Fifty-Four Things Wrong with Gwendolyn Rogers, page 19
She’s paying such little attention that I pull out my Top Secret Notebook and start writing right in front of her.
Step Seven: Another no check. But I have to do something. I need a plan for myself now more than ever because Mom doesn’t have one. Without a plan, I know I’ll mess up. I’m skipping to the next step. Hopefully it makes sense.
I open my iPad and read the next step. Then I breathe a sigh of relief. This one I can do.
Step Eight: I made a list of persons I had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.
I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and start writing.
People I Have Harmed.
Mom
Tyler
Hettie
Thaís and Marty
Nolan
Dandelion (not a person but it still counts)
Mom (I’ve hurt her so much she deserves two spots.)
I miss having a plan.
I may even miss fighting.
Maybe I just miss my mom.
On Monday, Mr. Olsen is collecting the science homework. Even without my mom’s help, I finished it this weekend. Eight comprehension questions. After a pretty short search, I find the wrinkled loose leaf in my backpack, and it’s ready when he gets to my desk.
He glances at me over his glasses. His green eyes are pale, and they make me want to hide.
“The written part of your science fair project?” he says.
My eyes go wide and my heart starts beating like crazy and Anger rattles around. I take a deep breath to keep him inside his shell. I shouldn’t be angry. It’s not Mr. Olsen’s fault I don’t have my essay.
I bend toward my backpack and then rummage through it like an essay on the life cycle of the dolphin will suddenly appear on freshly typed, not-even-wrinkled white paper. Of course it won’t. It can’t. It doesn’t exist.
“Well?” Mr. Olsen says.
I don’t want to see his eyes again. They will definitely wake up Anger.
“Earth to Gwendolyn?” he says. My head is practically inside my backpack now.
I guess Mr. Olsen didn’t listen when Dr. Nessa told him not to use that voice with me anymore. Or maybe she didn’t talk to him yet. I don’t know because Mom didn’t tell me because there was no plan.
“I don’t have it,” I say to the bottom of my bag.
“You lost it?” he asks.
“No,” I say, my head still in my backpack. “I forgot to do it.”
My mom’s plans make it so that I usually don’t make mistakes like forgetting huge assignments. And if I do make that kind of mistake, Mom finds out. Then we fight. But after that, she helps me clean up my mess. I guess she’s done cleaning my messes.
And right now I’m a mess.
“If you didn’t do it, why do you appear to be looking for it?” Mr. Olsen asks.
Kids laugh. Anger starts peeking out of his shell. Relief is nowhere. Confidence is sleeping.
I hear myself say, “Because your eyes are scary.”
10. No filter
17. Rude/Impolite
There’s a chorus of “oooh!” around me like I just said something really, really bad instead of something really, really honest.
“My eyes are not the problem, Ms. Rogers,” he says. “Your irresponsibility is the problem.”
The word appears before my eyes in my handwriting.
44. Irresponsible
I think of all the other things on the list that fit right now.
38. Disorganized
4. Lazy
24. Spacey
45. Forgetful
“Being irresponsible is only one of my problems,” I shout. Anger has climbed into my voice.
23. Talks too loud
“And you’re implying that I’m the other problem?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I have lots of problems.” But he’s still talking so he probably can’t hear me.
“I’m your problem, because, what? I believe that at eleven years old you should be able to keep track of a pencil and an assignment notebook?”
My face is hot.
“No!” I shout. “I have tons of problems but my only problem with you is that you don’t help me with any of them.”
“Sit down, Gwendolyn,” he says. I didn’t even realize I was standing.
“Fine.”
I sit.
“You lose ten percent on your report. Have it tomorrow or your grade will be a zero.”
“Fine,” I say again.
Mr. Olsen stares at me. His eyebrows jump like they do when he’s saying something sarcastic. He opens his mouth, and I cringe and shrink thinking about how everyone is going to laugh at me when he speaks again.
