LUCIUSMy arm rises toward my face and the pincer touch of cold steel rubs against my jaw. I chose hooks because they were cheaper.I chose hooks because I wouldnt outgrow them so quickly.I chose hooks so that everyone would know I was different,so I would scare even myself.
"Lucius!" I hear Mom call from the bottom of the staircase. "If you dont hurry, youll miss the bus. Youll be late for your first day!"
She sounds so excited.
Like Im in a hurry to start sophomore year at a brand-new school. Like Im in a hurry to be the new kid, especially looking like I do, when everyone else in my class will have already established themselves, their friendships and their cliques, back in freshman year. Like this will be something good, like itll be anything other than the pure awful I know it will be.
Time to get dressed.
My room is like a white-walled cell. Oh, sure, it has the basics bed, dresser, desk but none of the frills my old room had. I have no CD player, no DVD player. Im not allowed to have a computer, and Im sure not allowed to have any science stuff anymore. Even the walls are bare.
I lost everything in the explosion my father would say we lost everything so a lot of what I dont have is punishment for that. Also, because we cant afford to replace a lot of things. Also, self-punishment. We could of course afford at least a few posters, but I dont want them. I want to be reminded all the time. I know the world wont let me forget, so I cant let myself forget either.
The dresser at least contains some decent new clothes, but the jeans I pull out are stiff with their newness, the long-sleeved black T-shirt I pull out stiff as well; I always wear long sleeves, even on the hottest days of summer, to cover my synthetic arms, which extend from just above where my elbows should be to my "wrists," where my hooks begin. When I pull on my socks, I think about how when I was younger I loved the feel of new socks against my skin: not faded or stained, never been washed or worn. But now everything feels too new, like Im being forced into a costume for a play I want no part of. At least my sneakers, which Ive been breaking in all summer, have the feel of something I know. It took me two weeks of solid practice to learn how to tie my own laces again, but I refused to get Velcro, and once I mastered those tricky laces, it was like everything else fell into place. In the beginning, I couldnt even pull on my own underwear without scraping my skin with the hooks, but now I can do it all, and do it fast; briefs instead of boxers, just in case anyones curious. Some minutes, its possible to forget how much has changed. And in my dreams, I always have real hands.
Down in the kitchen, Dad is in his usual spot (hiding behind the newspaper), Mom is in her usual spot (doing something at the counter), and my younger sister, Misty, is in her usual spot (being a pain wherever she is). Some days, I think Misty is okay, but mostly its like she got the memo that kid sisters are supposed to be incredibly annoying and she follows those instructions religiously.
Misty is a smaller version of Mom tiny, cute, and blond while everyone has always said I favor Dad. Seeing as Dad is balding and paunchy, I always hope people understand when I say I just dont see it. But maybe they just mean the eyes are the same. Or maybe the nose. Its amazing how people can take just one small part of a person and draw massive conclusions.
"Pancakes, Lucius?" Mom offers, her back to me as she does some stuff in front of the microwave.
"No," I say, taking my seat at the kitchen table, "Im good."
The cushion of the seat feels funny beneath my butt. Its as though the cushion of the seat at the table in our old kitchen, in our old house, knew my butt perfectly, but this cushion doesnt know my butt at all. Its the same as with the jeans and T-shirt, I guess: I dont know any of it, and none of it knows me.
I suppose its not surprising.
The old house, we lived in it all our lives, all my life and Mistys, at least. This place? Weve only been here a few months.
How long, I wonder, does it take a thing or a place or even a person to feel like home?
Mom puts a glass of orange juice on the table in front of me, fresh from the carton, even though I didnt ask for any. Dad still hasnt said a word. Misty, even though shes only twelve to my fifteen, is spending all her time checking out her own reflection in a handheld mirror. I think girls call them compacts. Or maybe only moms call them that. Or maybe only my mom. I wonder sometimes: Every time Misty looks in that mirror, is she expecting her reflection to have changed from the last time she looked? Who is it shes hoping to see? I could tell her, if I thought shed hear me, that the thing about herself she wants to see change the most probably never will. The universe knows thats the case with me. I am an expert on that.
In the beginning, I used to look at myself in the mirror all the time, repulsed at what I saw, trying to surprise my own new image by jumping out at the mirror from the sides. What I saw never changed. Now I know it never will. I look like what I look like and except for getting gray and wrinkled will look like this for the rest of my life. Its not like Im ever going to be able to do something simple, like diet or pluck my eyebrows two of Mistys favorite activities to ever change the way I look. Its not like Im a starfish, able to generate new limbs.
And yet I accept what Ive done, what Ive become. I accept who I am, and what my future will undoubtedly be.
Mom must notice that I dont touch my juice, because she says, "Youre not even going to drink anything, Lucius? Are you that nervous about your first day?"
