Realistic Fiction Wordle

Realistic Fiction

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One Step at A Time

I was nestled underneath my lavender quilt with my math homework on my lap and my textbook perched against the wall. I was lying against three pillows stacked high when Beth barged into my room. Beth is nine and is autistic. Dark shadows sat under her eyes and her teeth were chattering, but she wasn’t sick. When Beth is sick her face is ghostly pale, but her face still had those rosy cheeks that I knew so well. Beth hopped onto my lap and forced the blanket over her head. It must have been one of the moments when she needed the dark, hidden away from all of her problems.

I wish I was like Beth. Not having to carry heavy problems, not knowing the pounding consequence of my actions, only making the weight heavier. She doesn’t know the problems that I face, and she doesn’t know the problems that she caused for me. She doesn’t know that my grades are getting worse and worse. That my friends are being really mean and excluding me. That mom and dad don’t care for me, they just expect me to do things on my own. She doesn’t know I lost my best friend because of her. Beth broke Taylor’s arm two years ago, it was all because of a pencil. Taylor had borrowed a pencil from Beth without asking. Taylor must have forgotten that you always have to ask for things when you want something from Beth. Beth got so mad that she pushed a bookcase on Taylor. Taylor tried to move out of the way but her right arm got caught. Now Taylor doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t even think Beth remembers who Taylor is. I also wish that mom and dad would take care of her more. They take great care of her when they are home, but they never are. Dad works from six a.m. to nine p.m. and normally all he does at home is sleep. Mom just got a job at a reception desk at a hospital from four p.m. to two a.m., so normally it’s just Beth and me. Which is fine for the most part, but I miss the days when mom would help me with my homework or dad and I would watch the new episode of Modern Family on Wednesdays. Before, Dad would get home at 7pm, just in time for the 7:30 episode. But the only thing that had been making me happy lately was that my birthday was the next day, I’ll be 13 years old. I’m just nervous that mom and dad will forget. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

I looked around my room. My dirty clothes were tossed quickly into a messy pile. My desk had four textbooks stacked on top of each other, one for social studies, one for science, one for RLA, and one for Chinese. I had my navy blue pencil case positioned neatly next to the textbooks. The drawers were white with chunks chipped off which allowed me to see the dark wood that lay beneath. I looked down at my lap. Beth was still curled in her little ball. I lightly tapped on her back with two fingers. She popped up like a bunny jumping out of a rabbit hole.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I asked softly. I have to talk to Beth peacefully, like she’s a baby for her to answer.

Even though Beth can fluently speak, she just shook her head with tears filling in her eyes.

“Okay sweetie, show me,” I lay out my hand with my palms facing up. Beth looked down at my hands and then slowly ran her warm fingers down them. Lightly tapping them to make a little patter. She looked away. Not at me, not at my hands, just looked at nothing. Then using sign language she said, “school.” Beth learned sign language when she was 3. She was a delayed speaker and they thought that she might never speak, so they taught her sign language. She looked at me. I saw the fear in her little eyes, the eyes that I had known my whole life. Then I looked at her cheek, it had a little smudge of blue marker on it. I took a tissue from my side table that sat next to me, and dipped it into my luke water in the plastic pink cup that was also on the table. Carefully, I wiped the smudge off face, so lightly that it barely touched her.

Not knowing what she was scared of, I told her, “Tell me what wrong.”

She ran out of my room using the door that connects my room to hers. At night we keep the the door open just incase she gets scared. She can run into my room, and I will tuck her back in into bed and sing her favorite lullaby. Her room looks kind of like mine, twin size bed, white desk, a carpet that fills the floor, but her room is more pink than mine and has Toy Story all over the walls.

She came back into my room with her eyes focused on the paper in her hands. She hopped back into my lap. She didn’t hide her head under the covers this time. I rested my head on her shoulder.

“Read it to me.” I directed her.

“You have to write a story a... ab...” she stuttered as she shook her hands quickly.

“About. Go on.”

“About,” she repeated, then blinked. She always blinks when she tries to memorize something.

“A fantasy...” She finished as slow tears ran down her face.

