I memorized the names of teachers, aides, occupational therapists, counselors and specialists.
Every success became a milestone.
Every setback became something I tried to solve.
If Mason said hello to a cashier, I praised him.
If he tolerated a noisy room, I recorded it.
If he made eye contact voluntarily, I noticed.
If he didn’t, I wondered whether I had missed an opportunity to help him.
I loved him so fiercely that sometimes I forgot love could become another form of pressure.
Hannah saw that long before I did.
She had been my best friend since we were eleven.
We met after I punched a boy named Eric Vaughn for snapping the strap of her training bra during recess.
Hannah rewarded my heroism by informing the principal that I had also stolen two chocolate milks from the cafeteria earlier that week.
“Integrity matters,” she told me afterward.
I refused to speak to her for three days.
