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T
his our last test 'fore report cards get sent home. Mr. E. telling us again. Look left. Look right. We all say it together. “That's your competition.”

“I don't have no competition in here.” December shoves A'Destiny for saying that.

I'm staring out the window at the snow. Flurries. I write that word down. How many
R
's, though? Two
E
's? I'll put it in my jar.
Another
F
word,
I think. On Thursday I found the word
fickle
. Rhymes with
pickle
. That made it easy to spell. Laughing, I look up at Mr. E.

“Glad you think math is fun.” He stop in front of Peaches. “It is … fun.” He winks. “Easier to do than losing weight.” His hands hold on to his belly, giving it a little shake. “I'm thinking … maybe … surgery.”

Stopping in front of Jaxxon, he say, “You like zeroes, I take it, Mr. Teagarden.”

Jaxxon taking his hat off. I'm looking at Mr. E.'s stomach. Jaxxon yawns and goes down again. Mr. E. clap his hands like they are cymbals. When he yell at Jaxxon, I'm thinking it's the diet talking. “What do you do at night, Mr. Teagarden? Why … is your head always in the snooze position?”

Jaxxon jumps up, mouthing off about working late. “Doing real work. Not teaching … talking about eating lettuce all the time!”

Pushing past Mr. E., knocking papers outta his hand, Jaxxon leave, asking what we all looking at.

Mr. E. looks down, like the papers are rocks too heavy for him to carry.

I never seen him embarrassed before. Beating A'Destiny to the front, I pick up all I can. We all do.

Thanking me, handing out papers, Mr. E. ask me how many wins. I thought I'd have a perfect season. But I ain't disappointed. “Eighteen wins. Five loses. One forfeit. I'm doing good and the season just getting going.”

At her house, Peaches got a book with the dates, schools, and names of the guys I went up against. She want me to take pictures, since she stuck at home still
not able to go to my matches. We working on a scrap-book. Got three already, with our cooking stuff in it.

I ask Mr. E. if we get a chance before final grades go in to earn a little extra credit. The answer is no. Lately I been thinking — there's a special ed boy who ride the bus with me. What if I end up in a class like that? With kids who read like kindergartners.

“Miss Knight. Get busy.”

It's hard paying attention to a test when your teacher up front looking worried about something. Surgery. He don't need to do that. Guess everybody fighting something.

In the middle of the test, Peaches's hands open like a book sitting in her lap. Her eyes go up. Down. Up. Down. Spying on Mr. E. His feet stay crossed on top of his desk. Suspenders holding tight.

Miss Pattie didn't like what Peaches did, not coming to talk to her in class the other day. Plus missing out on those extra-credit points on her last two tests. Maybe Peaches figured cheating was easier than studying hard, and getting chewed out anyhow.

I try to catch her eye. To let her know she don't need to do this. I'm checking on Mr. E., too. Wondering. Do he know? He don't got to do it, either, get stapled or cut. Diet day and night. Not for us.

W
hile Autumn saunters into the media center, the Nazis break down Anne's door. Rounding the families all up. Sending them off to concentration camps.

“Adonis. I —”

“Shhh.” Making her wait, I read to the bottom of the page. I've read
The Diary of Anne Frank
before. It's one of my favorite books.

“But —”

Autumn gets so close to my face, her pink lips almost touch the corner of my mouth. The feather in her hair tickles me. “Quit that, Autumn.” I'm at the front desk. It's slow. I'm reading. But she only cares about what's important to her.

“I brought you something. Be nice.” An envelope sits in both her hands. “Open it.” She drew the smiley faces on herself, she explains. The envelope is blue. The smiley faces are lime green. The exact same color as her dress.

Thank you for you know what. I appreciate it.
I wouldn't have figured her to have nice handwriting. I pull out a movie ticket. There's a smiley face drawn on it, too. The first gift a girl has ever given me.

“I ain't have the money for two tickets. But give your mom one of these, okay?” She reminds me that Ma hasn't made it to another one of her matches yet.

She sits a cupcake in her palm, pointing to the gummy rabbit on top. “I made 'em. They called Red Velveteen Rabbit Surprise Cupcakes. Peaches made up the name.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don't not eat them because of her, though.”

Ma makes red velvet cakes. But these are different. Red cupcakes with buttercream icing, and white-chocolate curls on top. The gummy rabbit, sitting in the middle, holds a toothpick with a tiny piece of paper attached to it, like a flag. “That writing really says something.” She picks one up and reads. “You are a winner.” She says she made that one up. “Dreams do
come true.” Patricia came up with that one. Autumn wanted to write things like be my boo or let's go to the movies, but Patricia wouldn't go along. She bites into one. “Look.” There's white filling inside and another rabbit.

When Mrs. Carolyn walks up, Autumn asks if I wouldn't mind sharing my cupcakes with her. I haven't accepted them yet. I am a gentleman, so I tell her yes. Otherwise, what would Mrs. Carolyn think of me?

“Have you tasted these, Adonis?” Mrs. Carolyn asks. Her fingertip has icing on it. Licking it off, she apologizes, because a little falls onto my book.

“No, ma'am.” I pick up a cupcake, putting it aside for later. Autumn has icing on her nose. Laughing, she tries to lick it off with her tongue.

