by Susan Haas
“What’re you doing in here?” Tucker demanded.
“Nothing,” Elle said.
“Mom wants to know if you want a snack.”
“No!” Anna and Elle barked.
Ggguuhhh.
“Oookay. Geez!” He backed away.
Elle locked the door behind him and popped in the second CD.
The doorknob jiggled.
“Lexi, I know you’re up to something.”
“We’re just listening to books,” Elle said.
“It’s not fair. I don’t get to lock my door.”
The doorknob jiggled harder, then suddenly stopped.
Elle reached for the CD player.
Ggguuhhh. I pointed toward the door. There was no way he would give up that easy.
“He’s gone,” Anna said.
Ggguuhhh.
The knob jiggled again. A note slid under the door.
“Surrender now or suffer the consequences,” Elle read.
Ggguuhhh.
“I heard that,” Tucker said.
Footsteps faded down the hall. Anna and Elle high-fived each other.
Ggguuhhh.
“He’s coming back, isn’t he?” Elle said.
Tongue out.
I pointed toward my toy box. Anna and Elle picked through it, holding up my stuffed owl. Ggguuhhh. A Spider-Man mask. Ggguuhhh.
There was a new sound at the doorknob, this one fainter—metal against metal. A coat hanger? Was he picking my lock?
Oh, it is on.
I pointed frantically to my desk. Anna picked up the CD player.
Ggguuhhh.
She pointed to my corkboard and my desk lamp then threw up her hands. “I don’t know what you want, Lexi.”
Ugghhh. This would be so much easier if I could just—
The door lock popped open. Elle quickly pushed it back in.
I flailed and pointed again.
“This?” Anna asked. She held up my cookie sheet.
Tongue out.
No one outside of my family had ever helped me spell before, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Anna held the board in my lap. Elle held my wrist.
I put my finger on the N. It wouldn’t budge. Elle had my wrist clamped too tight. I pointed again. Anna grabbed it and stuck it at the bottom.
I tried for the second letter, but my hand couldn’t reach.
Don’t hold so tight, I tried to tell Elle telepathically, but she just squeezed harder.
“A?” Anna guessed.
Ggguuhhh
“E?” asked Elle.
Tongue out.
The door lock popped again. This time Anna lunged and pushed it back in.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Tucker said, in his creepy villain voice.
I moved my hand, this time all the way to the right, and Elle’s grip loosened. In one pass, I pointed to the R, then the F.
Anna added them to the first two.
“Nerf,” Elle read.
I pointed to my toy box.
Anna dove for the box and threw toys across the room. Finally, she held up two Clone Wars Nerf blasters. I squealed. She tossed one to Elle.
The lock popped open, and Tucker flung open the door.
“Fire!” Elle cried.
Two Nerf darts hit him in the stomach. They reloaded and fired again. Tucker wrestled a blaster from Anna.
“Tucker, are you bothering the girls?” Mom called.
He shot a dart at Elle. “Mom! Why do you always take her side? She’s not an angel, you know. She can be bad too.”
He reloaded.
“Did you finish those math problems?” Mom asked.
Tucker groaned. He tossed the blaster on my bed.
Elle shot another dart and hit him in the butt.
“Not an angel,” he called back.
Elle picked up my hand and high-fived me. “That was amazing.”
“Lexi,” Anna said, “you’re a good friend.”
She leaned over and hugged me. I smiled.
That night when Dad put me to bed, I replayed our epic battle over and over in my head. Even more, I replayed Anna’s words. Lexi, you’re a good friend.
I squeezed my imaginary rock. I had been wrong. This was not an ordinary rock. This was what a friend felt like.
I let the newness of that settle in. What kind of stuff do you even do with friends? Epic battles and shared secrets, obviously. But it seemed like there was more to it than that. Friends were always there for each other. You help them with Harry Potter, and they help you with … What? A little internet search? One that might dig up some information about Lou Lattimore?
