2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 3

Brian had just passed the Sports Mega Warehouse when heard his name called. He turned and recognized her immediately.

"Amy! What are you doing here?" The mall was so loud from the intersecting booms of distorted music that he shouted.

"I work here, of course!" she exclaimed. "Can you come in?" He pushed his wheelchair over the lip of the bright blue carpet. Sports jerseys, adorned with the logo of every imaginable team, hung from the ceiling. An array of baseball caps jutted their lids in tandem near the cashier's booth. Nike and Reebok boxes lined the walls. He hadn't been to such a store for so long that it interested him as a mere phenomenon of color and sound. Amy wore a mesh jersey emblazoned with the Sports Mega Warehouse symbol. Her hair was short and slicked back. Brian was amazed at how happy he was to see her.

"How long have you been working here?" he asked.

"Since high school."

"Didn't you go to college?"

"No, it didn't work out. How about you?"

"Yeah, I graduated last year with my master's. Now I'm an engineer for the electric company," he said with a grimace. "It's boring most of the time. I've had a lot of mandatory overtime this summer due to a changeover in the system. I've even had to work on some weekends, but the pay is good. Plus, everywhere I go, I have that wonderful feeling that I make this happen." He pointed his finger at the rows of dazzling fluorescent lights. Amy raised her eyebrows and nodded.

"Cool. The man behind the scenes," she giggled. "Still got your book there, I see."

"Yeah." He pulled it out of the mesh bag hanging from the arm of his wheelchair and showed it to her.

"Rob–bee–grill–let?" She made a face as she mangled the author's last name, Robbe–Grillet. "Sounds ridiculous." With a sheepish grin he replaced it without offering a correction.

"Are you still involved in sports?" he asked.

"You bet. I'm an assistant coach for the girl's softball team. They fitted the bus with a lift just for me so I can go to the away games."

"Still true to the old school, then? You must have really liked it."

"Not really, but I did meet people by becoming involved with the team. It was hard to make friends otherwise, at that age."

He nodded with understanding. "Those weren't the best years for me either."

"I can't believe I haven't seen you for seven years."

"Eight years."

"My math is wrong again, but not by much. You know what? My break's coming up. Do you want to have lunch and catch up?"

"That would be great!"

In the center pit of the food court were plastic tables and chairs. Restaurants, at a slightly higher elevation than the dining area, lined the outskirts of the court. The handicapped access ramp, lengthy for such a small height, wrapped halfway around the circle and was partially obscured by bushes in gold pots. Trapped birds twittered nervously on the roof beams above as lazy flies settled on freshly spilled soda.

"So, what brings you here?" she asked after they chose a table and moved the chairs aside. A harsh white glare poured down from the skylights. He marveled at how much older she looked. Her angular face had filled out. He gazed at the organizer that she set down on the table. It looked like it belonged to a middle school student — hot pink, covered with stickers and gel pen scribbling. He noticed that all the I's were dotted with hearts.

"I took a day off to do nothing. Just drift around and stuff."

"What have you been up to lately?"

"Getting up and going to work. Working. Coming home."

A shriek rose from a crowd of teenagers. It was late June and they were obviously celebrating the beginning of summer. One of them gave a playful shove to another and the whole group laughed hysterically.

"Miles of smiles," Brian smirked, rattled the ice in his drink, and took a sip.

* * *

He remembered a day when the difference between a nine–year-old and a ten–year-old seemed insurmountable.

Brian's mother had brought him to the Central Plaza Mall to attend Miles of Smiles, a networking event for parents and fun for the kids. The event was sponsored by POSC (pronounced "Posh," which stood for Parents of Special Children).

Brian sat in the back and diligently proceeded through his coloring book. He tried to look busy so the clowns wouldn't bother him. In the mesh bag hooked on the left arm of his wheelchair was The Call of the Wild by Jack London. As was always the fate of his favorite book, he carried it around all the time. All he had to do was open it up, and he'd be in places that most people around him couldn't imagine. He felt inclined to pull it out now and remove himself from the surrounding cartoon farce.

He could be at home, having fun playing video games with Alex. But no — his mother thought he should get out and meet new friends, especially other kids with disabilities.

"Alex doesn't have to be your only friend," she'd said.

"But he's my best friend!" Brian had replied defiantly. He argued that just because all the kids at POSC had disabilities did not mean they had anything else in common, but still, his mother insisted that he go. She thought it would be good for him. Good for him! To be the oldest kid there and forced to endure such condescending baby games!

Brian heard laughter and looked up to see a new attendee entering beneath the balloon rainbow arch. Her wheelchair was likewise decorated with a dozen balloons tied to the armrests. The clown teased that with a few more she would lift off the ground. Her long blonde hair was tied in colorful ribbons.

The new girl, Amy, came to sit at his table. Immediately she introduced herself and began to question him — where he lived, what he liked to do.

