Connor and I had been spending a lot of time together, so my parents asked me to invite him over for dinner after school.
At lunchtime, I made my way to the bathroom as usual and washed my feet. I stared at the stall. I just couldn’t do it that day. I felt too happy, and I was excited to see Connor and invite him over. I didn’t need another bathroom-stall lunch ruining my good mood.
So I headed to the library to find Connor, once more taking the longer, quieter route around the office. I nearly tripped over that kid again as I rounded the corner. “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said. Next time I would definitely remember to jump over him.
“That’s okay,” he said softly, never raising his head. I walked away, but stopped a moment to look back at him. He stared down at his sandwich and grapes lying next to him. I wondered why he would be eating out here on the hot sidewalk by himself. He looked about as forlorn and pitiful as I must have looked cowering in the bathroom stall to eat my lunch.
How could I just walk past him again, as though he were invisible? As though he were some speed bump in my way? I went back and stood over him. He looked up at me, his hoagie sandwich midway to his mouth. Sweat trickled down his brown cheeks.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked.
He looked around for a second like he thought I must have been talking to the brick wall or the lamppost nearby. When he looked back at me, he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”
I dropped my school bag on the ground, eased the strap off from around my neck, and sat down. He watched as I carefully opened my bag with my toes and pulled out my lunch. I spread a napkin out in front of me, then lifted out my Cheetos, apple slices, granola bar, and peanut butter and jelly sandwich and arranged them on the napkin. “What’s your name?” I asked as I opened the bag of Cheetos with my toes.
Instead of giving me his name, he said, “That’s cool. How do you do that?”
He continued to watch with intense interest as I took out a Cheeto and popped it into my mouth. “Zion,” he said.
“Like the Bible?”
“No, like The Matrix.”
“Oh,” I said, munching on my Cheeto. “What’s that?”
His mouth dropped open. “Seriously? It’s one of my parents’ favorite movies. They love sci-fi stuff. They said I looked like Morpheus when I came out, all bald and mysterious.” He frowned. “I’m not allowed to watch it, though, because it’s rated R.”
“Oh, I won’t be able to either. Bummer. This Morpheus guy sounds interesting.”
Zion rolled his eyes. “My parents are nuts. They also named my brother Lando, after Lando Calrissian—if you know who that is.”
“Are you kidding? I am definitely allowed to watch Star Wars.”
Zion smiled. “My parents would be impressed.”
I handed (footed, actually) him a Cheeto. He took it from me without flinching. “Can I ask you something, Zion?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, chewing on his Cheeto.
“Why do you eat out here on the sidewalk by yourself?”
He slowly lifted a juice box to his lips and took a long swig. “It’s quiet out here.”
I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that the only reason?”
He stared at the ground but didn’t answer me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been eating lunch in the bathroom.”
He looked up at me in surprise. “I don’t want the other kids to watch me eat. Everyone likes to watch a fat guy eat. They want to see how much food he can stuff into his mouth.”
“But you’re not that fat,” I said, then cringed at my own words. I had meant it to sound nice, but it didn’t sound so nice coming out.
“It’s okay. I know I am.”
“Well, I think you look great,” I said.
Zion handed me a grape. I took it from him with my foot and popped it into my mouth. “So why have you been eating in the bathroom?” he asked.
I swallowed my grape. “I don’t want the other kids to watch me eat either.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll think I’m gross.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
“How do you know that?” Zion said.
“I just do. Once when I went to this children’s museum with my parents, I sat down to play with Play-Doh at a table. Of course, I had to play with my feet, and everyone at the table stared at me.”
“It is interesting to see.”
“Then this one kid cried out, ‘Gross! She’s putting her feet in the Play-Doh.’”
“Kids are dumb,” Zion said.
“Then his mom looked at my mom and said this: ‘Would you mind not letting your daughter put her feet in the Play-Doh?’”
“Jerk,” Zion muttered. “What did your mom say?”
I smiled. “She said she would make sure I used my butt cheeks instead.”
Zion laughed a big, full belly laugh. “Oh, that’s classic.”
I ate another Cheeto. “Before that, I had never realized people thought feet were gross. Anyway, that was right before starting kindergarten. You know what the first day of kindergarten is like for a five-year-old with no arms?”
Zion grinned. “Maybe even more difficult than for a chubby five-year-old.”
“Maybe. The kids asked me so many weird questions.” I mimicked little kid voices. “‘Did someone chop your arms off? How do you finger paint with no fingers? How do you use scissors with no hands? How will you play Duck, Duck, Goose? Are your armpits ticklish? How do you wipe peanut butter off your face?’”
Actually, what the kids really asked was, “How do you wipe poop off your butt?” but I wasn’t about to tell Zion that. And no, I’m still not telling you how either, so just stop wondering.
“It was exhausting,” I said.
“I bet. They asked me stuff like, ‘Did you eat a skyscraper?’ and ‘Do you weigh more than my dad?’”
I scowled. No wonder Zion was so insecure about his weight. “I’m sorry. School really sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. So can you do everything everyone else can do with your feet?”
“Mostly. I mean, things are always harder. Like the Hokey Pokey. When the song says ‘Put your right hand in,’ I kind of just stand there like a mannequin. And I have nightmares about flag football. Try running and grabbing someone’s flag with your foot at the same time—slightly difficult.”
“Yeah, I can definitely see how that would be hard.”
“The only sport I can really play well is soccer.”
“Are you going to try out for the soccer team in the spring?”
“I, uh, I don’t know,” I said. “I played soccer back home in Kansas. But, you know, I had a lot of friends and had always gone to the same school. I hardly know anyone here.”
“You know me,” Zion said.
I smiled and handed Zion another Cheeto. “Would you mind if I ate lunch out here with you again sometime?”
He beamed. “Okay.”
Zion and I ate the rest of our lunch together that day, hidden away on the far side of the office where no one could watch us.