Avery rolled up to my table and opened her journal.
“You wrote them down?” I said, surprised and relieved. I shifted closer. “Can I—”
“Dude!” She yanked away the notebook. “Why are you always looking in my journal? It’s called privacy.”
I held up my hands and backed away.
She shot me a stare and then slid the notebook onto her lap. “Gas stations are nasty. I never get out of the car at gas stations.”
“Why not?”
“Are you going to let me finish?” She curled her lip. “Even if I have to go, I never get out of the car at gas stations because one time when I did, I rolled in gas and oil. Everything stunk forever. The fumes made you want to puke all the time.”
“Gas and oil?” I opened my journal. “Can I write this down?”
“Whatever.” She turned the page. “Tar is nasty. Tar melts. In the city over the summer, on hot days, I can’t cross the street because the tar sticks to my wheels. Then everything sticks to my wheels.”
I wrote and wrote and wrote. A few minutes later, my journal looked like the board the other day. So many disgusting things can get stuck to the wheels of a wheelchair.
Who knew?