“I bet your parents want to see this movie, Zion,” I said.
“Are you kidding? They went to the midnight showing on opening night. They waited in line for like four hours, too.” He rolled his eyes. “And they wore costumes.”
Because it was so early, we didn’t have to wait in line to get our snacks. Mom had given me some money that morning, and I told Zion to reach his hand inside my purse and get it out. I also let the boys handle the transaction. It was kind of nice not having Mom there, making me do everything.
Zion paid for our popcorn, sodas, and gummy bears. Twenty dollars poorer, we headed back to the theater, Connor’s and Zion’s arms stuffed full of treats. Mine . . . not so much. I stopped at the bathroom on the way back so I could wash my feet since I knew I’d be dipping them in the popcorn.
As we sat waiting for the movie to start, the three of us surreptitiously glanced back at Mom sitting in the very back row. “Do you think she might be hiding something from you?” Connor said in a hushed voice. “And why did she cover herself in napkins?”
I giggled. “It’s warm enough outside to wear short sleeves, so she forgets to bring a sweater when we go places, and it’s so cold inside from the AC. She calls the napkins her blankets.” I rolled my eyes. It was even more embarrassing than when my great-grandma in Kansas used a flashlight to get around in the movie theater. “She does it at restaurants, too. At least here no one can see her.”
“Do you think she has any idea at all who that girl might be and she’s just not telling you?” Connor asked.
I looked back at her, all covered in her “blankets,” a goofy smile on her face. “No. I don’t. She seemed totally surprised. My parents would tell me if they had any idea what was going on. She said it’s probably just a coincidence.” I told them about doppelgangers.
“I still don’t buy it,” Connor said. “What are the odds that you would end up here at this park and find your doppelganger?”
“Well,” I said, “I found this article online about these two guys who ended up sitting next to each other on a plane. They looked identical. And then there’s that one movie star who everyone thinks is a vampire because there’s a picture of a man who looks just like him from World War I.”
We lost interest in Mom and plopped back down in our seats. “I know what happened!” Connor suddenly declared, making Zion jump in his seat. “There’s a portal up on the hill. You go through the portal while you’re wearing that necklace you found and go back in time to 1973. While you’re there, you have your picture taken.” Connor looked extremely proud of himself as he barked and said, “That’s it. I’ve totally solved it. You could run into your grown-up self at any time, so you better be careful.”
“Why do I need to be careful?” I asked him. “Is my grown-up self dangerous?”
“Clearly,” Connor said. He looked at Zion for confirmation.
Zion nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty scared of grown-up Aven. Why wouldn’t she just come and tell us all of this if she’s wandering around somewhere? I mean, you’d remember us, wouldn’t you?” Zion asked me, like what we were talking about was actually true.
“Maybe she’s dead,” Connor said.
I smiled at him. “Rodeo clown mafia?”
“Totally.” We giggled.
I stuck a piece of popcorn in my mouth with my foot and chewed. “I really love this whole theory. Especially since this magical portal makes me grow arms.”
Connor’s face fell. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t think of that.”
“You never know what a magical portal might do,” Zion said, and Connor’s smile returned.
I decided to take advantage of Connor’s good mood. “So are you coming to the festival or what?” I asked him.
“I already told you.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Just thought I’d double-check.”
“Well, you can stop double-checking,” Connor said, “because the only way I’d go into a crowd like that would be if someone, like, tied me up and dragged me there.”
Zion grinned at Connor. “Don’t give her any ideas.”
Zion seemed to know me pretty well already.
I opened the front door to let Connor in. He trudged into the apartment, his shoulders slumped. He looked so depressed, I thought he might burst into tears.
“Is everything okay?” I asked him.
He shrugged, and I couldn’t tell if it was a tic or if he was deliberately being evasive. He leaned against the wall, not looking at me and let out a bark.
“My parents are taking a big piece of fence out of the rodeo arena so the food trucks can get through. I’ve been working on that stupid report for language arts.”
He just stared at the kitchen floor.
“Hey, guess the name of the band we got to play for the festival,” I said, hoping he’d snap out of whatever funk he was in.
He shrugged again.
“The Flap-Jackeroos.” I laughed. “They normally do gigs for, like, Waffle Houses and stuff, but I guess the country western breakfast entertainment business isn’t booming, so we got them to do the festival. Cheap, too.”
He still didn’t look at me.
“Is everything okay with your mom?” I asked.
He finally spoke. “Yeah.”
“Did something happen at school?”
He didn’t answer me—just barely shook his head. Hoping I could cheer him up, I said, “Hey, I have a surprise for you.”
He followed me into the living room. I sat on the edge of the small couch, my guitar at my feet. “Sit down.” I motioned with my head for him to sit beside me. He dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped down on the couch with a big dramatic sigh.
I plucked at the strings with my toes for a second and adjusted one of them. I took a deep breath, willed my pounding heart to slow down, and began to play. I had practiced “Moon River” every day for the last month, but I still managed to hit a wrong note here and there. It sounded okay, though, and Connor was completely quiet as I played.
