Gabriela Speaks Out Read online

  I wanted to tell Aaliyah that I wasn’t trying to be nosy. That I was sorry that the older kids had given her that name. It was true, no one really wanted to be friends with Aaliyah. They said she was too bossy. Too much of a know-it-all. And Marcus Bradley, whose mother was a part-time palm reader, said last year that the lines on Aaliyah’s palms indicated that she had a lot of negative energy. Still, none of that made that mean nickname okay.

  I wanted to tell Aaliyah all of this, but I couldn’t find the words. Not yet, at least.

  “Gabriela, let’s get to work, please,” Ms. Tottenham said.

  I tried to focus on my paper, but I couldn’t think of one single thing I’d contribute to Kelly this year, unless getting rid of the nicknames the older kids gave to sixth graders could be considered a contribution. I chanced a look at Aaliyah. She was writing feverishly, covering almost half the sheet of paper in her neat, slanted handwriting.

  “Okay, now, instead of sharing with the whole class, we’re going to share with one of the people around us,” Ms. Tottenham called out.

  Whenever it was time to pair up in fifth grade, Teagan was always right there to be my partner. Now … I glanced quickly to my left and then my right. The kids on either side had already partnered up with other people. My heart began to race.

  I swallowed hard, wishing more than ever that it was Teagan who was turning slowly around in her seat. I looked from Aaliyah’s sheet of paper, almost completely filled on one side, to my own—still blank.

  “I’ll go first,” Aaliyah said, and began to recite what she had written. She’d contribute change, she said; she’d improve the lending policy in the school library; she’d start up a homework study buddy group for kids who needed extra help. She listed so many things, I wondered how she’d managed to come up with all of them after being in school for only four days. When she finished rattling off her list, she looked at me, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Are you going to share yours, or what?”

  I folded my blank sheet of paper in half and then into fourths. “I-I d-didn’t—” Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed beneath her dark brows. “I th-thought you said-said y-you didn’t g-get a n-n-nickname,” I blurted out, as surprised to hear the words come out of my own mouth as Aaliyah was.

  That wasn’t what I’d meant to say!

  I was supposed to say, I’m sorry you got such a mean nickname. It wasn’t right at all.

  But that’s not what I’d said, and now Aaliyah glared at me and snarled, “Why don’t you just mind your own business, Repeat?” and turned abruptly around in her seat.

  “All done sharing, girls?” Ms. Tottenham asked, coming over to the two of us.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, seeing as how my words seemed to be malfunctioning.

  “Great. Now let’s see how well you listened to one another. Aaliyah, tell me one thing Gabriela wants to contribute.”

  “Gabriela didn’t do the assignment,” Aaliyah replied.

  Ms. Tottenham turned to me, just as the classroom door opened and Mrs. Baxter stepped inside. “Good afternoon, Ms. Tottenham,” she said. “I need to see Gabriela for speech.”

  “Of course,” Ms. Tottenham replied, grabbing a mint-green piece of paper and a note card off her desk. She handed them to me. “To read at home, since you’ll miss the end of class.”

  I gathered my pencil case and backpack as quickly as I could, but not quickly enough. Because I still heard Aaliyah whisper as I went by, “Have fun at speech, Repeat.”

  “I n-need to get-get r-rid of my stutter,” I told Mrs. Baxter as soon as we were in her office and the door was closed behind us. My heart was still pounding, making my speech all bumpy.

  Mrs. Baxter, who had been about to sit down at the circular table near the window, stopped and stared at me, hovering momentarily above her seat. “That’s not the answer I expected when I asked you how your summer went.” She sat down and rested both her elbows on the table, then gestured to the chair across from her with her chin.

  “M-My s-summer was f-fine,” I replied, sliding into the seat and taking in the office around me. At Thomas Jefferson Elementary, Mrs. Baxter didn’t have an office, so we used to meet in whichever classroom was available.

  “I’d say your summer was more than fine,” Mrs. Baxter said. “Ms. Tottenham told me she saw you on the news.”

