Just then Dad popped in the room. “Talk about what?”
Uncle Steve made some sort of cover story. I was too busy staring straight ahead and not wanting to be seen.
Now, I chew on my knuckle, a habit I know I’ve got to stop, but I worry about what Uncle Steve will say. Am I more nervous that he’ll say yes or he’ll say no?
Uncle Steve texts me back right away.
I’m always here for my favorite niece-y!
Should I tell Rena you said that?
No!
Seriously. I’m ready to talk about the…you know…
If you can’t say it…
I can say it. Medical emancipation. It’s time. You owe me.
I will help you talk with your parents. I am not promising anything else.
You have to use your lawyer voice.
Your dad is not intimidated by that.
See that he is. I’m serious about this.
The law is on your side, Jenna. And so am I. But you should listen to what your parents and the doctors say.
That sounds like an equivocation.
I am at your service. Unless your mom offers me chocolate torte.
I’ll see that she only serves honey cake.
Where’s the gag emoji? Now you’ve made me cry.
I smile and text back.
I’m counting on you.
This is going to be a fun family weekend. Just so it blows over by Hanukkah.
I wanna MaccaBEE in charge of my life!
I am not going to Latke you push me around.
groan
Let’s not make light of what you’re doing.
I’m feeling gelt-y over all of this.
Jew-wish there was another way…but there isn’t.
And that’s how we end the email thread about the most serious campaign I’ve ever waged against my parents.
Five
An unseasonably warm Sunday lands Ben and me on the porch swing, his foot controlling how slow we rock. I’ve got two big pillows propped under me, holding me up. My hand winds around the chain and my legs are in Ben’s lap.
He’s naming the guys he thinks are cute enough for me to date.
“Todd Stein.”
“Not bad. A little SGA for my tastes.”
“I don’t mind the student government part,” Ben says as he stops the swing and dramatically pauses. “Those shorts, though.”
I smack my thigh. “I know. Every time the thermometer goes north of sixty degrees, he’s gotta show his knees off.”
Ben nods. “That boy’s in love with his knees.”
“I don’t have to see it all.” My hands do a flourish. “Leave a little to the imagination!”
He puts his hands up like he’s testifying. “Preach it.”
This is what we do. What we’ve always done. We pick a subject and evaluate it. Like the night we first met at one of the youth group’s sleep-ins. Boys and girls were supposed to be separate, but we hit it off immediately. We bonded over candy choice during the movie, M&M’s, original only. And our opinion of Avatar: The Last Airbender (best animated TV show ever), how disappointing M. Night Shyamalan’s version of it was, and how much we wished we could have a flying bison like Appa.
The wind picks up and I shiver. Ben reaches behind me for the wool blanket Mom left. I’m about to argue that I don’t need a blanket, that I enjoy a little chill every once in a while, when the blanket settles around my lap and my legs get warm. It’s a soft kind of warm that wraps around my heart; he put the blanket on me because he loves me, not because I’m disabled.
Ben waves his hand in front of my eyes. “So? Todd?”
“Oh, right. I give him a solid B plus.”
“B plus? I’ve got him down as an A minus at worst.”
“I feel he’s going to blossom in college, so I have to leave room for improvement.”
“Hank Stevens.”
“We’re doing the esses now?”
Ben smiles and his eyes go a little dreamy. “So much beauty at the end of the alphabet, don’t you think?”
I reach for one of the big sugar cookies Mom put out for us, hoping the pause in the conversation will keep Ben from venturing further down the alphabet. They’re soft and easy to break into small bites, which is essential for my eating to be controllable. Tiny little infant bites. “Why are we doing this anyway?”
“Rating guys? Because we always do?” Ben laughs. “We’ve got to be proactive. We have to narrow the field, select our victim—I mean, target—and go for it.”
I take another bite. Chew slowly.
“The field for me is wide open,” Ben says, “but you know there’s only one guy you’re interested in…the one the only…”
I can’t let him say it. I won’t let him say it. I lean forward and smack him on the arm. He puts his hands up. Which makes me go bigger. I hit him again and again.
“Stop getting violent, girl!”
“You started it.”
“So why not Julian?”
“He probably doesn’t even remember me.”
“How could anyone forget you?”
My eyes wander to Julian’s old house. I close them, and it’s like I can remember everything. The sights, sounds, and feels of our childhood together. My mind drifts to the time we were playing our version of street Marco Polo, one of my favorite memories. I was in my wheelchair then, having just had a muscle-lengthening surgery in my legs. I was supposed to be taking it easy, which means I was zipping up and down the street in my new electric wheelchair.
It was the year before he moved away. There was a little grass field at the end of our street and a small gravel area where Eric often played street hockey with some of the neighborhood kids. But that day, the street was ours alone—Eric, Rena, me…and Julian.
It was my turn to be blindfolded so Rena pulled the bandanna down, and I reached my hands in front of me. Marco Polo is ridiculously hard to play in a wheelchair, but it’s made easier when your brother and sister and friend can’t keep from laughing at your attempts to catch them.
“So close,” Eric’s voice was filled with happiness. “Almost, baby sister.”
My thumb on the joystick of my wheelchair, I made it careen forward. I could hear little bits of gravel kick up under my wheels.