Sunny(16)

Gramps said, what?! And almost freaked out, but then caught himself and told me to keep going. And I explained how weird it was, and how I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t speak and I was scared, so I pretty much wrecked everything around me. And I told him how Aurelia was sitting right in front of me, and she couldn’t tell I was choking. How she was looking right at me. I admitted that I didn’t know why I was telling him this and that I guessed I just needed to tell someone how scared I was. Then I switched up on him and told him my birthday was on Saturday. And as soon as I said that, I thought about how maybe that’s not a good thing to talk about while Mr. Rufus is in a coma. So I stopped there. Because, Diary, I could feel myself Diarrhea-ing. So I paused. Just gathered my thoughts, which you know is sometimes hard for me to do because they are all over my head. Some are in the back and some are in the front and some are tucked just behind my ears, and others pressing hard against my eyes. And a few, I think, are at the tip-top of my head. Thoughts that want to sprout out and be like antennas or something like that—maybe they would find a signal to clear up the picture—and I thought about telling Rufus all this, but then I thought maybe Rufus would like to hear about something more . . . interesting.

Baraka. I asked him if he’d ever seen it. Then I told him, not Barack Obama. Buh-RAH-kuh. I told him it doesn’t have words or actors or nothing like that, but it’s still pretty good. I told him Aurelia thinks it’s about everything. That we’re all moving. Even when we’re not moving. I told him that was the good news. That he’s still moving.

When I finished telling Mr. Rufus about how much I hoped he could see Baraka once he got out of his coma, and to not spend money on popcorn and nachos and gummy things because he wouldn’t even be able to eat them, Gramps asked if there was anything else I wanted to say.

And then it hit me.

He could hear me. I know, I think, every move, every action, has a sound. Has a tick or a boom. Or something. So I did the dance routine, without the music, without the moves, but with the sound. And I ended with attitude. My kind of attitude. Mr. Rufus’s kind of attitude.

Not, What!

But, Wow!





Dear Diary,

Because me and Aurelia were so late, most of our regular dance appointments were already getting their treatments or being visited by family, so we couldn’t catch everyone. Mr. MacAfee was already deep into nap time, so we decided to just leave. But before we did, Gramps wanted us to come back to his office.

He said he had something for me.

When we got there, he opened a drawer and pulled out a folder, and in that folder was a copy of a photo.

Aurelia leaned over my shoulder to see it.

My mother. It looked like she was at a party, maybe a barbecue or something. The picture was mostly a blur because she was in motion. But her face was clear.

Gramps pointed to what looked like a whoosh of wind, which was apparently a bulging belly, and said that was me.

Aurelia said she remembered the day it was taken. That it was during the baby shower. Your mother was about to pop.

Gramps said, if he recalls correctly, this was a few days before I was born. He said it might even be this exact day, but back then.

And Aurelia covered her mouth. Which meant it was probably true. She went on about how my mother didn’t want a normal thing with gifts and games and all that. That she wanted to have a party. A real party. She wanted to dance, even though she could barely move because of her belly. Aurelia said my mother wanted me to know what happiness felt like, no matter what, from the inside out.

I stared at the photo. Her face. My face in hers. My body in hers. Baraka, all over again, the tears pushing against the backs of my eyes, my thoughts interrupted by Aurelia’s sniff sniff sniffle.

Aurelia said she was sorry.

I told her it was okay.

Gramps told me to give the picture to my father. He said there are certain things he can’t tell him. Certain things only she can.





Dear Diary,

Practice was weird because I showed up with a photograph folded and stuffed in my sock, and a million things on my mind. Choking. Mr. Rufus. My mother. I tried to push everything back back back, into the trunk of my head as we all stretched (on Lu’s count). Toe touches, high knees, jumping jacks, some other kind of toe touches, a different kind of high knee, some arm stretches, right, then left, then right, then . . . everybody left me. As in, left the track. It was Thursday, and Thursdays used to basically be Sunny Days because they were always my time to shine. This was our long run practice. The practice to show and improve endurance. And endurance is my specialty. But now, because I don’t run anymore, the rest of my team broke out without me, Whit leading the way while I stood on the field. By myself. Not totally by myself. Coach was there. But still.

Coach brought over a milk crate full of discuses, clanging around like caveman plates. And while he was waddling from the weight of them, he yelled out that today was the day.

Today . . . is . . . the . . . day!

Coach dropped the crate. He pulled one of the discuses out. Flipped it in his hand, then handed it to me. Then he grabbed another for himself.

Diary, holding a discus should be like holding a Frisbee, but it’s not. Not at all. And that was a surprise. But it’s actually like holding . . . um . . . actually, I’ve never held anything like it before. You have to lay it flat in your hand, and just let your fingertips barely grip it. Not a real grip. Just a tip grip.