Unimportant? Not of use?
Irrelevant?
It’s the most relevant thing ever. It’s why Tyler and Hettie and everyone forgave me so quickly. It’s why Mr. Olsen should keep a stupid pencil for me. It’s what makes me make sense.
“It’s not irrelevant!” I scream.
“Oh!” Dr. Nessa looks surprised at my volume but she doesn’t correct me. “You’re right. Of course. What I mean is . . . We talked about trial and—”
“How can my ADHD not matter?” I yell.
Dr. Nessa and Mom both look at me.
“The thing about a diagnosis,” Dr. Nessa says, slowly, like she’s making room for me to interrupt her again if I need to, “is that it only matters insofar as it helps you. We don’t know if you have ADHD, but we do know the treatment doesn’t help you.”
“I need to know if I have it,” I say. “I need to know what my letters are.”
“Letters?”
“Marty and me. We’re the letter friends.” The words are pouring out of me because I don’t have a filter, and I don’t have any impulse control, and now nothing can help me with that or with any of the fifty-four things. “You can take away the meds but I still need my letters.”
“I’m not sure what you—”
“And the meds did help with some things. They made it so . . . I don’t know . . . I need to have ADHD because . . . because . . . my brain needs a name.”
“Are you saying life was easier with the stimulants?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“No,” I say, exasperated.
Mom is staring at me, openmouthed. Like she somehow didn’t realize that losing the letters would be the worst part of this. Like the only thing that matters is my behavior and not why I am the way I am.
“What are you saying, Cupcake?” she asks.
“ADHD is something,” I say. “Something people understand. Something people make space for in places like PowerKids and school. If I go back to just having”—I stop myself before I say fifty-four things wrong with me—“you know, general problems, then no one ever helps me. No one ever understands.”
“But not having a dis—” Mom starts. Dr. Nessa interrupts.
“That sounds frustrating, Gwendolyn,” she says.
“It is. And it’s lonely.”
Dr. Nessa gives me a small, sad smile. “It must be so lonely,” she says. “And I’m not saying you’re neurotypical. I believe you have some neurological particularities that make it harder for you to function in the environments that you just listed because of how they’re dominated by neurotypical culture and neurotypical people.”
That’s a weird way to say it. It’s almost like she’s saying that’s hard for me because people don’t understand me instead of me being the one who’s . . . wrong. Bad.
“I can see how a diagnosis would make it easier for you to ask for what you need in a way that people can understand.”
I nod.
“The truth is tricky, and it’s not what you want to hear, but I always tell you the truth, OK?”
“Yeah,” I say. I inch closer to Mom but she doesn’t notice. I wish she’d put her arm around me.
“So here it is: the typical treatment for someone with ADHD didn’t work. It’s going to be more complicated to diagnose you and to treat you, and that may make it more difficult for you to access the kind of modifications you deserve in the world. And that . . . stinks.”
I giggle. Relief slips around my bones. I want to have ADHD, but the second best thing is talking to someone who understands me.
“And I know you’ve already been dealing with it. You’ve already had so many professionals fail you because your case is complicated.” She turns to Mom. “But just because helping Gwen will be difficult, perhaps even more difficult than it is with other neurodivergent children, that doesn’t mean she deserves the help less. You deserve help. Real help. You both do. And my job is not finished. That is, if you’ll let me try again. I’d like to fix the mistake I made.”
I expect Mom to answer, but she doesn’t. She’s staring at me. After what feels like a long silence Dr. Nessa says, “It’s OK if you need some time to think about it, Gwendolyn.”
She’s talking to me.
“No,” I say. “I don’t need time. I need help!”
Dr. Nessa and Mom both chuckle.
“Let’s talk about what happened in school today,” Dr. Nessa says. “Why did you get sent to the principal’s office?”
“Um,” I say. “I sort of sent myself there.”
“You what?” Mom asks. She’s mad at me again. There’s no magic we anymore.
“Why?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“Mr. Olsen said I could stop being sarcastic or I could go to Principal Dickens.”
“Why did he say that?” Mom asks.
“Because I was being sarcastic,” I say.
Mom lowers her eyebrows. “I don’t think we’re getting the whole story.”
“I usually try to be as good and as still as I can, and hold it all in, and then I end up bursting at PowerKids. Today I went to the principal.”
“Because you’re not on meds?” Mom asks.
“No, because there’s no horse camp,” I say.
“What?” Mom says. I don’t understand how she can be so confused.
“What’s this about horse camp?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“I can’t go to horse camp so there’s no reason to try to sit there and be quiet while Mr. Olsen yells at me anymore,” I say.
Mom’s eyes go big and she starts to speak, but Dr. Nessa shushes her again.
“Let’s rewind back to the beginning. Were you actually being sarcastic with Mr. Olsen?”
“I guess,” I say.
“Why?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“Because he was sarcastic with me,” I say. “He’s sarcastic all the time. He thinks it’s funny.”
“What?” Mom says. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“You never asked,” I say.
“Asked?” Mom says. “How would I even—”
“Hold on, Nina,” Dr. Nessa says. “When she’s talking, let’s try to keep her talking, OK?”
