Mom used to pick me up after school, and August was always in the stroller.
There weren’t a lot of people who were equipped to babysit for Auggie,
so Mom and Dad brought him to all my class plays and concerts and recitals, all the school functions, the bake sales and the book fairs.
My friends knew him. My friends’ parents knew him. My teachers knew him.
The janitor knew him. (“Hey, how ya doin’, Auggie?” he’d always say, and give August a high five.)
August was something of a fixture at PS 22. But in middle school a lot of people didn’t know about August.
My old friends did, of course, but my new friends didn’t. Or if they knew, it wasn’t necessarily the first thing they knew about me.
Maybe it was the second or third thing they’d hear about me. “Olivia? Yeah, she’s nice. Did you hear she has a brother who’s deformed?”
I always hated that word, but I knew it was how people described Auggie.
And I knew those kinds of conversations probably happened all the time out of earshot,
every time I left the room at a party, or bumped into groups of friends at the pizza place.
And that’s okay. I’m always going to be the sister of a kid with a birth defect: that’s not the issue.
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