He looked back and forth between me and his mom. My knees swayed apart-together, apart-together.
“Does she even understand what we’re saying?” he asked.
Aunt Kiki patted the sofa next to me. “Come sit down, Mason sweetie. I’m sure Charity can push the buttons on a video game controller.”
My knees swayed apart-together, apart-together.
Mason waded over as if he were moving through waist-deep water.
“Come on, sweetie.” Aunt Kiki lowered her voice. “She probably doesn’t have many friends.”
Her hypothesis was correct.
Breaking news: Kids like me rarely have friends.
I used to think of Mason as my friend, even when he was gone. Now I see that was a miscalculation.
The largest number with a name is called a googolplex. My calculation was off by one googolplex.
After Mason moved away, I did have one other friend before Isabella. An actual come-to-my-house, run-around-the-backyard, hold-hands-hopping friend.
Grace.
She had long, golden hair the color of honey and thirteen freckles on her cheeks, which got darker whenever we spent the day outside. We met in preschool, where we played in the pretend kitchen mixing invisible batters. “What did you girls whip up today?” our teacher would ask.
Grace would shout “chocolate cake!” or “peanut butter cookies!” and I jumped and clapped in agreement.
Mom invited Grace over to our house for playdates every single week for almost three years. We dressed dolls and swam in our pool—one of the few places my body felt at peace, wrapped in the warm water. We baked cookies with Mom in our kitchen, both of us standing on stools wearing too-big aprons. Sometimes we put on princess gowns and ran around the yard trying to escape the dragon—my dog, Hero—who chased us and barked. We screamed with wild joy.
Once I started at Borden, our worlds drifted apart. Grace became busy with dance classes and soccer—and I was busy with therapy and doctor appointments. Still today, I imagine what my life would be like if we had stayed friends. She would braid my hair with beads, and we would talk about our forever crushes on pop stars.
I mean, if I were a normal girl.
…
Aunt Kiki handed me a video game controller and talked to me in a loud voice, like maybe I was hard of hearing. “Push here to move your car forward.” She put her purple manicured thumb on mine to demonstrate.
Mason set up the game—a car race with New York City as the background—and sat on the arm of the sofa. The screen flashed 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . START.
Aunt Kiki yelled, “Okay, Charity, now go! Push the button like I showed you! GO! The race has started!”
Aunt Kiki meant well, but I wanted to strangle her.
I moved my thumb forward, and my car drove for about two seconds before it crashed into a wall and blew up in front of the Empire State Building.
Aunt Kiki cheered as if I won the Indy 500. I crashed and burned five more times until my uncooperative hand dropped the controller on the floor.
“Can I go now?” asked Mason. The tone of his voice suggested this was a complete waste of time.
I agreed.
I spared him the pain of playing with me by getting up and moving to the kitchen. Mom stood at the counter, holding my sippy cup. “Sorry, honey, I was on my way to give this to you.” She put the cup in my hands and led it to my lips.
Bleh—warm apple juice. No one older than four should drink this.
Gram stood over a steaming pot wearing her stained apron. “Never trust a skinny cook or one with a clean apron,” she always said.
I sniffed the air.
Maple syrup?
“My darling girl is here.” Gram swung around to plant a kiss on my cheek, still stirring the pot with one hand. She folded my hand around the wooden spoon and guided it in a circle to stir the orange, creamy mixture.
Butternut squash soup.
“Now that my assistant chef is here, I can take a break.”
Gram pointed her finger at Mom. “Gail, this girl is getting thinner and thinner.” She squished my cheeks with her warm hand and examined my face. “Honey, where’s that sparkle in your eyes?”
Mom sat down with a big exhale. “She hasn’t been sleeping well, either.”
“How’s she doing at school?” asked Gram.
“Well, I’ve called them a few times and they say she’s the same as always. I’m at my wits’ end here.” Mom pulled me toward her and brushed the stray hair from my eyes. “But I’m trying to get an appointment with a specialist . . .”
Gram cut her off. “Fiddlesticks. Charity, honey, you just need some hearty food and some chamomile tea at bedtime, maybe with a drop of whiskey.” She winked at Mom.
Gram and Pops always acted as though I was a regular kid. Gram taught me the secrets of her kitchen. Pops let me help him at the ice cream shop and took me and Dad fishing at the pier on Sundays.
My unpredictable body sometimes caused trouble, like the time Gram’s two-layer cake became a one-layer cake after I knocked a pan onto the floor. If she was upset, she did not show it. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “You’re right, honey, I don’t need that many calories traveling to my hips tonight, now do I?”
Gram yelled out to the patio, where Pops and Dad were talking. “Bob, it’ll be a good hour till supper. You and Steve take this young lady for a little walk. She’s in dire need of fresh air.”
Mason strolled into the kitchen and dug into a bowl of chips.
“And take Mason with you,” Gram added.
Mason stood there, a chip hanging out of his mouth. I felt sorry for him. He could not escape the torture of being around me.
Pops drove us to the pier in his 1968 GTO convertible with the top down. I lifted my face to the sky to be brushed by the wind.
“Too much air, Mason old boy? I can roll up the window if you like.” Pops tried to get a grin out