Then Thaís calls out, “Mr. Olsen, I had a question about the homework.”
When he turns his back, Thaís sneaks me a pencil without even asking if I need one.
She helps in the way Mr. Olsen won’t.
Somehow I make it through the school day without cracking. But every time I’m one of the fifty-four things, it reminds me that I have no idea what Mom would say about anything anymore. And that makes me feel like I’m crumbling.
After school that day I climb into the back of Marty’s mom’s minivan. The way she smiles at us makes me ache for my own mom. It’s like I lost my compass.
“It’s so good to see you, Gwendolyn!” Ms. Smith says. She has on pink glasses and a sparkly pink top. Her hair is perfectly curled. She’s basically the opposite of Marty. All the way at the Female End of the spectrum. I wonder if that means they fight like we do sometimes. Or maybe it means they fit together like puzzle pieces.
Right now it doesn’t look like it.
Marty leans into the front seat and gives her mom a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, kiddo,” her mom says. “I missed you.”
My mom never says that to me. I love you, yes. But not I missed you. It’s too hard to miss someone who causes so many problems in your life, I bet.
It makes me realize that even if we were letter friends, Marty and I wouldn’t be the same. NB is just who you are. It’s the same as girl or boy. Nonbinary is a long word so Marty uses an abbreviation. But it isn’t really a letter thing.
In ADHD, the last letter stands for disorder. It’s something actually wrong with your brain. And now I lost the A and the first D and the H but I still have the Disorder part.
No wonder Marty’s mom misses her. It’s easier to miss a kid who doesn’t have a disorder.
When we get to their house, Marty’s mom sends us up to her room with a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk. Marty’s room looks like a rainbow exploded inside it. There’s a rainbow bedspread and pillows and a big rainbow flag that says PRIDE hanging on the wall.
“I know it’s a lot,” Marty says. Her cheeks turn a little pink like she’s embarrassed. “When I first figured out I was nonbinary, Mom sort of didn’t believe me. She thought I was too young to know. Or she thought it was a phase or something. Then we started seeing a family therapist and Mom completely flipped her approach and now she’s, like, determined to prove that she accepts my gender identity.” Marty shrugs. “It’s still weird but better than when she thought there was something wrong with me, so I’m not complaining.”
I sit next to her on the rainbow bedspread.
“Your mom thought there was something wrong with being nonbinary?” I ask.
“Her and everyone else I know.”
“Why?” I say.
“People are stupid,” Marty says. She pauses and looks out her window. “That’s sort of why I haven’t changed my pronouns yet. I want to. I don’t like being called she. But I also don’t want to explain a million times a day that people need to call me they. I don’t want to hear people mess up. Especially Mr. Olsen. He’d probably be all gross and sarcastic about it.”
“Why would he be sarcastic about a pronoun?” I ask.
“I don’t know. He’s sarcastic about everything.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” I say scooting backward so I can cross my feet on the bed. “I’m an expert on the Sarcasm Voice. He’s sarcastic whenever I forget a pencil. Or lose my homework. Or wiggle in my desk. But you’re different.”
“What?” Marty says. “Why?”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with you,” I say.
Marty nods, still looking out the window. “I know.”
“Why should he care about a stupid pronoun? That would be a dumb thing for even Mr. Olsen to be sarcastic about.”
“I know,” Marty says. “I know that . . . now. I’m in therapy.”
“You are?” I ask.
Marty nods. “But don’t tell anyone, OK?”
“I’m in therapy too,” I say. I take a bite of cookie. “I didn’t know that I knew anyone else who’s in therapy.”
“Right here!” Marty says, like it’s a joke.
“But . . .” I trail off.
Marty rolls her eyes in a way that makes my face burn. “I’m guessing you just have some questions.” She sounds like Mr. Olsen. Sarcastic.
I should probably stop talking. But 10. No filter.