Completely quiet.
When I finished, I looked at him. “You didn’t tic the whole time I was playing,” I said almost in a whisper—like if I spoke any louder, it would shatter the fragile quiet, and Connor would unload all of the tics he had bottled up while I played.
I had thought he would be so happy I had finally played for him after all the times he had asked me, but I saw he had tears in his eyes. “Maybe you could bring the guitar to school and follow me around playing music everywhere I go.” A single tear escaped and ran down his cheek. “Then I could stop being a freak.”
In my whole life, I had seldom felt like I was missing out on anything by not having arms. Some of the only times I had ever wished for them were during those fleeting moments of frustration when my shirt got caught around my neck or some insensitive person tossed something at me without thinking, only to have it bounce off my chest or head.
But at this moment, as I watched the tear slide down Connor’s cheek, I felt the true loss of not having arms. Because I couldn’t reach over and wipe it away. And I wasn’t about to do it with my foot.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Connor shook his head. “I could never do anything like that,” he whispered.
“Sure you can. You can play the guitar. I’ll teach you.”
“No,” he wiped at his cheek, “that’s not what I meant. Aven . . . you don’t understand. It’s like it doesn’t even matter that you don’t have arms. You still play the guitar and go to museums and restaurants and do all kinds of stuff. I can’t do anything. I can’t even go out in public.”
“Of course you can. Look at all you’ve done lately—going to the meetings and the movies and coming here all the time. You can even come to the festival. You can do anything.”
“No, I can’t!” Connor snapped, jumping up from the couch. “I won’t ever be able to do anything with my life. I won’t ever be an actor or a politician or a teacher or anything like that. Geez, I c
an’t even go to the movies without renting out the whole theater!”
My mouth hung open in disbelief. “Why would you want to be a politician?” My great-grandma would have been appalled. I could just see her raising her wrinkled fist in the air and warning Connor about the coming revolution.
Connor gazed back at me, so much sadness in his eyes. “You want to know why I was so upset when I got here?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
His ticcing was getting bad again. He shrugged his shoulders manically as he spoke. “I walked . . . to the store before coming here. I wanted to get you some gummy bears.”
I gaped at him. “You stopped at the store by yourself? For me? To get me gummy bears?” I know it sounds silly, but to me this was like the equivalent of him going to Antarctica and back to bring me a feather from a penguin’s butt.
He struggled to get the words out now. “I saw . . . someone . . . filming me . . . on their . . . phone.”
My stomach dropped like it did when I rode a roller coaster. “What?”
“Yeah . . . Aven . . . they were filming . . . the freak.”
I shook my head slowly, not wanting to believe it. “Maybe they were doing something else.”
“They weren’t!” he yelled. “So you see . . . I can’t do those things. Because . . . I’m a freak. Next week I’ll be . . . on YouTube with a bunch of snarky comments about . . . what a psycho I am. I’m never going out in public again! Not to school! Not to the meetings! And I’m not going to your stupid festival!”
“Stop it.” I tried to stay calm. “You’re not a freak. No more than I’m a freak. You can do anything you want. Go ahead and become a politician if that’s what you want. What’s stopping you?”
“This!” he cried as his ticcing continued unabated.
I shook my head. “No. You’re just upset because of some jerk with a cell phone. You can do anything, Connor.”
“And you’re unrealistic to say I can do anything I want. I know your parents . . . have led you to believe you can do whatever you want, but it’s not true. You can’t be a basketball player or a surgeon . . . or an astronaut.”
I glared at him. “Why couldn’t I be an astronaut? Because I’m a girl?”
“Because you have no arms, Aven!” he shouted at me in exasperation like he was revealing some shocking secret I didn’t already know.
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, Connor.”
“Oh, really?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How come you won’t play your guitar at the festival? How come you won’t eat in the cafeteria?”
“I choose not to play the guitar or eat in front of people. It’s not because I can’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I glared at him. “We’re supposed to encourage each other, Connor. That’s what friends do. I’m sorry some disgusting person was filming you at the store, but you have no right to tell me what I can’t do because—”
“Because of your disability,” he finished for me. “Because you’re disabled, Aven. Like me.”
I stood up to face him. I don’t know why I let what Connor said infuriate me so badly. I had been called disabled before. People had referred to my disability a hundred times. But it was like he had used the word to insult me. I could feel my bad temper rising and taking control. “I swear if I had arms right now I’d punch you right in the face!” I cried. “I’m not disabled! I’m . . . abled!”
“Why are you so mad?” Connor said. “I’m just stating a fact. I’m disabled. You’re disabled. Everyone at that stupid support group is disabled. I’m just telling it like it is.”
“Well, go tell it somewhere else and don’t come back!” I yelled at him.
“Fine.” Connor could barely get the word out because his ticcing was so bad at this point. He grabbed his backpack, took out the bag of gummy bears, threw it on the floor at my feet, and flew out of the apartment.
And I suddenly felt incredibly sorry.
