There’s an older boy in front of me, at a carefully measured distance of about 3 inches. He’s going to punch me. A fake punch, but I wouldn’t be any more nervous if he was going to hit me for real.
He eyes me. I eye him. His eyes dart downward for just a second. “I’m going to come from the left, OK?” he says. I nod. This sweater was a mistake.
It’s baking me. I look down too. My wheelchair has never been more visible. He and I are in the BlackBox theater at my new high school.
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