Read Out of My Mind for Free Online Page A

those on the floor a couple of times, instead of punishing me, she figured out I needed something better.
    I listened to all of the Baby-Sitters Club books and those goofy Goosebumps books. She asked me questions after each book, and I got every single question right. Things like, “Which of these helped to solve themystery?” Then she’d show me a pebble, a starfish, and an ink pen. The pebble, of course. She’d cheer after we’d gone through the questions and then hook me up to another book. That year I listened to all the books by Beverly Cleary and all the books about those boxcar kids. It was awesome.
    The next year it all unraveled. I know teachers are supposed to write notes to the next teacher in line so they know what to expect, but either Mrs. Tracy didn’t do it or Mrs. Billups, our third-grade teacher, didn’t read them.
    Mrs. Billups started every morning by playing her favorite CD. I hated it. “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider”— all sung by children who could not sing, the type of music grown-ups think is all kinds of cute, but it’s awful!
    Mrs. Billups put it on—at full volume—every single morning. Over and over and over. No wonder we were always in a bad mood.
    Once she had the tin-pan band on, Mrs. Billups went over the alphabet. Every single day. With third graders.
    “Now, children, this is an ‘A.’ How many of you can say ‘A’? Good!”
    She’d smile and say “good” even if nobody in the class responded.
    I wondered if she would teach able-bodied thirdgraders the same way. Probably not. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
    “Now let’s move on to ‘B.’ This is the letter ‘B.’ Let’s all say ‘B.’ Good!”
    Again to silence. She didn’t seem to care. I glanced with longing at the books on tape and the earphones, which had been shoved into a corner.
    One day I guess I’d had enough. Mrs. Billups had expanded from saying the letters to making the sound of each one.
    “Buh!” she said loudly, spitting a little as she did. “‘Buh’ is the sound of the letter ‘B.’ Let’s all say ‘buh’ together, children.”
    Then Maria, who is always in a good mood, started throwing crayons. Willy began to babble. And I bellowed.
    I may not be able to make clear sounds, but I can make a lot of noise.
    I screamed because I hated stuff that was just plain stupid.
    I screeched because I couldn’t talk and tell her to shut up!
    And that made me cry because I’d never be able to tell anybody what I was really thinking.
    So I screamed and yelled and shrieked. I cried like a two-year-old. I would not stop.
    Then my tornado explosion took over. I flailed and jerked and basically spazzed out. I kicked so hard that my shoes popped out of the foot straps on my chair. That made me tilt to one side, and I screamed even louder.
    Mrs. Billups didn’t know what to do. She tried to calm me down, but I didn’t want to be calmed. Even the aides couldn’t stop me. Jill and Maria started to cry. Even Ashley, dressed all in yellow that day, looked upset. Freddy spun his chair around in circles, glancing sideways at me fearfully. Carl hollered for lunch. Then he pooped in his pants again. The whole class was out of control. And I kept screeching.
    The teacher called Mrs. Anthony, the principal, whose eyes got wide as she opened our door. She took one look at the situation and said tersely, “Call her mother.” She could not have left more quickly.
    A moment later the teacher had my mother on the phone. “Mrs. Brooks, this is Melody’s teacher, Anastasia Billups. Can you come to the school right away?”
    I knew my mother had to be worried. Was I sick? Bleeding? Dead?
    “No, she’s not ill. She’s fine, we think,” Mrs. Billups was saying in her most professional-sounding teacher voice. “We just can’t get her to stop screaming. She’s got the whole class in an uproar.”
    I could picture my mother on the