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“I feel certain that you suffer from a learning disorder we call dyslexia, Phoebe.”

I grimaced.

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, the short explanation is that you confuse letters or words and write and read words or sentences in the wrong order. This doesn’t have anything to do with your intelligence, which I believe is above average,” he said.

Was that just to make me feel good? I wondered.

“It still sounds sick,” I said.

“More people than you know suffer from dyslexia, Phoebe. Why, Tom Cruise was diagnosed with it, and he hasn’t done so badly for himself, has he?”

I looked suspicious.

“Go read about him. You’ll see. I don’t want to get too technical with you. It’s not necessary. You have a problem that affects your reading ability, and that has a big impact on your ability to learn, which would explain why you don’t do well in subjects that require a lot of reading. No one wants to do something they keep failing at, so they avoid it, get discouraged. It explains a lot,” he said in a voice a little above a whisper as if he and I were now sharing a very important secret.

“So?” I said.

“I’m surprised the teachers, evaluators in your previous school didn’t concentrate on this problem for you.”

“I’m not,” I said.

If I told him how many days of school I had missed, especially when I was in grade school and Mama was either too tired or hungover to take me, he might understand, I thought. Later, in high school, my teachers were happy if I just didn’t give them any trouble. They left me alone and I left them alone, when I was in class.

“Well, we’re going to attack the problem and help you here,” he vowed. “I know I can make progress with you very quickly,” he said.

“You mean I’ll get outta here, out of this classroom?”

“Sooner than you think, if you work hard at what I give you,” he promised.

He put me on some reading machine that included a screen on which words were printed, a pair of earphones, and a microphone for me to read into. It also checked my understanding of what I read periodically. I noticed that the other students, including smiling Lana, seemed envious. When Lana asked Mr. Cody why she couldn’t work on the machine too, he told her it wasn’t for her. It was for someone with a different reading problem.

Instead of being happy about it, she looked disappointed. Mr. Cody winked at me, and I couldn’t help believing he was telling me the truth. I was different from the other students. I really didn’t belong in any class for the mentally challenged.

“That’s better already,” he said, looking over some of the work I had done the first hour.

Time passed faster than I thought it would, and I suddenly realized it was nearly eleven-thirty. Remembering the plan Ashley had suggested, I stopped working and doubled over with pretended cramps. It was something that always worked in classes where I had male teachers. Most of the time, they looked terrified and didn’t hesitate to give me permission to leave the room quickly. Mr. Cody was no different. He told me where the nurse’s office was, and I left the room.

Mrs. Fassbinder looked like she was close to eighty. Later, I found out she was a retired nurse who needed to supplement her income. The school had trouble finding anyone to fill the position. Her office was much larger than the nurse’s office in my last school. She had a desk and a work area with scales and blood pressure cups, closets full of bandages, disinfectants, and pairs of crutches, but off that office were three rooms with cushioned cots, blankets, and pillows in them.

I told her my problem, and she assigned me a room.

“Just rest awhile,” she suggested. “If you need something, it’s right here,” she told me, and showed me where she kept tampons and sanitary napkins.

Now that I was in the room and lying on the cot, I wondered what had happened to Ashley. I was beginning to feel silly about it when my door opened slightly and he peered in, holding a cold wet cloth over his forehead.

“Hey,” he said, and I sat up.

He looked back toward Mrs. Fassbinder, and then he stepped into my room and closed the door.

“Easy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“After a while she’ll forget you’re even in here,” he said. “It’s almost time for her to go to lunch. I’ll be back as soon as she leaves,” he promised, and slipped out again.

A little more than five minutes later, he returned.