“No, I just don’t get why you would need therapy. I mean, it’s not like there’s something wrong with you.”
“Oh,” Marty says. The sarcasm is gone as suddenly as it came. “Um . . . I guess I’m in therapy because . . . other people think there’s something wrong with me?” Marty shrugs. “My therapist says some people get mad when they don’t understand something. Or someone.”
“That’s a stupid reason to get mad.” Anger shakes my rib cage, just a little. Where did he come from?
“Yeah,” Marty looks down. “People get mad at me for just being me. A lot.”
“That’s not OK!”
Anger is awake for Marty. That’s new.
“I know,” Marty says. “My therapist says there’s a whole lot of people who think that gender is just about what’s in your pants. And they think, for some reason, that I should live my whole life the way they want me to, even though they aren’t me.”
“Then they’re the ones who should be in therapy!”
Marty’s face scrunches up.
“Right?” I ask, confused.
“Um, I don’t know. This is weird.”
My heart thumps. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Marty says. “You’re being . . . fine. It’s . . . usually, I don’t have to explain why other people get upset. Because everyone gets upset. My mom. My dad. My sisters. My teachers. Even Thaís and Hettie didn’t get it at first. That’s why, when we weren’t talking, I figured you had a problem with me. Now it turns out you get it best of all, you just didn’t know. Go figure . . . And I’m mad because I really could have used you last year.”
I understand best? That’s impossible. I’m never the best.
And I don’t get it.
“But . . . there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“You keep saying that.” Marty says. “I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but that doesn’t mean everyone does, OK?” She looks annoyed even though she keeps saying such nice things about me.
No.
They look annoyed even though they keep saying such nice things about me.
I’m going to practice talking about Marty the right way in my head so that I don’t mess up when they’re ready to ask everyone to use the they/them pronouns.
“Nonbinary isn’t, like, a problem,” I say, trying to explain myself to them. “It’s not a disorder. It’s just . . . a description. It’s not like ADHD after all.”
“Oh,” Marty says. “Oh. That’s what you mean. That’s . . . true.”
“See? I don’t get it,” I say.
“No,” they say. “You do.”
“But I’m in therapy because the problem is in my own self. Not because other people are stupid. I’m not saying that’s worse, just that . . . I’m worse.”
“No, Letter Friend,” Marty says. “There’s nothing wrong with you either.”
I shake my head. I’m too sad to speak. Too sad to explain I don’t even have letters anymore.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having ADHD,” Marty says. “It’s like . . . a different way to have a brain. But not a bad way to have a brain. Even if the stupid people do call it a disorder.”
“I don’t even have ADHD anymore,” I tell them.
“You don’t?”
“I’m undiagnosable. All I have is a disorder. I can’t even be a letter friend.”
“Oh.” Marty thinks for a moment, then throws their arm around me. “OMG! You know what? I can’t actually be a letter friend anymore either!”
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“It’s sort of complicated, but it’s cool that we figured it out at the same time, right?”
“What did you figure out?” I ask.
“OK. In my support group this weekend, I was using the letters. You know, NB?”
I nod.
“It turns out we aren’t supposed to use those letters. In, like, internet words or whatever, NB also means Not Black, so my support group was talking about how we shouldn’t also use those letters. Especially because a lot of the kids in my support group are Black, so they’re nonbinary but not NB.” Marty laughs like she’s remembering something funny. I’m looking at her and trying to understand, but I’m just confused.
“So, it turns out nonbinary people are supposed to spell out the letters when we text. Like text them the way they sound. E-N-B-Y. Get it? Enby.”
“Oh,” I say. I understand the spelling, but I don’t really get her point. No matter what letters you use, there’s nothing wrong with being enby or NB, or enby but not NB.
“So that’s a word. You write it like a word. Not letters. Get it?”
Marty sounds all excited. I shake my head slowly.
“Now we can be the ex-Letter Friends!” Marty proclaims. “We both figured out we can’t use those letters at the same time.” They laugh.