"No," I say. "Im not nervous at all." And Im not nervous, that is. Its pointless to be nervous when you know what the outcome of a thing will be. Nervous is only for when you dont know. "If I pull this switch, what will happen?" "Will the doctor tell me I wont make it?" "What will adding this one little chemical do to the potion?" "Does the pilot really know how to fly this plane?" No, Im not nervous. Im just not exactly looking forward to any of this. "Im just not hungry," I tell my mom. "Or thirsty. Thats all."
"Well," Misty says, "isnt anyone going to ask me if Im nervous?"
"Of course," Mom says. "Are you?"
"No," Misty says, with even more arrogance than I had at her age. Then her expression changes, as if she cant stop herself from feeling whatever shes feeling. "Well, maybe."
"Youll be fine," Mom soothes. "Just be yourself, and Im sure everyone will like you."
Its such a Mom thing to say. If everyone in the world would just be themselves, then everyone else in the world would like them. As if its ever that easy. If this were a year ago and Misty was angsting about starting something new, Id tease her. Id say, "Of course no one will like you, especially if you just be yourself. " Id say it because just like Misty got the memo that shes supposed to be a brat to me, I got the memo saying that as the big brother I am to make her life miserable. But I cant do that to Misty today. I know how much Ive cost her already.
Of which she wastes no time reminding me, as she leans across the table after Mom pokes her head into the fridge, and hiss-whispers, "This is all your fault. If it werent for you, wed never have had to move in the first place."
Moms head is still in the fridge and Dads head is still behind his newspaper, so I dont think for more than a split second before raising one of my hooks and holding it over Mistys head. Its a menacing way to hold the hook. I know this. Ive had too much practice this past summer.
I watch as Misty recoils from me, her brother, in horror, as I knew she would. Its its own brand of scary, seeing someone youre related to look at you with such fear in her eyes. Its a look Ive seen before.
But I dont care, in the moment. In the moment, I just want to stop being reminded, if only just for a second. I want to take a break from being told that everything in our lives, all the millions of little changes, is my fault. Its all because of me me me.
Before Mom gets her head back out of the fridge, before Dad peeks over the top of the newspaper, I take my menacing hook and place it back on the table.
I try to smile at Misty, really smile It was all just a joke, my smile says, begs her to believe, you know? but shes not having any.
She doesnt trust me, and I cant really say that I blame her. Misty may be an annoying little sister, but shes not stupid.
So I try to pretend nothing out of the ordinary just happened. I reach for my juice glass with both hooks, but instead of using the hooks I use the plastic wrists of my prosthetics to grasp the glass and raise it to my lips. This is how I drink sometimes. Im adept with the hooks for fine motor stuff meaning grabbing or holding on to small objects but for something like a glass I sometimes resort to this. The doctors told me that later Id get used to holding on to bigger objects, but that in the beginning mastering the pincer grip would be enough, and that it would all come in time. But first, baby steps. And sometimes I regress. Better to regress than digress, I always tell myself.
I go to put the glass back down on the table, but something goes wrong. I make a misjudgment in spatial relations. Maybe its
because the glasses in this house are different from the ones in our old house. Maybe its because the table is different. Maybe its because I really am, no matter what I say, nervous; nervous about starting over in a new place. Whatever the cause, I misjudge, put the glass down too abruptly or too harshly, and can only watch as it totters, in that excruciating slow-motion way of forthcoming disaster, and then tumbles, sprawling a tiny sea of orange in the direction of Dads beloved sports pages.
That finally gets his attention.
Gee, if Id known spilling my orange juice was this effective, Id have spilled it in Dads direction every day when I was younger. Then maybe hed have made time to do things with me like, I dont know, play catch in the yard. Not that Im complaining or playing the neglected child card. Ill never do that. I know what Ive done. I know whos responsible for everything in my life, past, present, and future. Still, a little catch would have been fun, when I still had hands.
Dad does a little jump in his seat, but maybe the cushions of these chairs still dont feel right to his butt either, because his reaction time and reflexes are off, and he cant save the Mets scores from being drenched.
This cant be good. He always reads the paper in a particular order: front page first, because he says its irresponsible not to; followed by sports; followed by whatever else he has time for. He wont like reading a soggy sports section.
Youd think a guy who likes reading the sports pages so much would have found time to play ball with his own kid.
But now I really do digress, and with good reason.
Im sure hes going to yell.
All I wanted was a moment, just a second in which I could take a break from being reminded.
But Dad doesnt yell.
There have been times, many times before today, when Ive wished he would.
He folds the sports section up in a ball and tosses it to the middle of the table, away from him. Its a good toss; theres something athletic about it. Then he snaps the front section as if hes opening it for the first time that day, as if nothing has happened.
I let out a breath I didnt even know I was holding.
Thats when Dad peers at me over the top of his newspaper and issues one of his trademarked glares.
"Whatever you do today," he says, "dont louse it up. This is your last chance."