By Rachel M. Hollis

Junior year, I came back from summer break in a wheelchair. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. No one cared three months ago, so why start now? They lived for secrets, picked them apart like vultures. Not my problem. I had bigger ones.

My doctor’s note said “no weight-bearing,” so I skipped the stairs. I could take a buddy on the elevator and had no shortage of volunteers eager to tag along. People who’d never spoken to me offered to hold doors. I let them.

Then came the lunchroom. My first day back, I rolled to the head of the table where I’d never belonged. Dared anyone to tell me I couldn’t stay. They went quiet, stared down at the wheels. Then nodded and kept talking. 

I ate my ham and cheese sandwich like I’d earned it. I listened to their gossip. Who got drunk at the lake house. Which teacher was a perv. What I used to dream of from ten feet away, chewing alone.

By Friday, everyone knew my name. No one had saved me a spot since fifth grade. Now they were making sure I was okay. Someone brought me a Gatorade. They noticed. Whether they cared or not, it felt close enough.

After school, I wheeled around the corner where my mom picked me up. I stood, folded the chair, shoved it hard behind the dumpster. Guilt stung. I stuffed that away, too. And I’ll do it all again tomorrow. 

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Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears or is forthcoming in River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Gone Lawn, Funicular, Sky Island Journal, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.