Molly Noble Bull is a published novelist and a dyslexic, and along with four other published authors, she wrote The Overcomers: Christian Authors Who Conquered Learning Disabilities. Her historical, Sanctuary, won the 2008 Gayle Wilson Award for excellence and tied for first place in the 2008 Winter Rose contest—both for published authors in the inspirational category. Molly’s newest novel, Cinderella Texas, is a lighthearted retelling of the classic fairy tale and will be published on November 15th—first as an e-book and then in paperback.

“What is your name, son?”

My new teacher was seated behind his desk, looking down at my report card. He’d know my name from looking at my records. He’d know I was the dumbest kid in the school I went to last year and other bad stuff.

He reminds me of a pinkish balloon about to burst. The odor of aftershave and tobacco surround him.

Teachers don’t like me, and I don’t like teachers, never have. I don’t expect to like this one any better. In fact, I think he is going to be the meanest teacher ever.

“I asked you to tell me your name,” he said again.

“Daniel Jones.”

He smiled. “It says here that you like music.”

For an instant, he looked almost human. He was buttering me up before he asks about my grades in reading and spelling.

“My name is Mr. Bradley. I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I like music, too, and I’d like to hear about your music. Do you play an instrument?”

“I play a little guitar, piano. Don’t read music.”

“You play by ear then?”

I’m almost twelve. I pictured a kid about my age hitting the piano keys with his left ear. I tried not to laugh, but a giggle came out anyway. I do that when people say funny things. He chuckled like he knew what I was thinking.

“I meant that you don’t read music,” he said. “Do you think up tunes in your head?”

“Sometimes.”

Only it wasn’t sometimes. It was all the time. Songs come to me when I carry out the garbage for Mom, when I pretend to listen when people talk, and when I look out a window during class.

Why wasn’t Mr. What’s His Name asking about my grades like any other teacher would? Something strange was going on.

“It says here that you’re good at drawing and storytelling.”

That did it. Real teachers didn’t say things like that. I glanced toward the door in case I needed to make a quick escape.

This guy was a monster pretending to be a teacher and probably ate kids like me for breakfast. At any moment, he’ll ask me to step into his time machine, hidden in the back of the schoolroom somewhere, and zap me to his planet. When he does, I’ll make a run for it.

“Daniel, do you like to draw pictures and make up stories?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why?” I can’t believe I said that.

He laughed again. Only this time, he threw back his head and laughed so loud I expected him to fall out of his chair. This guy was even crazier than the other kids said I was. I turned to go.

“Please, don’t leave. I have a few more things to say.”

He sounded nice—not so much like a monster. Still, for all I knew all monsters were like him. This could be a trick to get me to go in that time machine. Nevertheless, I stopped and looked back.

“I’m asking you all these questions because I was just like you when I was a kid.”

“You’re a teacher. You couldn’t be like me.”

“Because you’re dyslexic?”

He said the D word. I tremble when I hear that word. But not as much as when I hear the R word. Retarded.

“I’m a dyslexic, too,” he said. “I couldn’t read or spell. I went through exactly what you’re going through when I was a boy.”

“But you’re a teacher.”

“So.”

“Teachers are smart,” I reminded him.

“You’re smart, too—talented besides. During this school year, you’ll learn how smart and talented you really are.” He grinned again, reminding me of my grandpa. “Welcome to the sixth grade. By the way, I’m not a monster. But I look kind of like one, don’t I?”

“How did you . . .?”

“I thought my sixth grade teacher was a monster, too. He wasn’t. He liked all the kids in the class because of who we were and not because we could read and spell. He told us that we would learn to read and spell, and he was going to teach us how to do it.”

“Did he?”

“You bet—but it took a while.”

I took another look around the schoolroom. Since I didn’t see a time machine or a small spaceship stashed anywhere, I decided to stay and talk to my teacher. I wanted to ask him about his music and if he liked to draw and tell stories.

Somehow, I had a hunch he did.