1
I liked being ridden, and offered the chance to pretty much every guy in Video II. I guess it made me feel as if I had something to contribute to the group.
So when Elliot jumped on the back of me and I felt his weight pull me down, I smiled. Pushed the wheelchair joystick. Increased acceleration. The smooth terrain of Jackson Memorial Mall was perfect for showing off.
“Kim Possible, I mean, I thought she was attractive—that doesn’t mean I needed to start jacking.” Elliot laughed behind me, full of life. He was eighteen, like me. Tall, black, he wore skinny jeans and the hoodie of a band I’d never heard of. We were debating which animated characters of our youth were worthy of sexual awakenings.
“Robin Hood could get it from Little Maeve,” I said. “The Disney one, the fox.” I don’t know. He had a mischievous smile.
“Disney?” said Elliot. He shook the handlebar of my wheelchair near my ear.
“Kim Possible is Disney,” I retorted.
“Disney Channel, completely different ball game.”
“No way! Disney jack sesh!” I said.
“Maeve,” Mags, my best friend, reprimanded me from my right.
Air conditioners wafted along the scent of free-sample lotion and buttery pretzels. One of those pretzels was folded in a paper bag resting on my footplate. KC had dove in front of the register to buy it for me. I couldn’t lift my arm high enough to swat away his credit card.
“Abuse of the disabled,” I’d accused.
We cruised our way back towards the food court now, after a few loops of circling.
About halfway through Video II an hour ago, my classmates and I—Elliot, Mags, KC, and Nate—had decided to dip for the mall. Not that we’d been doing anything in class. Mags had been sitting on the floor at my wheels, reading Bridge to Terabithia, and I was swiping through last night’s fun with Hot Tinder Guy. “Mags, look.” I’d shoved my screen in her face. She looked up from her book and then away real fast. All she must have caught were the words swallow and babe.
“Oh my God, Maeve.”
I grinned and returned to the screen. I knew it was messed up, but I was proud I’d successfully sexted a guy from Tinder. I mean … after eighteen years of experience trying otherwise, it seemed like it could only happen on Tinder. With the photos I’d chosen, the guy couldn’t see the whole me.
“He’s so hot,” I’d said.
“He’s not, though.” Mags hadn’t looked up from her book. She was petite with long, dyed-red hair, and I was mad jealous of her in Video I until I realized having to reject a guy every day, like she did, sucked almost as much as never getting that chance, like I didn’t.
Despite my handicap, I looked all right, I guessed. Brown hair and eyes, almost acceptable weight at just under a hundred pounds. I sat a little crooked, but whenever someone held a camera up, I made sure to lean against my scoliosis so you could barely tell. My skin was nice. I always wore the same blue, low-top Converse shoes. And I had other things going for me—humor and dreams and an attempt at positivity. My life’s ambition was to be a famous director, and I had twelve scripts completed by the age of sixteen.
Mr. Billings, Seefeldt High School’s premier film teacher, had to combine Video I and II this semester in order for the school not to cancel both electives due to low enrollment. There was this really valiant entreaty at the beginning of the year in which Billings convinced the principal we were worth holding the class on block days, and the principal conceded with the requisite that Billings film the football games for the coaches every Friday. Then maybe he’d consider having Billings film baseball in the spring so we could have Video III. Billings literally took one for the team. But we were usually left to our own devices while he taught the newbies to render shit onto their Mac desktops. This was the first time things got bad enough for us to ditch.
The mall crowd’s chatter rose near the food court. We picked a table for three since KC and Nate had left for physics; it was just Elliot, Mags, and me. Elliot hopped off my wheelchair and took a seat to my right. I bulldozed aside a chair and it screeched on the tile as Mags sat on my left.
Flapping ears and a jingle of dog chains ripped through the air next to Mags, and I looked down.
Technically, I wasn’t supposed to let Mags hold the leash of my service dog. His nonprofit company had strict rules. But the way she’d walked through the mall with her leash hand dangling down, blasé as shit (not to mention totally able-bodied) to match François’ blasé-as-shit expression amused me. Only two years old, François wore a blue-and-gold vest and silver choke collar. His half retriever, half Labrador fur was almost white, and everyone pretty much had to resist the urge to scrunch all that extra skin over his large brown eyes. I mean, that and the fact that his name was François.
Normally those eyes were dull and disinterested. Now, he looked up at me and gently swayed. Food.
I mouthed no warmly, and he kept wagging.
“Fam, I don’t know what we’re doing,” said Mags, gazing absently around the food court and twirling François’ leash on her wrist.
Elliot draped across the sticky linoleum table. “I know.” He covered his face. “We need these damn shirts.”
“I mean, we’re filming next week; that’s still enough time for eBay.” I lowered my left arm for François to slap with his tongue. My right was too stiff and weak to hang down that far.
“Do they have to be identical?” said Mags. “Can some of the actors just have, like, different uniforms?”
“Nah…” Elliot and I answered simultaneously. We were codirecting the group’s final project for Video II. I was glad we were on the same page. Most times.
“Imma get a wrap.” Elliot drew out his wallet and plucked a few bills. “You guys want anything?”
Copyright © 2019 by S. C. Megale
