Disneyland

I went to Hell but it was Disneyland.

At a school assembly, the principal called me forward. Someone pushed me forward. Someone in a Mickey Mouse suit came out of the bathroom. As he put his arms around me — I am terrified of mascots, the principal said I’d love it at Disneyland. Then he hugged me, too.

My parents appeared. They put their arms on the pile. They looked so happy. When a sick kid wins a prize . . . I wondered if I was dying.

When we finally got to Disneyland, my parents fought the whole way, I couldn’t go on most of the rides because they weren’t “equipped for my needs.”

We ate corn dogs and took pictures.

Before I could stop him, Donald Duck squeezed me and as I screamed inside, Dad snapped a photo. It hung on the living room wall for years until I knocked it down with a broom and pushed it deep in the trash. There’s still a blank space on the wall. No one’s said anything.

We haven’t been on vacation since.