  I nodded, waiting for Mrs. Baxter to begin my breathing exercises or introduce an activity. If we were going to get rid of my stutter, we really needed to get to work.

  “How long have you been coming to see me, Gabby?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

  “S-Since second gr-grade.”

  “And do you remember what I told you that day and a few times since then about your stutter?”

  Deep down, I knew. I nodded.

  “Good. I want to hear you repeat it. Let’s take a breath from our diaphragm, relax our shoulders, and speak on the breath.”

  I took in some air so it filled not just my lungs but my belly, too, and then on the exhale, I recited what she had told me since day one in speech therapy. As I did, the truth of the words pressed down on me, and my words grew bumpier and bumpier.

  “My stutter is a part of me and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide, and nothing to fix. I can work on improving it and learning how-how to better manage my b-b-bumpy speech, but it may never go-go away completely, and I n-n-need to learn to em-em-embrace it as a unique part-part-part of myself …”

  Mrs. Baxter gave me an encouraging smile.

  “And do you remember what I said at the end of last year about starting middle school?”

  Now that she reminded me, I did. Big life changes like starting middle school can make my stutter act up. That’s totally normal.

  I nodded. “But if I could …”

  “We can work on some techniques to help cope with this big transition, Gabby, but you know your stutter is part of you for good. So what’s with you coming in here today saying you want to get rid of it?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

  “B-Because p-people are m-making fun of me,” I said, thinking of the crossed-out nickname, but mostly of Aaliyah calling me Repeat. A lump began to form in my throat. I swallowed hard against it.

  “People like who?”

  I hesitated. I knew if I told Mrs. Baxter, she’d pluck Aaliyah out of class right that very second, demand that she apologize, and make things worse. “J-Just people,” I muttered.

  “Well, what have we said you should do when ‘just people’ make fun of you?”

  I swallowed again, then recited each strategy Mrs. Baxter had taught me, ticking them off on my fingers as I went.

  1. Ignore the teaser.

  2. Walk away.

  3. Respond with humor. (Mrs. Baxter’s personal favorite was to reply, “Wow! I stutter? I had no idea!”)

  When I was done, she leaned back in her chair and heaved a great sigh. “Good. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten everything I’ve taught you all these years, Gabby,” she said, smiling.

  I tried to manage a smile back, but I couldn’t just yet.

  We sat there in silence a minute or two, and then Mrs. Baxter said, “You know, Gabby, one thing that might make this transition easier is you getting involved in some school activities—make a place for yourself here. Have you thought about running for Sixth-Grade Ambassador?” She pointed to the mint-green flyer I’d put down on the table.

  I shook my head.

  “The student body elects one ambassador for each grade to serve as the voice of his or her class,” she explained. “After the election, the ambassadors meet with the principal and vice-principal once or twice a month to talk about the issues facing their peers. The purpose of this program is to bring about change at Kelly Middle School.”

  It sounded a little like what I had done at Liberty this summer, which was actually pretty fun, but how would I do that—who would vote for me, with my stutter? I tried to imagine it.

  “Impossible,” I said.

  “Gabby.�
� Mrs. Baxter turned her chair to face me square on. “Did you ever think you would be on TV this summer talking to thousands of people?”

  I shook my head again. “That was different. I couldn’t see those people, didn’t have to talk to them in the hallways every day.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Gabby,” Mrs. Baxter said. “See that shirt up there?”

  A T-shirt with the words of a man named Saint Francis of Assisi was thumbtacked to the bulletin board: Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

  “That quote has always reminded me of you.”

  I gave her a sideways look. Me?

  “Gabby, repeat after me,” Mrs. Baxter said. “My name is Gabriela McBride. I stutter and it’s okay.”

  Mrs. Baxter hadn’t made me say that chant with her since we’d started meeting back in second grade. My face grew hot at the thought of doing it now. I was ten, not six. But I remembered how powerful the chant had made me feel back then, and I needed to feel a little powerful now.

