Mom would point to one of my bandages, and I would hold up my fingers to show her how much it was hurting.
One meant a little bit. Ten meant so, so, so much. Then she would tell the doctor when he made his rounds what needed adjusting or things like that.
Mom got very good at reading my mind sometimes. After that, we got into the habit of doing the one-to-ten scale for anything that hurt,
like if I just had a plain old sore throat, she’d ask: “One to ten?” And I’d say: “Three,” or whatever it was.
When school was over, I went outside to meet Mom, who was waiting for me at the front entrance like all the other parents or babysitters.
The first thing she said after hugging me was: “So, how was it? One to ten?”
“Five,” I said, shrugging, which I could tell totally surprised her.
“Wow,” she said quietly, “that’s even better than I hoped for.”
“Are we picking Via up?” “Miranda’s mother is picking her up today. Do you want me to carry your backpack, sweetness?”
We had started walking through the crowd of kids and parents, most of whom were noticing me, “secretly” pointing me out to each other.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It looks too heavy, Auggie.” She started to take it from me.
“Mom!” I said, pulling my backpack away from her. I walked in front of her through the crowd.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색