That’s the weirdest thing anyone has ever said about me because I’m always talking.
“What was he saying that was sarcastic?” Dr. Nessa asks.
“He wouldn’t listen to me. I forgot my science report—” I look at Mom. “Sorry. I just . . . I forgot to do it. And I forgot a pencil. And he wouldn’t keep the pencil for me, and he wouldn’t listen when I told him that writing things down doesn’t help me. And then he started speaking in this voice that made me feel so small and stupid . . .”
Mom’s face gets redder and redder. I don’t want my words to keep coming. I don’t want to make her upset. But they pour out of me before I can stop them.
“I tried to make myself feel better by speaking the way he was speaking. So I got in trouble.”
Dr. Nessa nods. “It sounds like you were trying to explain your needs,” she says. “And your teacher responded in a way that made you feel insecure and defensive.”
“Yes,” I say. Relief rushes around inside me even faster.
“That’s a way I may be able to support you. I’ll be contacting Mr. Olsen tomorrow.”
“You will?” I ask, shocked.
“You will?” Mom says at the same time.
“With your permission, yes,” Dr. Nessa says. “Sarcasm isn’t ever great to use with middle schoolers, but it’s especially bad to use with someone like Gwendolyn. Gwen, I can see even more clearly what having a diagnosis means to you. I can see how much easier it would be to explain your needs to someone like Mr. Olsen if you could say you have ADHD.”
“Yeah,” I say. I guess I can’t ever say that again.
“So that means it’s up to me to help you communicate those needs, OK? If you don’t have a diagnosis to lend you credibility when advocating for yourself, maybe a doctor is the next best thing?”
“Oh,” I say. “Um, OK.” I’m stunned.
“Also, bear with me, Nina, but I’m wondering if Gwendolyn actually did the right thing by going to the principal’s office? She was able to calm down. She didn’t end up hurting anyone.”
“Anger didn’t crack my brain,” I say, before I realize that they both won’t know what I mean. I’m not sure they hear me anyway.
“It looks like being freed from the pressure of trying to earn a reward allowed Gwendolyn to make a decision that ended up being good for her.”
“But what if I was at work?” Mom asks.
“Yes,” Dr. Nessa says. “Have you been operating under the idea that the only way to stop school and the after-school program from constantly interrupting your life is to change Gwendolyn’s behavior?”
“Well . . . yeah,” Mom says.
“That’s got to stop,” Dr. Nessa says.
“What?” Mom asks. “How?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going to talk to both places about how and when they call you. I’m going to explain Gwen’s needs and yours. I don’t think we can say they should never call you. Sometimes there are true safety concerns with Gwendolyn but sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes they call me for something so minor my head wants to explode,” Mom says.
I had no idea Mom felt that way.
“Exactly,” Dr. Nessa says. “So I’ll advocate for you until we have a less disruptive plan.”
Mom looks even more stunned than I feel.
“I’m here to help you, too,” Dr. Nessa says. “Your mental health is critical to Gwendolyn’s functioning, and you seem a little . . . overwhelmed.”
Mom has tears in her eyes. “You could say that,” she says.
Dr. Nessa glances at her watch.
“We’re going to be out of time. But, quickly, let’s explore this idea that Gwendolyn was able to think more clearly when she was freed from the pressure of trying to earn horse camp. Do you think that’s true?”
“Yes,” I say. “I wanted to go to horse camp so badly it was all I thought about. And when it seemed like someone would take it away, I got so angry. But now that it’s gone . . .”
Dr. Nessa nods. “This happens a lot with kids like Gwendolyn. The things we do that we think will help—specifically structuring consequences and rewards to influence behavior—often backfire. They’re behaving poorly because they can’t do whatever we’re asking of them, no matter what we threaten or offer. Rewards and consequences just don’t work.”
“So I never should have even hoped for horse camp,” I conclude.
Dr. Nessa shakes her head. “I’m saying the opposite. You should go to horse camp.”
“Wait. So she just does whatever she wants?” Mom asks.
“No,” Dr. Nessa says. “That’s impossible. I’m not saying Gwen should get everything she wants. But I do think she should be allowed to go to horse camp.”
“Why?” Mom lowers her eyebrows.
“Because when I read her original IEP, I was struck by how much success Gwendolyn found with horses. I know equine therapy was frustrating, but that seemed to have little to do with horses and more to do with yet another inflexible therapist that didn’t understand Gwendolyn. When it comes to horseback riding, it seems to me that Gwendolyn was thriving.”
Mom and I both nod.
“We need to get her used to thriving. She’s going to learn the skills she’s missing the same way she learns anything: easy problems first, then harder ones. From what I know about her relationship with her favorite horse—”
“Dandelion,” I say.
“Right. Dandelion. It seems like when you were with her you were able to demonstrate a lot of frustration tolerance. She was a frustrating horse, and yet in her presence, Gwendolyn remained patient.”
“That’s true,” Mom says. “I never understood that. It drove me crazy.”
Dr. Nessa smiles. “That’s an understandable reaction. But what I’m saying is that instead of looking at Gwendolyn as mysteriously inconsistent, we can try to use that experience of frustration tolerance and help her apply it to other environments where she’s less successful.”