After a second, I giggle with them. “It is kind of cool that we lost the letters at the same time,” I say. “Even if it’s really different.”
And it is really different. Marty lost the letters, and they don’t seem to care. I lost part of my identity. A part I’ve been looking for forever.
Marty stops giggling as soon as I do. Almost like they read my mind.
“And . . . we’re the same in the main way, still, too. Right?”
I shrug. I stuff another cookie into my mouth so more words don’t burst out. I wish this hangout were happier.
“We are,” Marty insists. “Because they don’t get us. The rest of the world. The world wants everyone to act the same and think the same and be the same and, you and me, we challenge them. That’s why you get me, Gwendolyn. And I get you too.”
Then, I smile.
21
The Worst Possible Thing
The next day after school, I’m sitting in Dr. Nessa’s waiting room with my Top Secret Notebook on my lap. Mom is behind the glass door talking to Dr. Nessa. Their heads are bent together and I know they’re talking about me. I’m trying not to pay attention. Not to be 16. Sneaky. For ex. eavesdrops or 13. Impulsive or 19. Doesn’t respect others’ space or 39. Immature or anything else.
I lean over and write.
Step Eight: ??? I don’t understand how writing a list of names was supposed to help me. I already knew I had hurt all these people. What I don’t know is how to stop. What if I can’t? What if Dr. Nessa took away all the plans because she knows nothing will ever really help me? What if I’ll always be bad? I was so convinced meds would help, and then they didn’t. I’ve been sure these Twelve Steps would help too but
I pull the two lists out of my notebook. Fifty-Four Wrong Things that have hurt at least seven people (counting me). I scooch to the middle of the couch so I have space on both sides. On my left I lay out the list of people I’ve harmed. On my right, I place each page of the list of fifty-four things.
This is me: the filling in a disaster sandwich.
if these steps were helping, wouldn’t these lists be getting shorter? At least the meds helped me remember my pencils. But the Twelve Steps aren’t helping me do anything.
Suddenly I’m writing furiously. I can’t look up. My pencil keeps moving faster and faster across the paper.
I love a lot of the people on this list. I love my mom and Tyler and Hettie and Thaís and Marty and even Nolan. Why do I keep hurting the people I love? Why can’t anyone help me be . . . something. Something different than a problem.
I don’t want to
“Gwendolyn?” It’s my mom. I drop my pencil. It rolls across the tiled floor of the waiting room. A pencil rolling isn’t supposed to be loud but it sounds that way to me.
“You didn’t hear us calling you?”
“No,” I say.
15. Hard to redirect
24. Spacey
My heart is beating like crazy. I lean forward to cover my writing with my chest. I can’t let her see it. She can’t know what I’m doing.
“What is this?” Mom asks, reaching for my lap, my Top Secret Notebook.
“No!” I say. I pull it tight to my body.
“Oh!” Mom steps back and her hands are far enough away that I know she’s not going to snatch it. “I didn’t know you kept a diary.”
“I don’t.” I say.
Why did I say that?
10. No filter
“Oh,” Mom says. She takes a step toward me again but sort of to the side, like she’s going to sit down. I lunge away, taking my notebook with me so there’s no way she can see it. And then I hear the pages crunch under my butt.
My list. It’s everywhere. I somehow forgot that I had spread it all around me and now my mom is here and . . .
“Well Dr. Nessa is ready for you,” she says.
But to my ears it sounds all deep and wobbly because the world is moving in slow motion. Mom keeps walking closer. Then her hand is reaching for the list of fifty-four things like it’s nothing. Like she just wants to move it out of the way to sit next to me.
But it’s not nothing. It’s everything. It’s the worst thing Mom could see.
I drop the notebook. I dive for the paper, but I’m too late. She’s not sitting. She picks one of them up. It’s the first page and it’s in her hands. I see her eyes scan the title.
