Does August see how other people see him, or has he gotten so good at pretending not to see that it doesn’t bother him?
Or does it bother him? When he looks in the mirror, does he see the Auggie Mom and Dad see, or does he see the Auggie everyone else sees?
Or is there another August he sees, someone in his dreams behind the misshapen head and face?
Sometimes when I looked at Grans, I could see the pretty girl she used to be underneath the wrinkles.
I could see the girl from Ipanema inside the old-lady walk.
Does August see himself as he might have looked without that single gene that caused the catastrophe of his face?
I wish I could ask him this stuff. I wish he would tell me how he feels.
He used to be easier to read before the surgeries. You knew that when his eyes squinted, he was happy.
When his mouth went straight, he was being mischievous. When his cheeks trembled, he was about to cry.
He looks better now, no doubt about that, but the signs we used to gauge his moods are all gone.
There are new ones, of course. Mom and Dad can read every single one.
But I’m having trouble keeping up. And there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to keep trying:
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