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Authors: Marci Lyn Curtis
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if they aren’t the least bit interested. He
saved his allowance for months to buy her a video game.”
“Twenty-one Stones?” I asked. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear the rest of this story.
“That’s the one,” Mrs. Milton confirmed. “Anyway, when he gave it to her, she didn’t react the way he’d hoped.” While her words were matter-of-fact, I
could hear fierce maternal protectiveness hiding in her tone.
“What did she do?”
“Threw it in the trash and called him a...” She stopped, regrouped, and then tried again. “She called him a ‘stupid retard.’ He was heartbroken.”
I felt a sharp pang in the hollow of my chest, a clog in my throat. I whispered, “Is she still on the team? That girl?”
“No,” Mrs. Milton said in a sigh. “Coach has a strict policy about the kids treating one another respectfully.” She patted me compassionately on the leg. “Oh,
don’t get upset, hon. The kids at school prepared him for this kind of thing. He’s kind, trusting, an easy target. And anyway, he has Teddy, and now you—someone who can appreciate
what it feels like when life throws you curveballs.”
I nodded woodenly, and, eyes closed, tried to pull myself together. Beside me Mason was still as stone, but I’d swear I could feel his breath feathering against my cheek. I’d swear
that he was facing me, that his eyes were on me. Was he staring at me?
I dipped my head, letting my hair curtain my face for a few seconds. Then I raised my chin. I still felt his eyes on me—scorching like the desert sun. I twisted my hands in my lap. Why was
he staring?
Trying to take my mind off Mason, I peered across the nothingness to where Ben was getting ready for his race. He now sat on a wooden bench alongside the pool, so stuffed full of smiles that
they just spilled out of him. He pulled on a pair of red swim goggles that warped his face a little, like those mirrors that distort your chin and make your head look fat in all the wrong places.
Pumping one fist high in the air, he cheered for someone in the pool. There was something about the upward curve of his mouth that filled me with an overwhelming, protective affection. Some people
have so many layers to them that you can hardly see who they are. But when I looked at Ben, I saw everything that made him
him
.
Why would anyone intentionally hurt someone like him?
When they announced the next race, Ben approached the water. There was a long pause while he climbed the podium. He moved slowly and deliberately, as though savoring the moment. When he finally
made it to the top of the podium, he stood there for a long fragment of time. Supporting himself with the metal rails of the podium and peeling off his crutches, he scanned the crowd until he found
us. And then he smiled.
Instinctively, I smiled back and began to lift my hand to him, but I stopped, midwave, and ran my fingers through my hair.
Too late. Apparently Mason had already seen it. He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.
I felt as though I should play it off, so with my gaze facing the pool and with all the innocence I could muster, I said, “Are you okay, Mason?”
He bit off a “Yes” through what sounded like clenched teeth.
Well. At least he’d spoken to me.
Ben, oblivious to my bonehead move, stretched his toes toward the water, leaning over the edge. I held my breath. Beside me, Mrs. Milton’s camera fired off pictures, one after another in
rapid succession.
There was a loud pop, a monstrous splash, and the stands erupted in cheering. Ben didn’t appear partially paralyzed in the water. He looked strong and confident, like any other kid, yet so
insanely different. As the race went on, I caught snatches of swimmers passing him. Though Ben moved slowly, deliberately, he had an obvious advantage on another swimmer, a chubby kid at his
ankles. When Ben turned around at the far end of the pool to make his final lap, he glanced behind him. And then, little by
saved his allowance for months to buy her a video game.”
“Twenty-one Stones?” I asked. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear the rest of this story.
“That’s the one,” Mrs. Milton confirmed. “Anyway, when he gave it to her, she didn’t react the way he’d hoped.” While her words were matter-of-fact, I
could hear fierce maternal protectiveness hiding in her tone.
“What did she do?”
“Threw it in the trash and called him a...” She stopped, regrouped, and then tried again. “She called him a ‘stupid retard.’ He was heartbroken.”
I felt a sharp pang in the hollow of my chest, a clog in my throat. I whispered, “Is she still on the team? That girl?”
“No,” Mrs. Milton said in a sigh. “Coach has a strict policy about the kids treating one another respectfully.” She patted me compassionately on the leg. “Oh,
don’t get upset, hon. The kids at school prepared him for this kind of thing. He’s kind, trusting, an easy target. And anyway, he has Teddy, and now you—someone who can appreciate
what it feels like when life throws you curveballs.”
I nodded woodenly, and, eyes closed, tried to pull myself together. Beside me Mason was still as stone, but I’d swear I could feel his breath feathering against my cheek. I’d swear
that he was facing me, that his eyes were on me. Was he staring at me?
I dipped my head, letting my hair curtain my face for a few seconds. Then I raised my chin. I still felt his eyes on me—scorching like the desert sun. I twisted my hands in my lap. Why was
he staring?
Trying to take my mind off Mason, I peered across the nothingness to where Ben was getting ready for his race. He now sat on a wooden bench alongside the pool, so stuffed full of smiles that
they just spilled out of him. He pulled on a pair of red swim goggles that warped his face a little, like those mirrors that distort your chin and make your head look fat in all the wrong places.
Pumping one fist high in the air, he cheered for someone in the pool. There was something about the upward curve of his mouth that filled me with an overwhelming, protective affection. Some people
have so many layers to them that you can hardly see who they are. But when I looked at Ben, I saw everything that made him
him
.
Why would anyone intentionally hurt someone like him?
When they announced the next race, Ben approached the water. There was a long pause while he climbed the podium. He moved slowly and deliberately, as though savoring the moment. When he finally
made it to the top of the podium, he stood there for a long fragment of time. Supporting himself with the metal rails of the podium and peeling off his crutches, he scanned the crowd until he found
us. And then he smiled.
Instinctively, I smiled back and began to lift my hand to him, but I stopped, midwave, and ran my fingers through my hair.
Too late. Apparently Mason had already seen it. He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.
I felt as though I should play it off, so with my gaze facing the pool and with all the innocence I could muster, I said, “Are you okay, Mason?”
He bit off a “Yes” through what sounded like clenched teeth.
Well. At least he’d spoken to me.
Ben, oblivious to my bonehead move, stretched his toes toward the water, leaning over the edge. I held my breath. Beside me, Mrs. Milton’s camera fired off pictures, one after another in
rapid succession.
There was a loud pop, a monstrous splash, and the stands erupted in cheering. Ben didn’t appear partially paralyzed in the water. He looked strong and confident, like any other kid, yet so
insanely different. As the race went on, I caught snatches of swimmers passing him. Though Ben moved slowly, deliberately, he had an obvious advantage on another swimmer, a chubby kid at his
ankles. When Ben turned around at the far end of the pool to make his final lap, he glanced behind him. And then, little by
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