and Talker‟s
favorite was Shelley. Shelley had been there almost from the
beginning—she‟d been six at the time, and had just been put into
the system—and when Tate had met her, she was trying very hard
to draw with a cast on her arm.
“Hey,” Tate said, sitting down by her. Very deliberately he took
off the half glove that he wore over his crippled hand and picked up
a crayon.
“Hey. What‟s that thing on your face?”
Tate was used to that by now and he had no problem
answering, which was funny, because when so-called adults had
asked the same question when he was in college, he‟d always
cringed.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
55
“It‟s a tattoo,” he‟d said casually. He‟d pushed up the sleeve of
his sweatshirt and said, “It‟s not just on my face, either. It‟s on my
arm and my neck and my shoulder.” The tattoo on his arm was
much brighter than the one on his face. He and Brian had been
surfing by this time, and the more his skin tanned, the less the tatt
stood out. He‟d thought about paying to have the whole thing re-
inked, and then decided against it. He was almost not that boy
anymore.
The girl looked at him very carefully, and then at the earrings
that went up that same ear, hiding the deformed shape. “Why do
you have all that stuff?” she asked, and he drew a heart with
flowers all around it. He wasn‟t an artist, not like Brian, but by this
time he‟d been volunteering at the art center for foster children for
around four months, and he was killer with hearts, flowers,
unicorns, trucks, tigers, and Spiderman.
“Because I got burned when I was your age, and I didn‟t want
anyone looking at the scars,” he told her. Her mouth made a round
little “O”.
“Can I touch?” she asked quietly, and he nodded his head and
put his hand down. He‟d been molding clay like Brian, and it had
helped him too. Not as much as it had helped Brian, but some
nights, when they were sitting down to watch television, Brian
would get out the clay and they would simply mold it, taking turns
making shapes and then squashing them and showing each other.
Sometimes the shapes were abstract, sometimes profane (because
really, a penis was the easiest thing to make with modeling clay,)
but mostly, it was a simple way for the two of them to communicate
when they didn‟t feel like words. So his fingers were improving,
even beyond where he had willed them to be, and he could use his
gross motor function better than the doctors had ever predicted.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
56
But they were still deformed and still scarred, and Shelley ran
the fingers poking out of the hand of the cast gently over them.
“I‟ll have a scar,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” He‟d figured. The cast was big and cumbersome, and
they didn‟t usually saddle little kids with something that big unless
there had been extensive damage.
“My bone poked through. It was gross.”
Tate grimaced. “Ewww. Did you scream?”
The girl shook her head. “No. That would have made him
more mad.”
Tate nodded. “Yeah. You don‟t want to make them more mad.
You were probably very brave.”
The girl nodded and kept stroking the rough skin of Tate‟s
fingers. “I‟ll never get a Prince Charming,” she said, her voice
unbearably sad.
“Because you have scars?”
She looked up, ink-dark eyes big in her peaked face, her
white-blonde hair floating like a cloud. “Yeah.”
“Naw—I got a Prince Charming, and I have scars.”
She giggled. “You can‟t have a Prince Charming!” she gasped,
scandalized. “Boys aren‟t supposed to have Prince Charmings!”
Tate nodded and started another picture. This one was a
kitten, because those were easy too. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “but
people aren‟t supposed to give us scars. I figure if people can hurt
me when they‟re not supposed to, I can have a Prince Charming
even though I‟m not supposed to, what do
favorite was Shelley. Shelley had been there almost from the
beginning—she‟d been six at the time, and had just been put into
the system—and when Tate had met her, she was trying very hard
to draw with a cast on her arm.
“Hey,” Tate said, sitting down by her. Very deliberately he took
off the half glove that he wore over his crippled hand and picked up
a crayon.
“Hey. What‟s that thing on your face?”
Tate was used to that by now and he had no problem
answering, which was funny, because when so-called adults had
asked the same question when he was in college, he‟d always
cringed.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
55
“It‟s a tattoo,” he‟d said casually. He‟d pushed up the sleeve of
his sweatshirt and said, “It‟s not just on my face, either. It‟s on my
arm and my neck and my shoulder.” The tattoo on his arm was
much brighter than the one on his face. He and Brian had been
surfing by this time, and the more his skin tanned, the less the tatt
stood out. He‟d thought about paying to have the whole thing re-
inked, and then decided against it. He was almost not that boy
anymore.
The girl looked at him very carefully, and then at the earrings
that went up that same ear, hiding the deformed shape. “Why do
you have all that stuff?” she asked, and he drew a heart with
flowers all around it. He wasn‟t an artist, not like Brian, but by this
time he‟d been volunteering at the art center for foster children for
around four months, and he was killer with hearts, flowers,
unicorns, trucks, tigers, and Spiderman.
“Because I got burned when I was your age, and I didn‟t want
anyone looking at the scars,” he told her. Her mouth made a round
little “O”.
“Can I touch?” she asked quietly, and he nodded his head and
put his hand down. He‟d been molding clay like Brian, and it had
helped him too. Not as much as it had helped Brian, but some
nights, when they were sitting down to watch television, Brian
would get out the clay and they would simply mold it, taking turns
making shapes and then squashing them and showing each other.
Sometimes the shapes were abstract, sometimes profane (because
really, a penis was the easiest thing to make with modeling clay,)
but mostly, it was a simple way for the two of them to communicate
when they didn‟t feel like words. So his fingers were improving,
even beyond where he had willed them to be, and he could use his
gross motor function better than the doctors had ever predicted.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
56
But they were still deformed and still scarred, and Shelley ran
the fingers poking out of the hand of the cast gently over them.
“I‟ll have a scar,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” He‟d figured. The cast was big and cumbersome, and
they didn‟t usually saddle little kids with something that big unless
there had been extensive damage.
“My bone poked through. It was gross.”
Tate grimaced. “Ewww. Did you scream?”
The girl shook her head. “No. That would have made him
more mad.”
Tate nodded. “Yeah. You don‟t want to make them more mad.
You were probably very brave.”
The girl nodded and kept stroking the rough skin of Tate‟s
fingers. “I‟ll never get a Prince Charming,” she said, her voice
unbearably sad.
“Because you have scars?”
She looked up, ink-dark eyes big in her peaked face, her
white-blonde hair floating like a cloud. “Yeah.”
“Naw—I got a Prince Charming, and I have scars.”
She giggled. “You can‟t have a Prince Charming!” she gasped,
scandalized. “Boys aren‟t supposed to have Prince Charmings!”
Tate nodded and started another picture. This one was a
kitten, because those were easy too. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “but
people aren‟t supposed to give us scars. I figure if people can hurt
me when they‟re not supposed to, I can have a Prince Charming
even though I‟m not supposed to, what do
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