"Middleton. I'm in the fifth grade," Brian replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw his mother give him an encouraging nod to continue to interact with the girl beside him. He listened as Amy prattled about a recent surgery.

"Do you know what my parents bought me afterwards, as a reward?" she chirped. "A radio–controlled, hopping bunny! It even moves its nose and ears. I'm the only one who has one. Does anyone you know have one?" He found her way too perky, too young.

"No, I've never even heard of them," he replied.

Brian was irritated when the clowns crowded around their table. They skipped around in their big rubber shoes, pretended to ride a bike in midair, and pulled quarters out of Amy's ears. One was always silent and held a powdery finger to his wide red lips. The other spoke with a squeaky voice. Brian hated those clowns. He longed to rip off those purple wigs and see shiny bald heads underneath. The silent clown certainly could talk. The more he thought of the fakeness and hypocrisy the angrier he felt.

Amy eagerly volunteered to be the magician's assistant. In front of the crowd of onlookers she was fearless and flawless. Brian watched every motion to guess the secrets of the tricks. There certainly was no such thing as magic. He tried to explain the ruse to the remaining table mates.

"You see, after he shows that card, he puts it at the bottom of the deck. Then he uses his thumb to slide it out from underneath. He only pretends to pull it out of the air."

The other kids shrugged and preferred to be amazed than to learn. When it was over, Amy's parents photographed her with the magician. He held out his red-lined cape, draping it around the back of her wheelchair. Back at the table, Amy's parents took pictures of her with Brian. It was a Polaroid camera so the photos were developed within minutes. Brian was given one to remember the good times at Miles of Smiles and his newest "friend."

* * *

"Don't look now, but guess who's here," Amy whispered. "Over at the Bagel Bar." He spotted a braid of thick gray hair and an earth–toned, linen skirt.

"Ugh. Hopefully she won't notice us." Mrs. Crinden turned and her eyes locked on the pair. She sped toward their table with a flat grin spreading across her face.

"My two favorite students! How are you? I still see Amy around the school now and then, but what have you been up to?" Brian confessed to his job and his master's degree in engineering. Mrs. Crinden breathed a "wow" in admiration. She wore a long chain of amber beads that he stared at in preference to her face, thinking about the smallness of the world.

"Congratulations! That's really great news! I'll make sure to tell everyone how well you're doing."

"Thanks," he mumbled. Next, Amy and Mrs. Crinden talked about the summer softball camp. When Amy wasn't at the mall this summer, she'd be at the old school helping out the team. Mrs. Crinden told Amy she was their mascot; she inspired them; they needed her there for good luck. Brian looked away.

* * *

After Miles of Smiles, Brian did not encounter Amy until the second day of his junior year of high school. She intercepted him at the corner of two hallways, wearing a green and white softball uniform. Her wrists were encircled by cheap florescent bracelets. She asked him whether he remembered her. Of course he did — the Polaroid had faded on the refrigerator for years, outnumbered and covered by his academic awards, a treasured record of one of the few social events he'd attended.

Amy explained that she had moved to Middleton during the summer. The guidance counselors told her that she would not be the only student there in a wheelchair, although the other was a junior. She remembered that Brian was from Middleton, so she thought he might be the other one. She spent the entire summer volunteering at softball camp.

"I'm really getting into school, and I love to help out the team any way I can," she bubbled.

The bell rang for the third period. As Amy turned to rush away, Brian noticed that the back of her wheelchair was covered with stickers: American flags, sparkling stars, and dozens of school spirit stickers. That in itself was ridiculous. Brian never wanted anything on his wheelchair. He wanted it to be as blank and pure as the day when it was new. Stickers don't come off cleanly. He did not want to be stuck with torn emblems and symbols he'd rather forget, like old tattoos that people spend a fortune to remove. And what was with the stupid softball uniform? After all, Amy couldn't play softball. Not with osteogenesis imperfecta.

Later on, Brian and Alex crammed for a geometry test in the cafeteria, their heads hunched over their notebooks. Alex squeezed his eyes shut in concentration and began to recite.

"If two lines are cut by a transversal," he began slowly, "And the alternate interior angles measure 90 degrees  .  .  ."

Brian's attention drifted to a nearby table. He spotted Meredith, a lithe senior with curious green eyes and draping, long black hair that swung from side to side. Even in the oblique light of the cafeteria she stood out for him as someone unlike the others, an exotic creature that he could not help but watch. She seemed so alive, as if her own body could not contain her vibrancy. Brian was astonished to see Amy beside her. How quickly Amy had joined that clique.  .  .  .

"Did I get the conclusion right?" Alex asked.

"Sorry, I got distracted. Can you say the last part again?"

"Oh, never mind," Alex answered, now turning to gaze at Amy and Meredith's table where the jocks were flicking spitballs through goal posts constructed of straws. "You can see they're really worried about the test."

