Auggie & Me: The Julian Chapter

Mom’s always been kind of a bigwig at school. She’s on this board of trustees thing, which I don’t even know what it is but apparently it’s a big deal.

“She did use that word. She said it was like a cleft lip or something.”

There’s no rule book that tells you how to act in every given situation in life, you know? So what I always say is that it’s always better to err on the side of kindness.

I started screaming hysterically, wailing like a total baby.

“This isn’t just a cleft palate.”

“Saying what? What can they possibly say? There’s a homely kid in your class? Come on.”

“Now you can look at this picture and not have to have your memory of fifth grade tarnished,” she said.

She gets like that sometimes, when she gets so outraged about something that there’s just no stopping her.

To me, ultimately, the simple fact of the matter is that Tushman didn’t follow protocol.

He flagrantly disregarded the applications process by not having the boy come to Beecher Prep for the interview—or take the test like every one of our kids did.

“The reason we asked you here today is because, unfortunately,” Dr. Jansen continued, “we have a serious matter on our hands, and we’d like to figure out the best way to resolve it. Julian, do you have any inkling of what I might be talking about?”

“You understand,” he said, looking at me, “we take bullying very seriously at Beecher Prep. There’s zero tolerance for any kind of bullying. We feel that every single one of our students deserves the right to learn in a caring and respectful atmosphere—”

“Excuse me,” Mom interjected angrily.

“Let’s not forget that it was Jack Will who punched Julian in the mouth, not the other way around. Obviously, there’s going to be residual anger—”

“I don’t think it’s for anyone else to judge the semantics of a note,” said Mom.

“Oh, come on! That was completely different,” Mr. Tushman answered dismissively.

“Okay, Hal, you said you had some recommendations,” Dad said to Dr. Jansen. He sounded gruff. “Is that it? Two-week suspension and counseling?”

“It’s the making faces behind the kid’s back. It’s the ‘game’ he initiated, where if someone touches Auggie he has to wash his hands....”

“The point of the suspension isn’t punitive,” he said quietly. “We’re trying to help Julian, too. He can’t fully understand the ramifications of his actions if you keep trying to justify them away. We want him to feel some empathy—”

“The point of the suspension isn’t punitive,” he said quietly. “We’re trying to help Julian, too. He can’t fully understand the ramifications of his actions if you keep trying to justify them away. We want him to feel some empathy—”

“The point of the suspension isn’t punitive,” he said quietly. “We’re trying to help Julian, too. He can’t fully understand the ramifications of his actions if you keep trying to justify them away. We want him to feel some empathy—”

I want that this—all of this—be kept confidential. Is that clear? It doesn’t go beyond this room.

“He was goaded into writing them!” answered Mom.

“And I’m sorry about that, sweetheart,” she said meekly.

“Julian, do you hear yourself?” said Dad. “Now you’re blaming your mom. Before you were blaming the other boys for writing those notes. I’m starting to wonder if what they were saying is right! Don’t you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?”

I should have taken that as a premonition.

I loved writing, and he was really complimentary about it.

Hi, Mr. Browne! I just sent you my precept in the mail: “Sometimes it’s good to start over.” It’s on a postcard of a gargoyle. I wrote this precept because I’m going to a new school in September.

“I was a frivolous girl,” she continued.

I knew that some Jewish families in my village were moving away, but my family was so cosmopolitan. My parents were intellectuals.

He was a Maquis, a partisan. Do you know what that is? He was against the Germans.

We went to the back of the chapel, where there was a crypt—all this was new to me, Julian!

Almost instantaneously, tears rolled down Grandmère’s cheeks.

They took all the imperfects from the village that day. It was a purge. The Gypsies. The shoemaker’s son, who was...simple. And Julian. My tourteau.

“Dad is suing them for breach of contract,” she said.

Hal told me—in his office—that they would wait to rescind their enrollment offer until after we had gotten accepted into another school.

“Even if they returned the money, it’s the principle of the thing.”
“What principle?” said Grandmère.

I couldn’t help but laugh at this. Dad cringed.

“I do not like to dwell on the past. Life is ahead of us. If we spend too much time looking backward, we can’t see where we are going!”

But then we drove to Dannevilliers, which is where Julian had lived: that village was intact.