I live in a huge townhouse on the nicest street in North River Heights. I have a dog named Daisy.
Then one day I blurted out that I had a little brother who was deformed.
I have absolutely no idea why I said this: it just seemed like an interesting thing to say.
And, of course, the reaction I got from the little girls in the bungalow was dramatic.
Really? So sorry! That must be tough! Et cetera. Et cetera.
I regretted saying this the moment it escaped from my lips, of course: I felt like such a fake.
If Via ever found out, I thought, she’d think I was such a weirdo.
And I felt like a weirdo. But, I have to admit, there was a part of me that felt a little entitled to this lie.
I’ve known Auggie since I was six years old. I’ve watched him grow up. I’ve played with him.
I’ve watched all six episodes of Star Wars for his sake, so I could talk to him about the aliens and bounty hunters and all that.
I’m the one that gave him the astronaut helmet he wouldn’t take off for two years.
I mean, I’ve kind of earned the right to think of him as my brother.
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