DITD- Chapter 2
Drawn in the Dark
Barely audible in the background of my mind, Mrs. Lee’s words floated by. I couldn’t fully make them out, but my brain tucked the information into a box I could open later.
The workers in my head never seemed to run on my schedule. It was as if they knew my mind better than I did. They gave me the information when they thought I needed it—not when I wanted it. That left me free to focus on the more pressing thoughts.
My gaze locked on the whiteboard. The letters scrambled before me, symptoms of my struggle with dyslexia. I learned how to decipher them early, though.
I still remember the disappointment on my teachers’ faces when I was first learning to read, as the words seemed to dance around in ways that made sense only to me.
The little brain workers noticed my distress. They rushed to decode the chaos, helping me see what the teachers expected. Slowly, the shapes began to hold some meaning. It was a constant struggle, but I could manage.
I would manage.
Clank. Clack. Whoosh.
My train of thought jumped tracks.
It wouldn’t be long before school ended. The fifth-grade classroom, with its walls plastered with posters and artwork, would soon empty. Our desks, grouped in fours with just enough space between for the teacher to patrol, would stand vacant.
She always sat me closest to her, ready to snap me out of whatever “daydream” she thought I was in.
Her blonde hair, pulled up neatly, and her brightly colored clothes didn’t match her strict tone. She singled me out more than any other kid. “Unteachable” was her favorite word for me.
At first, it stung every time she said it. Eventually, I learned to zone out, pretending her words were just noise. Still, a part of me couldn’t help but question my abilities. Was I really unteachable, or just misunderstood?
Even then, my grades were decent.
…Carter.
My name. Where was that coming from? The little workers?
Carter. Clearer this time. Firm. Like someone trying to get my attention.
“Carter!”
I jumped.
A boy stood in front of me, waving long dark fingers in my face. He looked like he’d been trying to break through for a while. I blinked and focused.
“The bell rang. Time to go home.”
Most of the class had already rushed out. Only a few stragglers remained. Grayson slung his bag over his shoulder and waited expectantly.
“Thanks,” I muttered, stuffing papers into my backpack. I swung it up and walked beside him. I didn’t look back at Mrs. Lee. I knew she’d be watching.
We squeezed into the crowded hallway, shoulder to shoulder, as kids surged for the exit.
“Bro, you’ve been zoning out more,” Grayson said, “What’s going on?”
I shrugged, “I’m not sleeping well.”
“Uh-huh. Not sleeping… or nightmares?”
Instead of answering, my brain jumped away from his question: Permission slip! Children’s museum!
With a grunt, I yanked my backpack around and unzipped it. Pages crumpled under my hands as I searched.
A kid tripped nearby. Grayson stopped to help him, then turned back to me. We stepped aside while he joined the search.
“What are we looking for?”
“Permission slip,” I muttered.
As we searched, I thought about Grayson’s kind heart. When his mom was sick last year, he stayed up night after night just to check on her. Even with his dad’s reassurances, he’d sneak out of bed. When he finally did sleep, it was restlessly.
Looking at him now, I wondered—maybe I can trust him.
“Actually…” I hesitated, “It’s nightmares. I can’t fall asleep, and when I finally do, I’m running all night long. It’s like I never slept at all.”
Grayson thought for a moment, “The counselor says talking helps sometimes. Maybe you could talk to her.”
I rolled my eyes. Miss Langley was nice enough, but I wasn’t about to ask for help. Mom would worry if she found out I was seeing a counselor.
“Or,” Grayson added, “you could write them down. Get them on paper so they don’t seem as real.”
“I’m not big on writing,” I stated.
My thoughts moved faster than my pencil ever could. Handwriting dragged me down, so much slower in comparison. Journaling felt pointless. Writing assignments? I rushed them, sloppy on purpose, just to be done.
Mom never let me get away with it, though. She’d hand it back and make me redo the work. She knew I had more inside than I was putting down.
Grayson pulled one of my crumpled papers from the bag, covered in comics I’d doodled. “What about drawing them? You’re always sketching. Maybe it’ll help.”
Not a bad idea...
Letters twisted themselves into strange shapes anyway, so I often drew them into pictures. Sometimes doodles explained what my words couldn’t.
I’d even asked my parents if I could draw answers instead of writing. Mom thought about it, but Dad said no. Work was work. In the end, Mom sided with him.
Still, they never complained about my doodles—so long as the assignments were finished. Once, I even caught Mom saving some in a folder.
Maybe Grayson was right. I usually box up my monsters, but sketching them could be helpful.
“It’s worth a shot,” I said, “I’ll try it before bed tonight.”
He smiled, “Good. Because I don’t mind snapping you out of daydreams in class, but I have my own work, too.”
I grinned, “I know.”
I zipped up my backpack. We walked out of school together.
Outside, the pickup line stretched down the curb. A white truck rolled into view. Mom waved from the window. Her blue eyes were bright, almost glowing.
Attie skipped toward her, red hair bouncing behind.
“Thanks, bro,” I told Grayson, “I’ll try it tonight and let you know tomorrow.”
We fist bumped. I sprinted toward the truck, hope sparking inside me. Maybe I’d finally get some sleep tonight.