CHAPTER 25
Age 13, 13 hours until surgery
In the field beside the Ronald McDonald House, Dad chucks a tennis ball as hard as he can. Gus tears out after it. The ball bounces softly in the grass, and Gus lunges hard to catch it in his mouth. He turns around smiling and shows us he stopped it. Then he drops it and lies down on top.
I think he’s having one of his superhero fantasies again. Gus, the Amazing Labrador Receiver. There’s no retriever in him. It’s all about the chase. Frisbees, balls, arms.
Dad whistles twice. Gus picks up the ball and trots back.
Mom and I are watching from beneath a tree. I can see storm clouds in the distance, but our patch of earth is sunny and warm.
A few days ago, when we flew in from Charlotte, I scored a seat by the window. Propped up with pillows, I watched the earth below us disappear into the clouds. Occasionally, we would fly low enough to see the ground again. When we did, I focused on the shadows the clouds cast on the ground below.
Right there, straight below me, people were waking up to a cloudy day and making plans for the library or the movies. I shifted my eyes. And right over there, they were waking up to sun and planning for the pool. How cool is Earth?
Toward the end of our flight, the landscape became endless green folds—the Ozark Mountains according to Dad, although they looked much less like mountains than the ones in North Carolina.
The man seated behind me must have overheard because he said, “Ozarks indeed and just below us is the Sunklands.”
Dad swiveled around. The man reached his hand between our seats and shook Dad’s hand.
“Name’s Bob. I work for the parks department right here in the Show-Me State. Those Sunklands are somethin’ else. Named for all the sinkholes down there. One’s over a mile long.”
The Show-Me State might as well have been called the Tell-Me State, because for the rest of the flight Bob pumped us with all the information we would ever need about sinkholes. For example, did you know that Missouri is one of the most sinkhole-prone states in the country? And, fun fact, sinkholes don’t happen just anywhere. They happen in places where the rock below the surface has eroded away, leaving a cavity that will eventually collapse in on itself.
When we finally landed, Bob gave Dad a business card and told him if we ever wanted to tour an honest-to-goodness Missouri sinkhole, give him a call.
“And that means you too, little lady,” he said, tipping his hat.
I smiled at him and thought, I have a close-up view of my own personal sinkhole, thank you very much.
Bob held back the line of passengers so Mom and Dad could shimmy out into the narrow aisle with me. Dad carried me out to the jetway, then he and Mom took turns holding me upright as we waited for the ground crew to bring up my wheelchair.
The jetway was hot and steamy, and my legs felt shaky. With my feet planted firmly in Kansas City, I was sure I could feel the rock eroding beneath me. This was Ground Zero for my surgery, and it was all getting too real too fast. My own honest-to-goodness Missouri sinkhole bubbled and churned beneath me, and for a hot second I thought my fears would swallow me whole right then and there.
Two stocky men in yellow vests heaved my wheelchair onto the jetway. Mom and Dad whisked me up off my feet and into my chair. Dad popped a wheelie and ran with me up t
he jetway into the air-conditioning.
I hoped I would see Bob again. I wanted to fly past him and shout, “Fun fact: wheelies can tame Missouri sinkholes!”
But Bob, Fellow Sinkhole Warrior, was gone.
A breeze—much softer than the one at the memorial—rustles the leaves on my tree and tickles my face, bringing me back to the field at the Ronald McDonald House. Right now, I’m so content I want to grow roots and stay here in this spot forever.
But then the rustle becomes a whisper, Hurry, hurry.
Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.
CHAPTER 26
Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The next Wednesday, after Anna, Elle, and I finished our online test prep, I pointed to my spelling board.
Elle picked it up. “Do you have something to say? Want me to get your mom?”
Ggguuhhh. I arched and grimaced.
“Okay, okay! No mom. We can do this.”
Anna held the cookie sheet on my lap, and Elle held my wrist. It took a few minutes to find a rhythm, but when I was done, I took a deep breath. My arm went limp.