  “M-My n-name is Gabriela McBride,” I whispered. “I st-stutter and it’s okay.”

  “Again.”

  “My n-name is Gabriela McBride. I st-stutter and it’s okay.” My voice was a little louder that time.

  “Once more.”

  This time my voice burst out of me and soared around the room like it had wings. “My name is Gabriela McBride. I stutter and it’s okay.”

  Mrs. Baxter stared across the table at me. “Is it?” she asked.

  “Yes. It is.”

  I met Isaiah outside on the front steps after school. I was about to tell him what had happened with Aaliyah when a kid passing Isaiah and me waved and said, “See you later, Fakespeare.”

  Isaiah waved back. “‘It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell,’” he replied. The kid burst out laughing and took off at a run.

  “D-Did he just call-call you—” In my surprise, my bumpy speech was getting the best of me.

  “‘Tried to make me stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’—But I don’t care! I’m still here!’” Isaiah said, grinning a little.

  I stared at him, trying to see if beneath the Shakespeare and Langston Hughes quotes Isaiah was just as hurt as Aaliyah about being called something other than his name. It was possible Isaiah would have liked being called just “Shakespeare,” but “Fakespeare” implied that Isaiah wasn’t the real thing, and if anyone was the real thing when it came to Shakespeare, it was Isaiah.

  “W-Was that your sssixth-grade n-nickname?” I asked, my skin starting to prickle with anger.

  Isaiah nodded, his grin fading a bit. “It was crossed out, but the people with the biggest mouths must have seen the original name.” He shrugged. “It’s whatever.”

  It’s not whatever, I thought. It would’ve been one thing if the nicknames had been like the water balloons, done and forgotten. But I had a feeling that was far from the case.

  That night after dinner, I sat at my desk in my room, Maya curled up in my lap, and settled down to do homework. I yanked my language arts binder and then my copy of The Giver from my backpack. A piece of mint-green paper came out with it.

  The ambassadors flyer.

  Would you like to create real change at

  Kelly Middle School?

  Then run for the role of Sixth-Grade Ambassador!

  As Sixth-Grade Ambassador, you will:

  • Be the voice of your fellow sixth-grade students

  • Attend bimonthly ambassador meetings

  • Work with the Seventh- and Eighth-Grade Ambassadors, as well as the principal and vice-principal, to change Kelly for the better—for all students

  • Spearhead fund-raisers and community events

  There was an arrow at the bottom of the page indicating I should turn it over.

  Requirements to run for Kelly Ambassadors:

  1. Write your name, as well as why you would like to run, on the provided note card and submit it to Ms. Tottenham in Room 127.

  2. To focus his/her campaign, each candidate must come up with a campaign platform. All students running are encouraged to generate slogans, posters, and whatever other materials he/she feels will help popularize his/her campaign.

  3. Candidates are responsible for designing and distributing any and all campaign materials.

  4. Each candidate must compose an original speech. Students will present their speeches at two meetings with the other candidates before the election, with the purpose of giving and receiving feedback. The final speech will be presented at the school-wide Kelly Ambassadors Election Assembly on October 5.

  A speech? Mrs. Baxter hadn’t said anything about a speech. But I knew what I would do if I were Sixth-Grade Ambassador: Get rid of Sixth-Grade Initiation once and for all. No more water balloons. No more nicknames. No more of anyone making sixth graders feel unwelcome at Kelly at all.

  What if I did it? What if I ran for the role of Sixth-Grade Ambassador?

  Forgetting all about poor Maya, I jumped to my feet. She fell gracelessly to the floor and crouched there, glaring up at me, her tail lashing.

  “Sorry, Maya!” I cried, but I couldn’t worry about her just then. Not until I knew the answer to the question I’d just asked myself.

  And I knew just who could help me answer it. I opened up my laptop and called Teagan on video chat. She picked up, slightly bleary-eyed and yawning.