I totally avoided Connor the next day at school. Actually, I didn’t have to avoid him because I didn’t see or hear him anywhere. I wondered if he had meant it when he said he was never going to school again.
So it was just another day with everyone staring at me but no one talking to me. Another day of eating lunch in the stupid bathroom. I didn’t even want to see Zion and have to explain anything. I couldn’t wait for school to end—I nearly ran to the bus when it was over.
As soon as I got home, I sat down at my desk. I browsed through several of my most recent blog posts. No comments from Emily. No comments from Kayla. No comments from any of my old friends. My old world had moved on without me.
I typed my next post.
I know I totally make light of not having arms. I mean, what good does it do to complain about it all the time? This is my life. I can’t change it. No arm transplant can be done. I am who I am and it’s all I’ve known and all I’ll ever know. No big deal.
I’m sure you’re thinking, Yeah, but come on, not having arms must really suck at times. Yeah, not having arms does suck at times. A lot of what stinks about not having arms are little things—things most people take for granted because they have arms. So here it is—the twenty worst things about not having arms:
1. No smacking people no matter how badly I may want to. I don’t think stomping their toes provides quite the same satisfaction.
2. No boxing matches. If I had arms, I think I would have been a professional boxer.
3. Doing my hair is difficult. I would love to try some styles I can’t do—like a cool fishtail or a dramatic updo. I read the term dramatic updo in a magazine once.
4. Everything takes longer.
5. No basketball.
6. No shaking hands with people when I meet them. I would make sure I always had a firm handshake. Then again, I don’t have to worry about sweaty palms.
7. Using large tools like chainsaws and weed whackers is likely out for me. I know the instructions say not to operate if you’re under the influence of drugs or alcohol, but they should probably say not to operate if you’re under the influence of drugs or alcohol or don’t have arms.
8. Strappy tank tops and dresses don’t look quite right. And mannequin arms don’t help either.
9. Reaching things on the top shelf.
10. My back hurts because it’s hard to exercise your back muscles without arms.
11. My feet get sore. I think I have arthritis already. Feet aren’t meant to be used the way I use them day after day all day long. Unless you’re an ape.
12. Nonhandicapped people using the handicapped stalls in the bathroom. I need the extra room, and it sucks to wait until their perfectly armed selves are all done with their luxurious, roomy bathroom visits.
13. No pushing a heavy wheelbarrow. I’m sure one day I’ll be mad about this, though it hasn’t happened yet.
14. Splinters are a real pain in the butt.
15. No hand or arm massages. I hear they feel super good.
16. Harder to keep my balance.
17. Harder to do . . . everything.
18. No wiping away a friend’s tears when he’s hurt.
19. No hugging him to make him feel better.
20. No reaching out for him when he walks out the door.
The sky was already turning pink as I lay on my bed. My chest felt like my giant saguaro was sitting on it. I heard the front door open and shut, and then a second later Mom burst into my room. “I have the greatest idea,” she blurted out before she saw my face. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” She rushed to the bed and sat next to me.
I frowned. “Nothing.”
“Nothing’s been wrong for two days. Now tell me what nothing is,” she demanded.
My eyes filled with tears. “When Connor was here yesterday . . . he called me disabled.”
Mom scrunched her eyebrows. “Well . . . okay. Did that make you angry?”
<
br /> “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I said, trying to hold back more tears. “I know I am. I don’t need other people telling me I am and telling me what I can or can’t do.”
“I’m sure he didn’t say it to hurt you.”
“I don’t ever want to be seen just as a disabled person,” I said. “I don’t want to just be Aven Green, that girl with no arms. I don’t want to be labeled like that.”
“I think Connor would be the last person to label you like that. You shouldn’t get so offended if someone calls you disabled, Aven. You do have extra challenges that others don’t have. It does take you longer to do most tasks. Your movements are limited. There’s a big difference between saying you’re disabled and saying you’re incapable.”
“Well, he tried to say I was incapable of becoming an astronaut.”
She laughed and stood up off the bed and faced me. “I think it would be extra challenging for you, but I don’t think it’s impossible, not with robotic arms and all that.” She did a robot dance to show off what I assumed were some ridiculous robot arms that would never be of any use to any astronaut. “I don’t think anything’s impossible for you,” she said as she continued her display.
I smiled and then remembered I was angry. “If you’re trying to make me laugh, it won’t work.” My scowl deepened. “Connor thinks everything’s impossible for him, and he’s all mad about it, so he tried to act like everything’s impossible for me, too. He’s being a big baby and feeling sorry for himself.”
“Shouldn’t you try to be a little more understanding, then? You’re his friend, Aven. You should be building him up when he gets down on himself.”
“He wasn’t building me up,” I said. “He was trying to tear me down.”
“I don’t think he wanted to tear you down at all. Like you said, he did it because he was feeling bad about himself. I’m sure he feels terrible about the whole situation now. Stop being such a hothead.”
“Look who’s talking,” I muttered.
Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus Page 12
