The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

A few days later the teacher who’d been with us on the train came by the
house to say that school was starting. The village didn’t have an empty
building big enough to hold the evacuated children, so the evacuees had to
share the village school. The regular village students would attend with their
regular teachers from eight until noon, and then the evacuees and the
evacuated teachers would go from one in the afternoon until five.
The teacher gave Miss Smith directions to the school. “We’ll see you
Monday afternoon,” she said to Jamie as she got up to leave.
We’d all four been sitting in the main room of Miss Smith’s house, on the
squishy purple chairs and sofa. Miss Smith had made tea. Now she smiled
quizzically at the teacher and said, “Ada too, of course.”
I don’t know how I looked, but Jamie’s and the teacher’s mouths fell open.
The teacher’s mouth closed first. “Ada’s not on our list,” she said. “I told you
that when I gave you their mother’s address. We’ve only got Jamie down.”
Jamie said, “Ada’s not allowed to go outside.”
I said fiercely, “That’s rubbish, it was only ever in London and you know
it.”
“But not school,” said Jamie.
I’d never been. Never thought about going. But why not? I could get there
on my crutches, it wasn’t that far.
Miss Smith argued that lists didn’t matter. Surely the lists weren’t accurate,
and besides, many of the children had already gone back to London. There
had to be room for me.
“Room, yes,” the teacher said slowly, “but is it appropriate?” She stood
and took a book off one of Miss Smith’s shelves. “Here,” she said, holding it
open and out to me, “read a bit of that.”
I looked at the page. The rows of marks blurred and swam before my eyes.
I looked up. The teacher nodded. Miss Smith came over and put her arm
around me. I tried to pull away, but Miss Smith held on.
“You see,” the teacher said softly, “she isn’t educable.”
I didn’t know what educable meant. I didn’t know if I was educable or not.