At the end of the day, I like to just sit on the porch and chill. But Penny is four and a half and doesn’t know the meaning of chill! That girl only knows two speeds—go, or sleep. She’s able to run and hop and spin around in a circle until she’s dizzy. She did seventeen somersaults in a row earlier today—she made me count.
As for me? Well, even though my brain blazes, the rest of my body works like a piece of taffy that’s been left in the sun for too long. No somersaults for me, unless I accidentally fall out of my wheelchair. I can’t walk, can’t talk, and can’t use my hands and fingers like most folks do, but Mrs. V helps me shut down the pity party. She knows my mind is a vault full of words and ideas just bursting to be let out. So between our weekly library visits, Mrs. V encourages me to swim through the deep and gurgly waters of the internet to explore just about any subject that I’m curious about. I’ve dived into Egyptian history and discovered the female pharaohs, and I’ve dog-paddled (ha-ha!) through the history of golden retrievers, the mechanics of car engines, and the mysteries of every planet. By the way, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to walk on Mars or Venus, assuming I didn’t get fried by poisonous gases.
So Friday is usually library day—my favorite. First thing Friday mornings, Mrs. V loads me and Penny into her car, and we head to our local branch a few blocks away. I even love the smell of the place—it smells like history and mystery and book bindings. It’s an old building, so the floors and bookshelves are dark polished wood. Mrs. V told us that she practically lived there when she was a kid. She knew where they kept the audiobooks as well as old photographs and films, and the rare books. I love audiobooks because I can just put on headphones and listen to anything I want. And hardcover books can be attached to my wheelchair tray with an easy clip.
All those books sit all week on the shelves, silent like me, waiting to speak to me every Friday. Then I grab a new pile of possibilities and place them on my tray. The librarian, Mr. Francisco, always greets me with a smile and asks me questions about the books I read the previous week as he checks them in, then reloads my bag with the new pile.
Last time I went, I was on a mission. Mr. Francisco, aka Best Librarian in the History of the World, had emailed me that the brochures he’d ordered for me were in! I. Was. Psyched! What brochures, you wonder? Well, my parents don’t know it yet, but I want to go to summer camp. The last few weeks of school, it seemed like all anyone was talking about was the camps they were going to. Rock-Climbing Camp. Fly-Fishing Camp. Even Mermaid Camp. Yep, it’s a real thing. Mermaid Makeovers. Underwater Theater. Dancing with Fins. Girls go there to learn to swim with attached fish flippers. Seriously. Molly and Claire and Rose went on and on and on about it, how their parents are letting them fly—alone—from Ohio to Florida to go to… Mermaid Camp!
When I tapped and told that story to Mrs. V, she’d snorted out loud with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I’d asked.
Mrs. V could hardly catch her breath. “When you’re wearing those fake mermaid tails, you can only sit on the beach and look cute in a photo!”
“So?” I didn’t get it.
“Melody, think about it. A person wearing a fish tail can’t walk!! Those kids get rolled around in what the camp calls a royal mermaid chariot. It’s a chair with wheels…. It’s… it’s… a wheelchair!” She exploded with laughter.
I finally got it! See, last year in fifth grade Molly and Claire used to majorly make fun of me because I was in a wheelchair, and now they go and choose to spend their summer pretending to be part fish and not able to walk! Ha ha ha ha!
I sure don’t want to go anywhere to pretend I’m a mermaid, but it got me thinking. Maybe I could go to camp! It sounds really fun and a little scary and totally different. Plus, except for Mrs. V’s house, I’ve never once had a sleepover or been away from my family for even an entire day. I think I want to do something exciting. And unusual. And maybe scary. If those girls can do it, so can I.
But did they even have camps for kids like me? Here’s the thing: people tend to stare at me. Nobody asks out loud, but I know they wonder, What’s wrong with that girl? Why can’t she talk? That freaks me out sometimes, because I can’t tell them what they’re too polite to ask.
I know a little bit about things not said. I’m unable to say actual words like everybody else, and that drives me bananas. I’ve got like a thousand thoughts and questions zooming around in my head. Like. All. The. Time. But not much opportunity to have a real conversation, or say something quickly, like in an emergency.The result is some serious frustration.
For example, our family went out to a restaurant a few months ago. We don’t do that often, because my let’s-just-fling-out-any-old-time arms, and my unfailing ability to knock stuff over by accident, are often more than we want to deal with. Soup? Oops, sorry. Penny’s orange juice? Dang, my bad. So people stare. Most aren’t judging—just curious. A few whisper to each other. They sometimes point at me. I’m used to it and I ignore them.
But on that day we had ordered our food, and all was going well. Even though we forgot my Medi-Talker at home, which almost never happens, Mom read me the menu, and I hummed when she mentioned something I wanted. Mom spooned applesauce into my mouth, and it was delicious—flavored with cinnamon. When the food and drinks came, I didn’t spill one single drop.
Weird, though—Penny wasn’t eating, and it was chicken nuggets—her favorite. She had been granky all day (that’s our word for a grumpy, cranky Penny), but I guess Mom had figured that maybe a special trip out to eat might cheer her up.
Then I noticed Penny’s eyes were getting glassy, and sweat had popped up along her hairline. She was going to blow! I automatically looked down for Elvira, and, of course, she wasn’t there. So there was no way I could tell my parents that I thought Penny was about to get sick.