“Look up Lou Lattimore,” Anna read, a little too loud.
Ggguuhhh. I reached forward again and pulled down Shh.
“Who’s Lou Lattimore?” whispered Elle.
Ggguuhhh.
“You don’t know?”
Tongue out. I pointed toward the computer.
Elle shrugged, then sat in front of the keyboard. After a minute she announced, “The only Lou Lattimore that comes up is a dress shop in Texas.”
“Let me try,” Anna said, pushing Elle from the computer. “Maybe Lou is short for something else.”
“Good idea. Try Louis Lattimore,” Elle suggested.
Nothing came up for Louis, Lucas, or Lucius Lattimore. Apparently, there was an American inventor named Lewis Lattimore, but he died in 1928.
“Maybe it’s a pseudonym,” Elle said.
“A pseudowhat?” asked Anna.
“You know, an alias or false name. Like J. K. Rowling. That isn’t her real name. It’s a pseudonym.”
There was a knock at the front door.
“Anna. Elle,” Mom called. “Your mom’s here.”
Elle closed the web page. “Anyway, think about it. Then maybe we can look again. But next week, you owe me a double dose of The Sorcerer’s Stone.”
After they left, I considered the pseudonym angle. As crazy as it sounded, Lou Lattimore might actually be a real-life superhero. I mean, he had an alias that was nowhere to be found online. He was determined to help me get back my missing things. Why wasn’t Mom on board with it? She knew about the deadline and that it was getting closer.
With no luck tracking down Lou Lattimore, that tick, tick, tick grew louder and more persistent.
In early February, my class took the National French Exam. Mom held my wrists while I pointed to answers on my test booklet. The test was pretty easy, I thought, and Anna and Elle agreed. Now I could finally focus on my missing things.
One morning in late February, I was awakened by a hand placed softly on my cheek.
“Lexi,” Mom whispered.
I opened one eye and saw pink sunrise filtered through frost-covered windows. I shivered and shut my eye.
Mom jostled me.
Ggguuhhh.
“C’mon, Lex. We have an appointment at the Center this morning, so we need to get moving.”
I arched my back and grimaced.
Mom laughed. “I think you’re being a little dramatic. The Center isn’t so bad, and Celeste really likes you.”
I groaned. I hadn’t been to the Assistive Technology Center since last summer. Hadn’t everyone finally given up on that?
“I know it’s frustrating, but Celeste says now that you have your chair it might be easier to use a communication device. She has a new one for us try today.”
Of course. A new one. Trouble was, there was always a new one. A new device that would talk for me until my voice came in. But they never worked the way they said they would. Celeste, the speech pathologist at the Center, had let me borrow at least five different devices, but none of them had worked for me. I just didn’t have enough control of my muscles yet.
I already had that nonstop ticking clock. I didn’t need any more reminders about my missing body. Just thinking about the Center made me so stiff Mom couldn’t get my coat on me.
“Take a deep breath,” Mom instructed.
I breathed in, and Mom quickly pulled my arm through the sleeve.
On the way, Mom said, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could use a device to talk to the girls? You could bring it in your room for … for whatever it is you three do in there.”
I grinned. The fact that she didn’t know made me feel a tiny bit better. I squeezed my imaginary rock until the edges dug into my skin.
“You know, we can probably mount a device on your wheelchair, and you’ll be able to use it all the time!”
All the time? No! I wanted my voice! My real voice.
I stared at my sticker collection and the spitball still hanging from Hulk’s nose. Stupid Tucker. He ruined the Hulk. MY Hulk.
I could feel the heat growing under my coat. I did not want to be going to the Center. I did not want a device mounted on my wheelchair. I did not want a spitball stuck on Hulk’s nose.
My arms began to tingle.
Rrrripp … Wow! I didn’t know a coat could actually explode! Crunch! And there goes my car seat, flattened like an empty juice box. Dad’s gonna have a cow when he finds out I’ve smooshed another one. Grrreen hands! Grrr … Hulk. No. Go. Center. Hulk save world.
