The Sub

The Sub

"Get it out." Mom sits beside me at the table, my reading book between us. This is our nightly homework routine. I try to speak the words, but they refuse to come.

Words, words, words. Wonderful to read in books, describing characters' adventures. But oh, such a tortured tangle to speak out loud.

"Keep trying. I know you can read. Now speak." Mom points to the awful word, which begins with P. Soundlessly, I open my mouth, willing the word to form. My throat tightens, still I can't speak. Taking a deep breath, I try again. This time, I push the word out, the awful letter P making me falter.

"Better. You still can't pronounce P's well." Mom says, stating the obvious. I feel myself sinking under her well-meaning criticism. Why must she do this every single evening?

My name is Lena Levinson. As you may have guessed, I hate spoken words. I've had a stammer ever since I could talk, Mom says. She says I should have grown out of it by now, and I must try harder. Almost twelve, I feel as if it will always curse me my whole life. I do my best, but I can never seem to speak normally.

"What's your name?" That's another dreaded question. L's are difficult to pronounce. Speaking in class is a nightmare; every teacher I've had tries to be patient. I can see their uncomfortable faces when I struggle to say a word, never mind a sentence.

School is plain Hell! Kids tease me, mocking my speech. My third grade teacher didn't even reprimand some girls when they mimicked me in front of her. I've been called Lisping Lena, retarded, and much worse. Whenever I complain about the bullying, Mom says, "Stand up for yourself. Be tough."

I have a few friends, mostly those girls whom no one else wants to hang out with. Mary's got cute freckles and long swishy brown hair. Unfortunately, most kids only notice how overweight she is. "Scary Mary" they call her. Brianna's in a wheelchair, so she's another perfect target for bullies. They jump in front of her, or linger in doorways whenever she's entering or leaving a room.

Mom isn't much help, either. Besides constantly reminding me to get my words out, she's also remarked on my friends a time or two. "At least, they can speak!" she says. My own mother! If Mom thinks those words are helpful, she's wrong. It's as if she's convinced I stammer on purpose, to annoy her. Which, by the way, I don't.

Today is an ordinary day, or so I imagine. Arriving at school we're told by our principal Ms. Albright's sick. "Go to your class, someone will be with you shortly." He directs us.

The class is rowdy, which isn't that unusual. Kids talk and play games, throwing paper airplanes. Where's our teacher? Opening a book, I attempt to read, but am unable to concentrate. "Class, this is your teacher, Mr. Drew." Our principal enters, a scowl on his face. No one's paying any attention, of course. The principal closes the door quickly, narrowly missing being hit by a paper missile sailing near his head. Giggling, Eric, the boy who threw it, high-fives his friend.

This is a sub, which suits me just fine. I simply hide in the back row, never drawing attention to myself. I study Mr. Drew, though. Tall with red hair, he faces us without any hesitation.

"Hello," Even though he speaks quietly, his voice carries. I notice many of my classmates glance at him, then continue whispering to each other. "As your principal said, I'm Mr. Drew." I glance up, surprised. Did he just stammer, too? Perhaps, he's just nervous. The class quietens as Mr. Drew writes on the board, chalk squeaking.

"Math now." Eric calls, without raising his hand.

"Yes. And you are?" Mr. Drew takes an attendance sheet out of a drawer. When Eric says his name, Mr. Drew nods. My name's in the middle of the alphabet, I'll just have to risk it.

"Lena Levinson." I say, trying to get the L out quickly. Some of the kids laugh, but I'm used to it, painful as that may sound. Mr. Drew studies me, just not with the usual impatience most people seem to have. Nodding, he finishes our attendance.

"Now, math." He says. Yes, there's no mistaking a stammer. Kids giggle, which makes me furious. Laughing at me, fine. Not at a teacher. He seems unfazed as he continues with our lesson.

As usual, I don't respond unless called to do so. Fortunately, there's enough math whizzes in class., so not a problem. Today, though, I'm not so lucky. "Okay Lena, what's the answer?" Mr. Drew asks; there's a slight pause before he says my name.

Great. Taking a deep breath and wiping my hands on my jeans, I answer as best I can. He nods, apparently pleased; why I've no idea.

in the cafeteria, Mary, Brianna, and I trade lunches at our usual table. As we eat, we discuss our favorite TV show's latest episode. "Terrifying!" Brianna declares, "I couldn't sleep last night." Mary and I agree, however I thought the ending was too neat. Just then, a boy at the next table whispers in my ear, "Lisping Lena can't speak." Laughing, he joins his friends, who aren't hiding their laughter. Of course, none of the teachers on duty have heard. Even if they happen to see something, they rarely intervene. To prove my point, as we are leaving, Eric sticks his legs out in front of Brianna's wheelchair. His friends think this move is hilarious, Mary and I yell at him to move. Still ignoring us, he continues sitting there, legs outstretched. The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Rising, he roughly pushes past us, saying it'll be our fault if he's late.

