Sorry for not thanking my lucky stars you get to follow me to the toilet three times a day, and sorry for not loving the fact that someone else has to carry my tray to the table at lunch and that I have to wait at the back of the bus, coughing in the cloud of exhaust, while the wheelchair lift goes down as slow as Christmas.

I’m sorry for needing a little space.

But mostly I’m sorry I let the whole being-stuck-in-a-wheelchair thing get to me today. I wish I could have brushed it off like usual. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Mom wanders in from the hallway and slumps down at the kitchen table. The microwave beeps, and I plop the lasagna in front of her. It slides across the plate like a wet sock, probably tastes like one too by now. She’s rubbing her fingertips in a slow circle on the side of her head. I wish she would stop doing that—it makes me worry she’s going to go bald. I push the plate forward with one finger until it’s about to topple off into her lap. She picks up a fork.

“Chew, chew, chew,” I say, and roll into my bedroom to finish my algebra.

It’s almost midnight and I still haven’t started my math. I forgot to close the blinds, and the streetlight outside is casting an orangey glow across the walls, but I’m too tired to drag myself into my chair and deal with it. The chair’s sitting at a right angle to the bed, where Mom always puts it in case I need to get up in the night. Right angles. See, I don’t even need the math homework. My current skills are greater than or equal to whatever problem set is due tomorrow.

I could probably use some solid pluses and minuses to distract me right now.

I can’t stop thinking about what happened at lunch. It so wasn’t a big deal until everybody made it a big deal. I mean, I get it. Lauren’s whole entire job is to chaperone me from place to place, so when I pull a runner and disappear, it kinda makes her look like she’s slacking.

But Emma Claire wasn’t there today. She’s basically the one friend I have at school. She also has CP. Birds of a feather and all that. But she only has a limp and can still play soccer. I tell her she’s got a “touch of CP” and I’ve got the whole bucketful. We’re not close close. But at least we sit together. And when she’s gone, it’s just me in my cone of silence in the middle of the cafeteria.