At the Center, Mom rolled me up to the door. A sign read, The North Carolina Assistive Technology Program. Please ring bell for assistance.
My arm flew out and Mom held my wrist while I pushed the button.
“Hey there, Buttercup! I love your new chair!” said Celeste.
She pulled off my hat and pretended to crack an egg on my head. I didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself.
“I have something new for you to try today.”
She rolled me into a back room filled with all sorts of equipment—telephones for people who couldn’t hear, books for people who couldn’t see, and even toys for kids who were still waiting for their bodies.
We stopped at what looked like a big tablet computer mounted on an aluminum stand. Celeste pushed a button, and a familiar picture grid flashed on the screen.
This grid had been on every device I borrowed from the Center. The pictures represented real words and were meant to be a time-saver, but getting to the right picture was a nightmare for someone with no muscle control.
I arched and grimaced.
“Now hold up! This is completely different from devices you’ve used before. It has little cameras inside that follow your eyes. All you need to do is look at the button you want, and the device will pick it for you. It’s also touch-sensitive, which makes it easy for people to help.”
She touched several buttons on the control page, and a keyboard appeared on the screen. “I thought you might like to spell instead of using the pictures for a change. So it’s more like your cookie sheet.”
I stopped grimacing. Spell?
Celeste touched the L, E, X and I buttons. The computer announced each letter. She touched the top bar, and a voice said “Lexi.”
I smiled.
“Why don’t you give it a try?”
She stepped back so I could see the screen, but my head twisted hard to the side.
Mom shook out my arms then slowly coaxed my head back to the middle and held it there.
A cursor flashed on the screen. As my eyes moved, the cursor moved too. It looked like a ghost was operating the computer.
“You need to look directly at the letter you want and hold your eyes there for two seconds before the computer will pick it,” Celeste said.
My eyes settled on the B. The device announced “B,” and the letter appeared at t
he top. I was trying for the L, but it didn’t matter. I had made it work. With my eyes!
I accidentally hit three more letters—R, A, and Z—before my eyes finally settled on the L. I looked at the top, and the computer said “Brazl,” which made us all laugh.
“This is pretty cool,” said Mom, “but it’s no more independent than spelling in my lap.”
“She can’t sit in your lap and spell forever, Susan,” Celeste said.
Forever? Let me tell you about forever, lady. When I know my gifts and my body comes in, I’ll leave this place and all these stupid devices FOREVER.
I tried telepathic communication. Tell her, Mom. Tell her that’s what forever means.
But Mom was rummaging in her bag.
“I’ll tell you what,” Celeste said. “She can borrow this. Give her time to practice, and let’s see where she goes with it. It’s cutting-edge technology that’s helping all sorts of people get back some of what they’ve lost.”
“Not lost,” said Mom, “Stolen. But I’ve been thinking a lot about how to get some of it back.” She held out a handful of dog-eared papers. “There’s this devious procedure I’ve been researching, and I want to see what you think about it. It would be pretty radical, and maybe I’d regret it, but if by the end of the summer she doesn’t show signs of catching up, I’d like to consider it.”
Wait—what? Stolen? Devious procedure?
Had I really heard all that?
My mom was working on a plan to get something back from the thief—something that was keeping me from catching up. The theft and my missing body were related! And there was an actual deadline—before the end of summer.
Celeste made a copy of the papers. I watched Mom put the originals back in my bag. I needed to know her devious plan. I had to see those papers.
That afternoon, when Mom closed herself in her office, I pointed to my cookie sheet until Hannah finally agreed to spell with me.
As soon as we did, I wrote, Mom has a devious plan.
Hannah laughed. “Let me guess. You overheard this.”
It’s in my bag.
“The plan?”
Tongue out.
Hannah shook her head. She emptied the contents of my wheelchair bag onto the table—crackers, hand sanitizer, my sunglasses, and some dog-eared papers. I arched and pointed.