“I never thought about it like that,” Mom whispers.
“Of course you didn’t,” Dr. Nessa says. “You’ve been trying to fix everything for everyone. You’ve been trying to do the impossible.”
“Yeah,” Mom says.
“A simpler way to look at this: you know how the meds didn’t help, so we stopped them?”
“Yes?” Mom says.
“Well, when you took away horses . . . did that help her?”
“No, it didn’t,” Mom says.
“Did it help you?” Dr. Nessa asks. She’s talking faster and looking at her watch. I like this conversation but I don’t think I’m ready for it to be over. I don’t like the watch-glances.
“No,” Mom says with a chuckle. “I missed Gwendolyn chatting happily about horses. And I missed having another place she could go and be happy so I could—”
“Exactly,” Dr Nessa says. She cuts Mom off. My mom looks at me. Her eyes are clear, finally. “Gwendolyn, I think you’re going to horse camp.”
She looks so happy, it shatters my heart.
“I can’t,” I say. “Remember? I’m not even in PowerKids anymore.”
Mom’s eyes go wide and she smacks her forehead in frustration.
“Oh,” Dr. Nessa says. “Right. I’m sorry, I’m so rushed. I can’t believe I didn’t lead with this: I already spoke with Ms. Hayley. We tried to come to a compromise. She asked that Gwendolyn apologize to Tyler and—”
“I already did that!” I proclaim.
Dr. Nessa smiles. “I’m not surprised.”
My face feels warm, in a good way.
“That means you can go back to PowerKids on Wednesday.”
“What?” I ask, shocked. “They changed their minds? Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be punished as if you were acting on your own, Gwen. What happened was due, at least in large part, to a side effect of a medication you were taking correctly, as prescribed.”
My eyes go wide. Hettie was right.
Mom is stuttering. “I can’t tell you . . . wow . . . what a relief . . .”
“I actually think even a three-day suspension is inappropriate considering there has already been a medication change,” Dr. Nessa is saying. “But, practically speaking, you were already coming here for appointments today and Tuesday. So I’m hoping that you’ll be able to come up with something on Monday, and then this problem will be over.”
“We’ll take it,” Mom says. She almost sounds like she’s singing. She doesn’t even know that Marty and I already solved Monday for her, too.
“Good,” Dr. Nessa says. “Now I have to go. You two have a nice weekend.”
“But—wait,” Mom says, no longer singing. “What’s the plan?”
“We have an appointment for Tuesday, right?” Dr. Nessa says. “You can speak with reception if—”
“No, I mean . . . what do we do this weekend?” Mom says.
Dr. Nessa is half out of her seat. She freezes like that, lowering her eyebrows at Mom like she doesn’t understand.
“I understand what you were saying, I think,” Mom says. “No rewards, no punishments. But then . . . what do I do? What’s the plan?”
“Ah,” Dr. Nessa says with a small chuckle. “No plans this weekend.”
“What?” Mom asks.
Dr. Nessa starts to walk toward the door. “I think you both need a break from plans,” she says over her shoulder.
Mom follows Dr. Nessa, so I follow Mom, but I can see on her face that she’s still confused. And maybe a little worried.
“So I just . . . do nothing?” Mom asks as we reach the lobby.
“Rest,” Dr. Nessa says. “Nina, you rest.”
I can tell we aren’t finished but I guess we need to be.
We walk out of Dr. Nessa’s building. I’m stunned and I think Mom is too. There are no words between us, which is weird.
I always thought the worst possible thing would be if Mom stopped hoping. I thought I’d know she had stopped hoping if she gave up all the plans. But it seems like Dr. Nessa is saying that’s what should happen.
When we get in the car, I ask Mom if I can borrow her phone to text Hettie.
“If you do all your homework focusing and without complaining,” Mom says.
But a second later she tosses her phone into the back seat.
“Never mind. Text Hettie. I’m going to have to get used to this.”
I open Mom’s phone and text U WERE RITE! I’ll be at camp! Then a bunch of horse emojis.
She texts back immediately. I ♥ you.
20
The No Plan Plan
The weekend is weird. I sleep all the way through Mom’s Saturday meeting. When she comes back, she doesn’t tell me to turn off YouTube and do my homework. She spends Saturday at the kitchen table surrounded by paperwork while I spend the day in my room with Mr. Jojo and Zombie and Marshmallow. I watch videos of horseback riding lessons. I try to remember the way I bounced up and down when I’d get Dandelion into a trot and how amazing it felt to soar over an obstacle. Soon, I’ll be on a horse again. Even if it’s not Dandelion.
I’m a little afraid that without a plan, all fifty-four things will get worse. But Anger sleeps all day.
Then again, why would Anger wake up when Mom doesn’t ask me to do anything? No chores. No homework.
By Sunday, I’m bored of YouTube and horses, and I do some of my homework at the kitchen table without being reminded. Mom doesn’t even glance up from her own work. Usually, when I do homework, Mom sits with me and helps me stay on track and organized, and I keep getting off track and disorganized anyway, and we end up fighting. Today there’s no fighting, but there aren’t any words either.