I read the rest aloud to her while holding down one of her shaking hands, feeling kind of stupid. No one is there to hold my hand when I cry, not mom, not dad, not even Taylor. “The story needs to be at least one paragraph long, it needs to have one picture, and dialogue,” I spoke quietly and gently. In the corner of my eye I saw a little note, then my eyes focused on it. It said, “Good luck with this one Kate. If you need help just call, you have my number.” Oh god, I thought. If Ms.Edson thinks that this will be hard then I have a long night ahead of me.

I clicked the top of my Iphone to see the time. Five o’clock. In that time I have to make us dinner by 6:30, give Beth a bath, and get my own homework done, and help her write this story. Great.

I looked at Beth, “Go get your notebook sweetie.”

“Jessie, Buzz, Woody?” She asked me. I nodded my head. She wanted to get her favorite toys.

Beth loves Toy Story. It is her favorite thing in the entire world. When Beth is upset then I let her watch it. She has probably watched each of the movies one hundred times. Her favorite movie is the first one. In the past Beth’s teachers have let her write about Toy Story but this year her teacher thought that was a “good” idea to move onto a different subject. Before this wouldn’t be so hard, Beth would make up stories about Jessie, Buzz, and Woody, nothing else.

Beth ran into my room with the three toys clung tightly to her chest held by one hand, and  the notebook in the other hand.

“Lets go sit on the floor,” I directed Beth as I pointed to my soft, fuzzy light purple rug. Beth loves this rug. I think she likes the feeling of it because I always catch her rubbing her hands across it.  

I sat criss cross on the ground and tied my hair in a bun and repositioned my head band, like I always do when I’m about to take on a big project. Beth looked around the room and grabbed my blue fleece blanket that lay on the end of my bed. She wrapped it tightly around her body as if she was in a cocoon, and sat a couple of feet away from me.

“Please put Jessie, Woody, and Buzz next to you,” I told her. Otherwise she would have been distracted the entire time. “Okay,” I began not knowing where to start, “Do you have any ideas?” I asked, hoping that maybe just this once she would have a idea. But she just looked down and shook her head, like always.

The way to work with Beth is in steps, baby steps. I thought that characters would be a easy place to start. “Okay, let’s think of characters. What are three names that you really like?”

“Woody, Jessie, Buzz,” she said. It’s starting, the never ending battle of trying to move her away from Toy Story.

“Not those names silly, someone already used those names in their story. Come up with different names”

Beth looked around. I guessed that she was trying to get inspiration. Also she had that look. The lost look. The confused look. The look of no expression. She focused her eyes at the window. I was snowing. The type of snow that was just gliding through the air. The type of snow that is silent when it hits the cement pavement. The type of snow that will melt the second it lands on your tongue.

“Winter,” she said and blinked. “Winter.”

“Alright...” I said, happy that she could come up with something acceptable, and it is a fantasy after all.

Her eyes wandered around the room. She looked down and combed her fingers through the soft purple rug.

“Purple,” she said then blinked, again. “Purple.”

“Purple?” I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, just one more name.”

I said hoping that she could manage to come up with one more. Beth stood up and pondered around the room. She worked her way around touching everything she went by. She slowly walked to my bed, running her hands over the quilt, to my white side table that matches my desk and has my glass of water on it, to my window facing our neighbor, then to my desk, then to my window that faces the rest of the street, then she stopped at my white dresser. I have a lot of framed photos there. I have photos of all the people that have meant something to me in my life. Beth picked up one of the photos, I couldn’t see which one it was, but it made her stop.

She looked back at me then said, “Taylor,” then blinked, “Taylor.”

My heart stopped. Does she even know what that name means to me or how it should make her feel? She must have just chosen the picture because Taylor is pretty and everyone loves a pretty girl.

“Okay,” I said strongly, trying to not show any pain. Beth had always freaked out when she sees any signs of a strong emotion. “Now that we have come up with the names, we have to come up with the story plan.”

Beth started shaking her hands quickly. Maybe I made a step too big. “We can come up with something else. It’s okay,” I said changing the subject.

Her face became calm and I began to speak again, “Okay, how about we come up with where they live.”

“My house,” She said and blinked. “My house.”