That night, I tell Mom about the incident. "You must stick up for yourself, Lena. They'll just walk all over you." Mom says, a bit crossly.

"You're no help." I holler back. In my room, the tears slide silently down my cheeks. Why does everything happen to me? First, my parents divorced a year after I was born, and my Mom has a daughter with a stammer! Is that why she hates me? Is it somehow my fault my parents split?

"Lena, let's speak after class." Mr. Drew whispers, passing back our homework. I nod, wondering what he could possibly want. Smiling, I see a B on the top of my paper. Beside me, Brianna has a B-minus. Math never was her strong suit.

"If you'd like, I could help with your stammer." He says, getting right to the point. Sitting at the teacher's desk, he appears genuinely concerned.

I'm stunned. No one has ever offered any kind of assistance before. Why? I ask . He says I could benefit from it, he was helped using speech techniques. Not cured, but he found ways to control his stammer. As I listen, hardly daring to breathe, he describes his childhood, which mirrored my own. He was bullied, and he too, faced the gut-wrenching fear of speaking up in class. I nod emphatically, recognizing my own experiences.

"When can we start?" I ask. He says we can work during school, which sounds like music to my ears.

So, our sessions begin. Day after day, I remain inside during recess, and Mr. Drew and I work on speaking techniques. One involves taking a breath, and speaking as you exhale. Reading (which has always come naturally), is more difficult out loud. Still, Mr. Drew insists I do that one; and I must practice every week. I'm anxious and excited; are these exercises even worth it?

"Lena, you're up." I'm not prepared for this. It's Friday, we're reading social studies out loud. I can't believe he'd call on me now. Some girls titter, but Mr. Drew's unfazed. "Lena, you'll be fine." Smiling encouragingly, he nods for me to begin.

Wiping sweat off my forehead with my sleeve, I slouch low at my desk. Book held in front of me, I open my mouth — and freeze! All the lessons I've done have completely slipped out of my head, leaving it blank, like a blackboard. The class is laughing more loudly now, not even bothering to hide it. Seeing this, Mr. Drew raises his hands. "Silence, please! Would you be this rude if it was your friend?" He asks, raising his voice.

"Mr. Drew, she can't speak." Eric calls out.

I’m underwater, I can’t come up for air. As I struggle to breathe, I'm overcome by a sense of hopelessness! Tears stinging my eyes, I feel my face growing hot. How can Mr. Drew actually believe I'm prepared for this? We've only been practicing for two weeks! Breathing deeply, I give it another attempt. Still, nothing. Lowering the book, I shake my head forlornly at Mr. Drew. I've failed you. My expression says. He mouths, "Nice try." I didn't do anything! I'm confused now. Beside me, Mary squeezes my hand.

As other students read, I get myself under some sort of control. Will he call on me again? Will I ever conquer this? Or, will I be forced to live out my life unable to speak?

"Earth to Lena." Mary's nudging me. Blinking, I notice the class's lining up. Did the bell ring? "Gym." Mary says, seeing my blank look.

In gym, we're playing Dodgeball. Brianna's watching on the sidelines, again! Her Mom's been trying to find alternative ways to spend her time, but none of the staff is available. She could go somewhere else, like the library, but the principal insists she remains in boring gym.

Anyway, the rest of us play a furious game of Dodgeball, as Brianna quietly observes. "Mary, can't you keep up?" The teacher hollers. Mary nods mutely, a look of determination on her face. She may not be the fastest runner, but she can hit the ball hard.

As the week progresses, my confidence grows. The following Monday, when Mr. Drew calls on me, I'm ready. Sitting up straight, I read slowly with few stammers. Mr. Drew's smiling when I finish; Mary and Brianna nod approvingly. I can't wait to read with Mom tonight.

However, my good mood doesn't last for long. On the bus ride home, some high schoolers tease me again. Taking my spot by the window, I do my best to ignore them. Most of the way home, I can hear them speaking in what they imagine is a stammerer’s voice. It may be accurate, but that doesn't make it right.

That evening, I must be still depressed, because my reading's worse than ever. Mom's not impressed, I can feel my spirits plummeting as I struggle through each tedious word. It's as if all my hard work just vanished from my brain, leaving it vacant. Slumping down, the reading ends on an unpleasant note.

Was the third week of Mr. Drew's stay, we're surprised when he announces he's not coming in anymore. "You will be getting a new teacher. Mrs. Albrights is still on leave." We'd had multiple subs before; this feels like a betrayal. It's difficult to concentrate. During recess, he hands me a list of techniques we've been practicing. How will I manage without him? "I Apologize for the abrupt departure," He says, "These should help you to continue. Just remember to take each situation slowly. You'll get better with practice."

As I head to lunch, I mull over his words. Could I improve on my own? Will this new sub or any of my teachers to come be as patient? I have many doubts, but I suppose I can't be too anxious yet. Catching up with my friends, I remind myself to take it one day at a time.

The End