Miss Baker takes a shortcut through the media center. Mrs. Carolyn offers her a cupcake, asking if she knows how good a cook Autumn is. Autumn takes tiny bites. Her eyes looking at me even when Miss Baker is talking to her. I'd skip to the gas chambers if they weren't here.

Our library feels like the cafeteria sometimes. People talking. Eating. Laughing. If I were a librarian, nothing like this would be allowed.

“Oh my goodness.” Miss Baker closes her eyes. Swallowing, she congratulates Autumn on her culinary skills. “I get red velvet cupcakes at the bakery.” She eats her cupcake in four big bites. Picking crumbs from the paper, she asks Autumn if she will make two dozen for her daughter's birthday. It's at the end of the month. Autumn's bare arms rub up against me. “I been working at the library 'cause of Adonis. I made these to say thank you. I'm liking it here.” She sits on the desk, swinging her legs.

“That is so sweet, Autumn.” Mrs. Carolyn looks at me, approving of what she just said.

“Autumn … see, libraries can be fun.” Miss Baker rubs her back.

 

When we go upstairs to put sensors on the books, Autumn keeps to herself. She is working, but not talking very much. Then out of the blue she says, “You should tell me something about you. Something nobody else knows.”

Answering her would only upset me. I keep working, instead. I pull the plastic strip off the sensor and press it along the spine of the book where no one will notice.

“You know everything about me.” She picks fuzz off the brown rug. “I ain't too good of a student. I wrestle, bake.” Taking a deep breath, she finishes, “Still hate libraries. Shhh.” She smiles. “Wish you could graduate school and never read a book.” She gets really quiet. Then she asks if I ever wish I had legs.

“Huh?”

“I was just wondering. I wonder sometimes lots of things.” She tilts her head toward the window. The sun finds her face, lighting it. “Like if I didn't have legs, would I still wrestle or if I didn't have arms, would I cook?” She reminds herself to get a book for her dad. “I wonder if I was disabled, would I still be me way deep down inside?”

I'm thinking, watching shadows cover part of the rug and my wheel. “I never wonder anything like that. I never had them. I don't miss them.” I pull up the sensor I just put down, ripping the page. “And I'm me no matter what. That's a stupid thought you had.”

She sticks her legs out and kicks her feet like she's swimming. “You never miss 'em, ever?” Before I answer she says if she were disabled, she'd miss them. “Like people with no teeth must miss them sometimes.”

Regulars are the disabled ones. They don't think logically. I tolerate them. But it's hard. They say whatever
comes into their heads. Like her. Never thinking they might be hurting someone else's feelings. I stare at her legs. Muscled. Strong and pretty. “You don't miss what you never had.”

Her skirt moves up when she kicks again. Her thighs — I've seen them a zillion times. Today, I don't know, they catch my eyes.

“I'm just saying. I'd miss 'em, I think. But I wouldn't let that stop me or keep me from doing things or make me cry. You know what I mean?”

“I don't want to talk about this. It's dumb.” I almost say,
you're dumb
.

She stands up, leaning over me, holding tight to my chair handles. “Do you think I'm perfect?”

She smells … like roses. I swallow.

“Or do you think I'm sort of disabled?”

See, this is what I mean. You can't even talk to a girl like her. “You —”

She moves in a little closer. “If I was in special ed, would I be disabled, or is disabled only for people like you, whose bodies don't —?”

I try to back up. “We're supposed to be … working.”

She says she likes talking to me. “You make me think about important things.” Changing the subject, she asks if I wear shorts in the summer.

My hands go up. I almost shove her. “You are absolutely the rudest girl ever.”

I'm backing up. She's walking toward me. “I mean, if I was disabled, I'd just let people ask any question they wanted.”

She turns and walks in the opposite direction. Following her, I try to give her a piece of my mind. She's still talking.

“I'd say, just give me all your questions at one time.” She kneels down, writing on a tiny piece of paper. “You know why I'd do that? 'Cause people always thinking anyhow. They wonder why I read so bad. I tell 'em before they even ask. Teachers get your last year's grades before you walk in class anyhow. So the first day I just tell 'em we gonna have a hard year.” She slaps her hands. “Math don't like me. Reading ain't my friend.”

“It's not the same, Autumn.”

She turns, looking at me. I think she has on eye shadow. And liner. Navy blue. “I like talking to you. Do you like talking to me?”

It takes me a while to answer. “I don't want to talk about my legs.”

Scratching her nose, she says, “We can talk about my legs.” She kicks one out. “You like 'em?”

“No … I mean —” She gets me all confused. That's why I don't like her.

She looks out the window, up at the sun. Closing her eyes, she says, “I think you like me, Adonis Miller.”

I punch my hand over and over. “Where'd you get that?”

“Peaches —”

I warn her. “I hate her. Don't
you
ever mention her name to me again.”

Autumn jumps from one subject to another.

“You don't make sense.” I said that too loud. “You talk too much.” She says everyone says that, even her parents. “And —”
I don't like you, so quit antagonizing me.
I'm all set to say that. But that day in the caf, she was supermad at me. Really hurt. I went too far, saying what I thought.

Finally she says she has to go. She'll see me at practice. Then, while she's passing by me, a note falls in my lap. And she's gone.

After I've finished volunteering, I open it.