“Great. Are they your friends? Are they your toys? Your pets?”

“My toys,” she said and blinked. Her face had no expression. I hate it when it’s like that because I don’t know what she thinks. “My toys.”

It is actually a great idea. She could make up her own Toy Story!

“That is a great idea. What if you make it kind of like your own Toy Story? What if you made these your toys as they come to life, and they have an adventure!”

She nodded her head quickly and shook her hands rapidly. That’s how I know if she wants or likes something.

“Okay, can you start writing? I will finish my homework.”

She looked down at her notebook, grabbed her pencil, then started writing.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, I told myself. I walked lazily over to my white desk, I threw my right hand on my math folder, grabbed it, and trudged back onto the carpet. Then started doing some of the equations. I like doing equations but not word problems. I like the idea that there is always one answer and not a lot of confusing assumptions. But then came the word problems. I can not do word problems. They are my defeater. Mom used to do word problems with me. Mom is amazing at math, in high school she got everything correct on her math exam. She even got a award. When mom didn’t work, she would always be there to help me with my homework. But now I was there, by myself, letting the word problems attack me, with no one coming to rescue me.

It was 6 o’clock when gave up on my math. I looked over at Beth. She was staring off into space, probably done thinking about Toy Story.

“Hey Beth, have you gotten a lot done?”

Beth nodded her head. Maybe she actually got something good written because she wrote it without a fit.

“Read it to me.”

“Once upon a time there was a girl named Beth. She had three toys named Winter, Purple, and Taylor. Beth didn’t know that her toys could talk. One day she found out she was surprised. The end,” Beth read happily.

My jaw tensed and my gentle hands suddenly became fists. Really? In an hour that was all she got done?! Why can’t she just write as much as a normal fourth grader could? She wrote more like a first grader than a fourth grader.

I had to calm all the screaming down in my head. I took three slow deep breaths. “Okay, that was good, but we can make it better.” I persisted

She looked at her notebook with confusion. She must have thought it was good, but it was obvious that it needed to be better.

“Here’s what we are going to do. I am going to ask you three questions about the story and you are going to answer them in your writing, okay?”

“No,” Beth said firmly.What does she mean no? She can’t talk back to me like that.

“What do you mean, no?”

“My story is good.” She said strongly, like she was willing to fight with me for the rest of the night about this.

“Your story is good but it can be better.”

“My story is good!” Beth raised her voice.

“Beth Murray, you listen to me, your story is good. But you did NOT write enough! I am going to ask you three questions and you are going to answer them in your writing. Do you hear me? God, why can’t you just be normal?!” My voice got louder and louder. I watched Beth curl into a little ball, then rock in a little ball, hands over her ears, and her eyes squeezed shut, with tears managing to make their way out, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“I’ll do it!” she screamed then in a little voice said, “I will.”

I felt bad that I freaked her out so much. When Beth is terrified she does that.

“I’m sorry Bethy baby. I didn’t mean to yell. Come here.” I spread my arms open just like mom used to hug me. Beth fell into them. She was shaking and trying to get her breathing under control. I stroked her hair and soothingly shushed her.

I don’t know why but I started to cry. It wasn’t a dramatic cry, it was soft, gentle and quiet. It felt right. It wasn’t because I made Beth feel bad (I do that a lot).  I think I was crying because I wanted them. I need them. I needed my parents. At that moment all I wanted was someone else to be in charge of Beth, in charge of me... Even though Beth was in my arms I had never felt so lonely. Maybe it was because I was holding her, trying to sugar coat everything, and no one was holding me, making everything easy for me. Mom used to hold me like that when I was sad, rocking me back and forth until no more tears could fall out and I would just give up on crying.

I wiped my eyes, took a deep long breath, and peered over at my desk to look at the clock, 6:10. Beth’s little sweet face popped up. “What are the three questions?”

I smiled softly at Beth, thinking that maybe there is hope. “Okay, how did Beth find out? What did her toys do when she found out? How old is Beth?”

Beth scribbled the questions down in her notebook.

“Beth, I have to go make dinner. Why don’t you come downstairs and sit at the table and work, while I make us dinner.”

