Mom gives Mama one of her looks, one that says she’s not really taking me seriously, and says, “Tell you what, I will check with the shelter when I get in today and ask around to see if anyone knows anything about a missing dog in the woods. How ’bout that?”

“Okay,” I say. “I drew a picture of her, if you want to take it with you to show people.”

I start to get up to go get the drawing from my bedroom, and Mom stops me. “Wait, let’s just finish your breakfast first and get ready for school, and then we can worry about the drawing. One thing at a time, right?” she reminds me.

“All right,” I say, but as I look down at my slowly soggifying cereal I feel a shadowy blob fall over the kitchen. “Ughh,” I groan, rubbing my stomach. Just thinking about school is making my stomach start to hurt for real. “I really don’t feel good.”

Just then, Noah comes into the kitchen, already dressed for school, and sets his backpack on the floor next to his chair at the table. Sitting down in the seat opposite me, he cups his hands around his mouth and whispers—loud enough for only me to hear—“Faker!”

“Am not,” I mutter, and Moms look at me like I’m the one trying to start an argument.

Noah doesn’t understand. School has always been easy for him. He never had to have an IEP. He’s good at everything and has tons of friends—although I don’t know why.

Noah scrunches up his face and sticks out his tongue when Moms aren’t looking, and then stuffs a slice of toast into his mouth, mumbling, “Better get ready. If you’re late for school again, you’ll get . . . dun, dun, dun,” he says in a creepy, scary-movie voice, “detention!”

“Noah, enough,” Mama says. “You’re not helping.” Then to me, she adds, “I’m sorry you’re not feeling good, I am. But we’ve talked about this.”

Mom continues, picking up the conversation we’ve had so many times. “You know that once you get dressed and get your things organized and are on your way it won’t be so overwhelming and you’ll start feeling better.”

“I know,” I say, not wanting to get into the whole thing all over again. I leave the table to start getting ready, but not before sticking my tongue out at Noah on my way out.

Chapter 5

THE BUS STOP

It’s weird, ever since I found out about my processing disorder—which is what my LD is—Moms have acted like it all makes so much sense: why I’ve never gotten good grades and why I’ve always hated school so much, why I can understand something when Mama (who teaches high school) helps me study at home and then fail a test on it the next day.