"I don't think I've ever seen Andrew with a book in his hand. Or Jessica either," Brian snickered.

"Dave memorizes all those baseball stats, but no, he couldn't possibly remember his homework." Alex moved his criticism from person to person at the table. He skipped Amy. Of course, Alex didn't know her. Brian did not want to admit that he did.

"Those jocks may be popular now, but soon they'll grow hairy beer bellies and go nowhere fast," Brian muttered. Alex and Brian laughed with the thrill of conspirators certain of distant victory.

"The only benefit to sports is exercise," Alex ranted. "Otherwise sports mania is a sick obsession that glorifies brute strength over intelligence. People make 'heroes' and 'warriors' out of multimillionaires on steroids. When I hear people discuss 'scores' and 'plays,' they become mindless drones repeating meaningless jargon."

"Yeah," Brian nodded. "So much wasted effort over something that doesn't matter one iota in the scheme of the universe."

Brian figured that he wouldn't see Amy much. Perhaps they'd pass in the hall now and then. But within a few months, Amy was failing algebra and was told to visit a student tutor. When she arrived at the cafeteria, the moderator, Mrs. Crinden, directed her to Brian.

Eagerly Amy joined him at his table. He felt too tired for eagerness and immediately discussed the point-slope formula and how to graph a line. She completed two examples before losing interest.

"When are we ever going to use this in life?" Amy asked. "This is totally worthless."

"First of all, you need to know it to pass the test," he replied. "And you build on what you know, so you can know more later."

"You're so smart. I bet you'll be the next Bill Gates," she said.

"I doubt that. I don't have enough imagination to drop out of college," he replied. Puzzled, Amy turned to sports.

"The softball team is going to go to the state championship this year, but we need to raise money to get there. Can you buy a raffle ticket?" Grudgingly, he did. When she invited him to come to the team's next home game, he said he would think about it.

There was only one reason why he would even consider attending. Meredith was one of the star players. Brian had never even spoken to her; she passed her eyes over him as if he were invisible. He never admitted his feelings to anyone, especially not to Alex.

Brian drove to the high school that Saturday and arrived during the second inning. Since he could not climb into the bleachers, he sat at the bottom, with a row of shoes at his eye level. Next to him, parents of the players gossiped and drank cans of Budweiser. Other classmates stood around, squinting in the sun's hot glare, talking in indecipherable grunts.

Brian scanned for Meredith, but saw Amy first. She was next to the coach, screaming inaudible remarks and waving her arms. On the field, the players twisted, stretched, and heaved their bodies, kicking up clouds of light brown dirt. Their thigh muscles bulged, huge and muscular under their shorts. Brian identified Meredith by her long rope of black hair. She smacked the ball into left field and ran. Swathed in her uniform and protective gear, Meredith did not seem so unique; her energy and individuality seemed strained and dispersed, made one with the general anxiety and struggle.

The home team scored. Amy shrieked with enthusiasm, clapping her hands. On the sidelines, Amy handed Meredith a Gatorade and gave her a high five. Meredith reached down and ruffled Amy's hair. Amy rushed to follow Meredith as she sat to rest on the bench. Brian was disgusted; Amy was acting like a puppy bounding after its master. As the wind began to pick up, Brian almost felt Meredith's touch in his hair; it was warm, but casual and indifferent.

Soon he would be away from this childish world of cheers and beers and really make something out of his life.

* * *

Mrs. Crinden was gone and the two settled into silence.

"Wanna see some pictures?" Amy asked, producing a miniature album. "This is my boyfriend, John," she pointed with a long manicured fingernail. "He just bought me an iPod! And here are the teams from the past several years. I'm going to be one of those people who go to high school softball games when they're sixty."

"When you're sixty," he repeated, half-stupefied, as he flipped through the album. How could anyone be proud of that? In every photographed array of high–school girls, Amy grinned in the lower left next to the coach, looking as enthusiastic as ever.

"It's almost time for me to head back to work," she said.

"You only get a half–hour lunch?"

"We're doing inventory today. I better go back." He paused and looked down, wondering if he should ask her to exchange e-mail addresses or something  .  .  .  just in case they wanted to stay in touch. But what would they have to say to each other after this? He predicted numerous chain e–mails that he'd never reply to, although threatened with penalties of eternal bad luck. He saw cluttered MySpace pages, animated with leaping dolphins and lounging cats wearing sunglasses.

Amy's cell phone beeped. A smile glimmered across her face as she studied its screen — apparently something amusing was afoot. Brian decided to wait and see if she asked him first.

"Well, it was nice seeing you. If the lights ever flicker, I'll know you've been fooling with the switches," she joked as he handed the album back.

"Yes, it was nice seeing you, too. Take care." Brian watched her disappear in the distance. Once more, the crowd became a constant flow of strangers, changing as quickly as a dealer flips through a deck of cards.