Two Feet Shorter than My Usual Height

Embarrassed, she says, “I didn’t know if it was you in that wheelchair.” She’s talking about last Saturday

when Dad drove me to the mall to cheer me up. He persuaded until he wheeled me, so I wouldn’t tire,

strain, hurt. There was a long crutch to the bank of wheelchairs, and then slow maneuvering into stores

―my first time, odder than showering under the eye of the middle-school gym teacher. She shifts

as she scans the room for someone else to talk to. “And was that your boyfriend?” she asks,

sets the chip bowl in my lap, avoids my eyes. “I was in an accident. My dad came down

to take me to tests, so I wouldn’t be alone.” I crunch and notice the chips are stale. She doesn’t

even offer the salsa bowl. We’d rolled by a trendy store: Dad saw Hawaiian shirts on sale, wanted to check them out.

He only left for a moment, to see how a bright shirt fit his tall body in the mirror. He didn’t know

it would be hard to find me tucked between racks of obnoxious flowers and surf boards. I didn’t panic

when he called my name twice. I didn’t feel lost, folded in the fabric, two feet shorter than my usual height.

Panic didn’t burn my throat until she stared wide-eyed at me through the window when Dad

pushed me, two bags held tightly on my lap. She turned quickly. No smile. No hello. And now,

stale chips, lame party. I wonder what tokens will follow, wonder if I will ever again turn on heel, leave assholes in wake.