GUS

THE FIRST TWO minutes of school were okay. I made it up the stairs and through the front door without any incidents, even in my heaviest boots.

Dr. Petani chided me for my Doc Martens the last time I was in her office. “Isn’t it difficult wearing your AFO with those?”

“I just buy them a few sizes bigger than my feet. It’s fine.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Doc Martens aren’t known for being especially comfortable shoes. If your leg swells, that discomfort will be exacerbated. And the weight might be exhausting.”

“I like them.”

“What, precisely, do you like about them?”

There were two true answers:

a.The Docs are a fashion allowance. The contrast between clunky black boots and my scrawny legs makes those scrawny legs look less accidental and more cartoonish.

b.Psychosomatic or not, heavy boots ground me, like a pair of anchors.

Dr. Petani appreciates fashion. She wears wire earrings intertwined with handwoven fibers of bright colors. I don’t know who designed them, being restricted to Samsboro and only visiting anything close to a cultural hub when I go to Lexington to see my PT. If anyone was going to commiserate with option a, it would be Dr. Petani.

I still gave her option b.

My Docs aren’t the reason I’ve just locked myself in the handicapped restroom stall, why I’m sitting on the toilet with my good arm wrapped around my drawn-up good leg, letting my glasses dig into my good knee.

I know what this looks like, but most bullies fizzled out by junior high. My estranged grandfather owns half of Samsboro. I’m a familiar fixture for most kids. Making fun of me is about as entertaining as insulting decorative plants.

As predicted, newcomers brought me here. I felt fresh stares in the hallway. Sometimes stares—not my stiff muscles, tight tendons, spasms, or migraines—are the most exhausting aspect of having CP.

People can’t help being curious. They can’t help it, but it doesn’t help me.

A girl with short hair and warm brown eyes approached me at my locker. I could almost see my reflection in her smile.

“Hi, I’m Josie.” She pointed at my stuff. “Can I help you carry anything?”

Talk about killing me with kindness. I couldn’t help but think of the time I was walking down a grocery store aisle and an employee offered to fetch a wheelchair for me. I may walk a bit like a crab, but I’m only actually crabby when strangers point it out.

I smiled, fighting the tide of sarcasm rising inside me. “No, thanks.”

Josie did a familiar double take. Despite years of speech therapy, the muscles in my jaw are weak and I speak at about half speed even when my aphasia isn’t acting up. More than my arm or leg, this lets people make all kinds of assumptions.

Josie repeated herself, speaking more slowly. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m not deaf.” I pulled my binder close and shouldered my locker shut.

But Josie looked like she’d been slapped. Without hesitation, I did the absolute worst thing.

“I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing for nothing.

Every July I go to Camp Wigwah, a camp for teens with disabilities. Not just kids with CP, but also muscular dystrophy, cystic fibrosis, congenital heart disease, kids going through cancer recovery, all sorts.

The camp experience isn’t so different from what you’d get anywhere. There’s kayaking and eating cherry-chocolate cobbler. Swimming in a filthy lake. Singing vaguely religious songs, partaking in toilet-papering rituals by moonlight. The basics, but with accommodations present.

But Camp Wigwah was also therapy masquerading as a good time. On our final night last summer, the scary stories we told around the campfire didn’t have ghosts in them.

Ash talked about a baby crying at the sight of her in a Macy’s, the baby’s mom hurrying said baby as away as possible. “You’d hate to catch spina bifida,” Ash scoffed.

Aram mentioned how crappy it felt, noticing most doorknobs are slightly too high to reach from sitting down and some doors are nowhere near wide enough. Eddie got worked up, relaying how he couldn’t fail at something as tiny as opening a jar of peanut butter without his dad assuming the failure had to do with his disability.

Sofia earned some laughs for her dramatic retelling of the events that plagued her sophomore year. Apparently the mere act of Sofia putting on gym shorts and jogging every morning inspired some normie girl to start a fund-raiser in Sofia’s name.

We weren’t laughing when Dmitri brought up how people talk over his head to the people he’s with. Kumba-freaking-ya.

Karen Yuen told us how she gets through the hell of meeting new people.

“I wait for them to start the conversation, and no matter how they start it, I give them the same medicine. If they’re really friendly, I’m really friendly back. If they’re gross, all, ‘poor thing, your legs,’ I say, ‘poor thing, your freckles.’ If they say something dumb, like ‘what’s wrong with you?’ I ask them the same question, twice as loud.”

Counselor Joe, king of sad-smilers, frowned. “And what if they hurt you?”

Karen Yuen peeled a marshmallow from her poker and threw it into the fire. “I’d hurt them back.”

“Wouldn’t you rather take the higher ground?” Joe looked at us meaningfully. I watched that marshmallow blacken and burn. “Think about this: when you instigate the conversation, you decide which direction it’ll take!”