Beth nodded her head. I grabbed her little hand and helped her up. She picked up her notebook and Toy Story toys. We walked down the hallway that didn’t have a single window to guide us safely. We passed her pink room and my purple room on the left, our doors that face the hallway are close together. Our rooms are the exact opposite shapes, if we took out the wall in between our rooms, then it would look the exact same just in different colors and like they were flipped. Mom and dad’s on the right, right across from ours. Their door was closed. Their room is really big, it is the size of Beth and my room combined, and our rooms are pretty big. Their room is painted a light green, not a mint green, but more of a pastel green. They have a white bedspread with green floral pillows. Beth and I went down the dark, creaking wooden stairs. Beth jumped off the last couple of stairs, we turned left and there we were in the kitchen. Even though our house is big, our kitchen is small, but I like it that way.

Beth sat down at the light brown dinner table and opened her notebook. I walked the short distance to the freezer and pulled out the frozen peas. I went to the white cover with the rusty handle. I pulled out the pasta and tomato sauce, placing each in one hand, and placed it onto the counter. I brought the pot to the sink and filled it with water. I put it on the stove and waited for it to boil. The last time I made pasta was with Daddy, that was a month ago. He taught me how to know when pasta is ready to be taken out of the boiling water, you throw a piece on the wall and see if its sticks. When the quiet bubbles arose I dumped the entire container of pasta in and waited to test it.

I sat down next to Beth. “Okay, read me what you have written.”

“Once upon a time there was a girl named Beth. Beth is 9. She had three toys named Winter, Purple, and Taylor. Beth didn’t know that her toys could talk. One night, when Beth was asleep the toys went exploring around her big house. Beth woke up to get water. The toys were in the kitchen and they didn’t hear Beth coming. When Beth got there, she screamed, and so did the toys. They were very surprised. But they told Beth that they always could talk. Beth was really excited that she had toys that could talk because they could all become friends. Beth didn’t have many friends, but the toys liked her and they all became good friends. The End.”

That was the best thing that Beth has ever written! It is so much better than what she originally had. I think she will get an A on it.

“Come over here,” I said proudly and spread my arms open wide so that I could give her a congratulatory hug. “You did such a good job! Tonight you can have ice cream after dinner and watch Toy Story. I’m so proud of you”

Beth released herself from my tight arms and started jumping up and down. I think that she was really proud of her work and she should be, it was better than I had ever expected.

The rest of the night went on without a flaw. After dinner, I gave Beth a bath, which she loves. Then I let her watch 20 minutes of Toy Story, the 3rd one. Then at 7:30 I tucked her into her bed, her eyes had even darker circles underneath them then before.

I walked back down the stairs, sat on the couch, and watched TV. I turned on n Modern Family, without dad. After 10 minutes into the episode, someone unlocked the door. I felt my heart start to race. Neither mom or dad would be home yet, not for another 2 hours. I looked around frantically trying to find something to defend myself. I looked at the fire place and found the poker. I held it with both hands ready to defend myself. The door opened and I heard whispers. I felt a drop of sweat run down my face. A light suddenly turned on and I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was mom and dad wearing party hats and holding a cake.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” They exclaimed.

“What’s going on?” I ask, relieved but confused, they are supposed to be at work.

“Well tomorrow’s your birthday,” Mom started, “And we wanted to celebrate!” Dad finished.

I felt a sudden happiness spread all over my body. They really do care. I thought that they would forget. I couldn’t believe that they were here.

“What about work?” I asked wondering if they would have leave in 10 minutes.

“We took time off, tonight is all about you!” Mom said.

“Really?” I said, expecting to be disappointed.

“Really,” Dad began, “Now lets eat some cake!” That is something dad would say. He loves anything that has to do with food, but somehow he isn’t fat.

Mom got the candles and matches out from the kitchen drawer. She brought them back into the room and put 13 candles around the rim of the cake. She and dad sang happy birthday to me as if they had never been prouder. It made me feel really happy. I barely get to see them together or get to see them at all. “I’m really glad that you are with me,” I said loving the lingering feeling it left me with. It’s a warmth, an unforgettable warmth.