  “Did I wake you up?” I asked. It was a little after eight, and I couldn’t remember the last time Teagan had made it to bed before ten. She liked to stay up coding, or, as Mr. Harmon said, “Burning the midnight oil.”

  “No. I’m just doing some homework.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a mountain of it,” I said. Part of the screen was obscured by a pile of books at least ten inches high, and Teagan was clearly in the middle of an assignment. She faced the camera, but her eyes were still on the paper in front of her.

  “Teagan?”

  “Sorry, Gabby,” she said, tucking her pencil behind her ear. “I’m listening now. Can you repeat whatever you just said?”

  “I was just going to—” but I had lost my train of thought. Teagan saying “repeat” had sent me right back to this afternoon in social studies.

  By the time I was done telling her about what happened with Aaliyah, Teagan’s face had turned almost as red as the pencil she had tucked behind her ear.

  “Ugh, Gabby, she’s awful. But—”

  “I can handle her,” I finished, nodding. I had Teagan and Mrs. Baxter in my corner. “If Aaliyah says anything to me in social studies tomorrow, I’ll be ready for her. I’m gonna be all, ‘Oh, do I stutter? I never noticed!’ And she’s gonna be like, ‘Ooooh, I better leave you alone!’”

  “Yes!” Teagan cried, pumping the air with her fist. She sounded fully awake now. “That’s how you do it, Gabby!” She paused and looked around, her smile sagging a little. “Just like I have to do this mountain of homework.” She sighed. “But where is my pencil?” Her face disappeared from view. I could hear her shuffling everything around on her desk, looking for it.

  “Teagan?”

  Teagan reappeared.

  “Your pencil is, um, tucked behind your ear.”

  “Oh!”

  We dissolved into giggles and ended the call a minute later.

  It was only after I stopped laughing that I realized we hadn’t talked about the ambassadors. I thought about texting her but didn’t want to interrupt her homework again.

  Could I ever be an ambassador with my stutter?

  I imagined Teagan in full-on Teagan Problem-Solving Mode. She’d tell me I’d already been a leader with my stutter this summer when I’d stood up for Liberty, just like Mrs. Baxter had.

  Without thinking, I went back to my desk and shoved my schoolbooks aside until I found my journal and a pen. I turned to a new page and wrote If I Were in Charge.

  If I were in charge

  I would fix Kelly
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  A school torn apart with taunts

  Fears, rejection, jeers

  “You don’t belong”

  “You’re different”

  “You’re not welcome here”

  I’d mend those rips

  Those tears

  Those cracks

  “You do belong”

  “Different is okay”

  Lay those words down

  Like a welcome mat

  Where sixth-grade feet are free to walk

  No matter their shoes

  Their passions

  Basketball, Shakespeare, or Langston Hughes

  If I were in charge

  I’d fling the door open wide

  “Come in; sit down.”

  “You’re all welcome inside.”

  I marched into room 127 the next day with my note card in hand, but Ms. Tottenham wasn’t standing in the doorway to greet us, nor was she standing in the center of the room in front of her desk. Instead, in that exact spot stood an older teacher with tightly coiled gray-and-white hair and a thick pair of glasses pushed down over a nose that looked stuck on her face like an afterthought.

  The class was loud. Like Reading-Terminal-Market-on-a-Saturday loud. And no one was in their seat. Except Aaliyah.

  “Where—” I started to ask the gray-and-white-haired teacher, but she cut me right off.

  “Just take a seat. She’ll be here shortly,” she shouted over the noise. And then to my classmates, “Boys and girls, for the second time, do settle down. Your teacher will be here momentarily, and I want to be able to tell her that you were quiet and well behaved in her absence.”

  The noise lessened some, but only for thirty seconds or so, if that. Then Josiah made a fart sound, Marcus fell off his chair laughing, Zuri called them both fools, and Aaliyah got to her feet.

  “Enough!” she said.

  An immediate silence followed. Everyone stared at Aaliyah, even the gray-and-white-haired teacher.