“If other people don’t worry about higher ground, why should I?”

“People who approach you . . . ​negatively? These people could be your friends one day, given the chance. Try explaining your situation.”

Karen stared right through him. “I’ll explain my situation, sure. The minute they explain what kind of situation raised them to think they had any right to know mine.”

When Josie was kind to me, I wish it could have felt right being kind back. But no matter how nice Josie was trying to be, the result was the opposite. It would be easier if Josie had given me a swirlie. Those fall clearly into the “not nice” category.

I should carry a picture of Dad with me. Mom wears a locket around her neck. There’s something medicinal about Dad’s smile.

I pull my cell phone from my pocket. Most kids I know don’t get cell phones until they graduate, but Mom insists I have one. It’d be cool if it weren’t for the implication: I’ll have to call for help one day.

The bathroom door slams open.

I jerk to my feet, and my phone plops into the toilet bowl.

“Ffff!” I should grab it, but it’s already doomed.

“Gus. Do you intend to finish your toilet conquest anytime this century? Homeroom has commenced.”

This overwrought talk could only ever come from Phil. He steps so close that the toes of his canvas shoes poke under my stall. I can read the words he’s inscribed in Sharpie on each: Have fun stormin’ the castle! on the right, as . . . you . . . wish! on the left.

“What if it wasn’t me in here and you just scared the shit out of some, um, um?”

“Well, if I were going to scare the proverbial shit out of anyone,” Phil counters, “this would be the ideal place for it.”

I lower my left boot to the ground, and use the support beam to stand. I ponder my phone in its watery grave. The glories of the clumsy life.

I finally step out, binder pinched against me with my dead arm, phone dangling by its kitsch unicorn key chain with my left. Phil’s staring at his PSP through his enormous glasses, doubtless building islands in Katamari. He’s a foot taller than me but hunches to almost my height. His magnified eyes eat up half his thin face.

“You skipping, Phil?”

“I’m standing entirely still, thou crusty batch of nature.” There’s nothing Phil loves more than Elizabethan insults. He’s wearing his Will Power! shirt again.

“I hate you,” I say, which means I’m grateful he came to find me.

“Hate your toad-snouted face,” he replies, which means he understands. He hands me a wad of paper towels without lifting his gaze. I bundle my phone inside it and work the parcel into my back pocket.

“What we’re really going to hate is Mr. Gilman’s face when we show up ten minutes late.” I shoulder the restroom door open and Phil catches it for me. “Think he’ll give me a talking, I mean, a tardy?”

The hallway is blissfully empty.

“I suspect he won’t give you one, but he will see fit to bless me with the honor.”

“Not if you were helping me.” I offer Phil my binder. “Here.”

Phil looks up. “You hate playing that role.”

“Welp. ‘Hate’ is our word today.”

He slides the binder out of my grasp. “Thank you.”

“Never thank me.” I’m indebted to Phil up to my hairline.

Phil’s dad, Mr. Wheeler, is a therapist who works with special education students at Samsboro Elementary. He used to spend lunch breaks helping me with reading comprehension. One day, he dragged Phil along with him.

Back then Phil had a reputation for being a loose cannon. When he arrived in Mr. Wheeler’s office, his glasses were broken in two and his nose was bleeding.

I waited for the usual discomfort—kids are really good at staring—but Phil glanced at me, yawned, and plopped himself down between the giant colorful rolls of butcher paper in the corner, burying himself in his Game Boy. I could have been anyone, Optimus Prime or the devil himself. Phil would have behaved that exact same way.

I couldn’t write in a straight line. I’d read a sentence and forget the first half by the time I hit the second. But Phil was reading before he was speaking. He had the Lord of the Rings trilogy tattooed on his brain. His handwriting was already ungodly pretty.

At the behest of his father, Phil started reading with me. I was completely smitten with this know-it-all who could write Mad Libs frames that left me giggling for hours. We created one so dumb I’ll never forget it: “When I was a powdered hot-dog, I never dreamed I would disgorge the poop.” Phil seemed as surprised by his laughter as I was.

We’ve been a done deal ever since.

“Seriously, Phil. Thanks for checking on me.”

He shoves his glasses up his nose. “Glad as I am to assist a brother-in-arms, I had ulterior motives. I, too, was taking cover.”

“Taking cover from what?” Phil’s bullied more than I am. If I’m a potted plant, Phil’s more like those two tiny steps outside. Something about him trips people up.

“I’m uncertain. She was like a tiefling warrior. I fled.”

“Who?”

“You will know, once you see her.” Phil’s eyes are usually blank, but now they glimmer. “The new girl. An onion-eyed warrior, smeared in war paint.”

A warrior is unlikely to offer to carry my books for me. But if she’s promising war? I’ll pull a page from Karen Yuen’s book and promise it back.