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F
rom the moment I was born, Ma told me I was brilliant, handsome, and strong.

She named me after Adonis, a Greek god. Stephen was to be my name. But when the doctor delivered me, I hadn't any knees, calves, or feet. Birth defects still happen.

“A boy without legs needs a strong name to stand on.” Ma said it right in the delivery room. Then she changed my name. When I was young, I would pretend that I ruled the world: All the presidents reported to me. You do not need legs to dream big. You need to be determined; convinced that it is within you to accomplish great things.

I shave in the mornings, so I get to look at myself a lot. My ears are a bit lopsided. That is my only imperfection.

Muscled arms. Wavy brown hair. Eyes so big and black, they glow. They all add up to me. Perfect.

When I get to the breakfast table, Ma says how handsome I am. She picked out my hunter-green sweater. I chose the jeans. Looking good is a top priority of mine. I try never to give people a reason to doubt my integrity.

I butter her wheat toast while she pours oatmeal into our bowls. Drinking from the orange juice carton, I remind her that I am going to the movies on Saturday with a girl.

She smirks. “Autumn, right?”

Since last week I have been telling her about Raven. I met her at our last wrestling match. She introduced herself to me. I'd never noticed her before then. We have honors biology together.

Raven is short. I like tall, statuesque girls. Her hair is short as well. Long hair is prettier. But she is intelligent. A gifted and talented student. Attractive, too. “Her name is Raven, Ma. She's French and African American. Remember?”

Sitting her chair closer to mine, Ma passes me the sugar. “When you dream about her, then I'll know you like her.”

It's unfair. I've talked in my sleep since I was very young. Ma gets to hear what I think. When I was in fourth grade, they bullied me. Students at my school called me iron legs, no legs, wheelie boy, stumps, Disability Don, and other things I care not to remember. I never told Ma. She listened in on my dreams. She called a meeting with the principal as well as the bullies and their parents. I began to watch wrestling on TV after that. Last summer I learned to box a bit, as well. If I hit you, it will hurt. I am disabled. I am not weak.

“Raven. Does she wrestle?” Ma and I watched WWE every Saturday night for years. She knows a few moves, so she is impressed with Autumn. She has never met her. But a girl wrestler seems cool to Ma. Besides, she doesn't think I pick the best girls. She said Emily would get me into trouble. She did. Emily told her brother that I was the snitch. Before then, she cheated on me. Raven is a good girl. Very quiet. I dislike girls who talk too much. I hate the loud, obnoxious ones, especially Patricia (i.e., Peaches).

Ma sits our dishes in the sink. “When you dream about a girl every night —”

“Not every night,” I correct her.

“She has gotten under your skin.” Ma read an old newspaper article about Autumn. She is determined to go to one of her matches. “She just seems sweet,” Ma whispers.

She splashes her uniform, rinsing out the glasses.

I get a text from Raven.

“See, Ma. She's studying while she's eating breakfast. Autumn, on the other hand, is a bad student.”

Ma asks what sort of grades Autumn gets. I earned a C once in third grade and cried. I've only gotten As since. Autumn's parents would probably throw her a party if she came home with a C. “I bet she'll have to repeat ninth grade.”

“Well — I do believe in doing well at school.” She walks over and kisses me on the forehead. “I also believe that we all have gifts. Things that separate us from the crowd.”

I've got tons of gifts. I name a few. Ma laughs. “Humility, however, is not one of your gifts.”

That's correct. I know who I am. I know what I am capable of accomplishing. I do not dull my light so other people will feel better about themselves.

S
weaty. Stank. Ain't got time to freshen up. Gotta hurry and catch him. Wednesdays he got chess club. He runs it. They had one disabled kid before he took over. Now they got four. Two girls, even.

I take the shortcut 'cross the walkway on the third floor, running into Jaxxon, who shoves me, telling me to watch where I'm going. Miss Baker standing beside him, reminding me to take home my book and do the assignment on page thirty. Then she congratulates me. My picture's in the paper. I had five pins — shutouts — in a row: 5-0 (twice), 8-0 (twice), 7-0. They say I got a good chance of making it to regionals. Qualifying for states.

“Our superstar.” Mr. Epperson locking the door to the teachers' lounge across the hall. Holding up his
grade book, he say, “C minus. You can do better.” When I pass him, he ask me to have Peaches come see him before class starts. Bet it's about her last quiz. She got another C. Cried in front of the whole class.

I rush up the hall. Run down the steps. Catch my breath on the first floor. Chill at the elevator, waiting on him. I'm smiling like I'm getting my picture taken when he roll up. “Hey.”

He pushes the elevator button. His fingernails clipped and clean. The watch he never take off needs a new band.

I bring up practice. Hook and rolls, knee bars. And Melvin moving up in weight class. All of us happy, 'cause anybody wrestling 195 gonna wish they wasn't.

I tell Adonis how much I miss him when he not at practice. Pulling up my pant leg, I say for him to look.

He's staring.

“At what, Autumn?”

“Check out my muscles.”

I got beautiful legs. Nice muscles. Smooth brown skin. I'm hoping he's noticing — but not the brush burn I got on the mat at practice.

He presses the button again. I'm rehearsing in my head what I came to ask.
Wanna go to the movies this weekend?
No. That's not right.
Adonis, you seen that movie
they been advertising? The one where the guy's head gets chopped off. Wanna see it with me?
Crap. That ain't right, either.

“Autumn.”

I can't help it. He the smartest, cutest boy ever.

“You're talking to yourself. Muttering.” Then he starts talking to the elevator. “I'm in a hurry. Come on.” Holding down the button, he looks at the floor instead of me.

I lean against the wall, one foot up, thinking. I love smart boys.

Fixing his blue tie. Tightening the knot. He looking like a teacher. Not no kid. “Quit staring,” he say, taking off cuff links, digging his fingers into his chair handles.

I can't ask him. He gonna say no. I bring up something educational, instead. I always get more words from him then. “What do the word
firstly
mean?” I can't get that word out of my head. It's stuck there like a seed in the ground.

He a human dictionary. Giving it to me as a adverb. “
Firstly.
It's another way to say
in the first place
.” Then I get a sentence.

I wonder about his brain more than about his legs: how a boy can be so smart, holding things in his head
the way sugar holds sweet, making people think they know him when they don't. Just like Peaches. I want my kids to be born that way. Smarter than everyone else.

“On the mat, I got skills. Nobody can touch me. But math, reading, I hate 'em.” Mom say I shouldn't talk like that. He probably know anyhow. Everyone do. “It's easy for you and Peaches.”

“Nothing … is easy. I study.”

“I mean —”

He turns so I'm facing his back.

In wrestling you learn to ignore stuff. Like when your opponent uses body language to put you in your place. I'd cry if I paid attention to stuff like that. So I walk around till we face-to-face, in neutral position. Sorta like in wrestling. Then I come out and say it. “School is my worst subject.”

Maybe I should quit the team, he saying, and study more. He telling me education ought to be my primary concern. I'm sorry I brought up the subject. No one understands.

Moving closer. My knees touching the edge of his chair. I try to make him see. “When I wrestle … I, I feel smart. Like I know the answer to every problem every time.”

That's why my parents can't kick me off the team.

He looking up at me. Like he getting what I'm talking about. I tell him a little more, my eyes never letting go of his. “I know what my opponents gonna do 'fore they know what they gonna do. But reading —” I quit talking. And think how when I grow up, it's gonna be different. I'll make my kids read while they little. Young as the babies in that television commercial.

Pushing his sleeves up, he tells me how many books he read over the summer. “Thirty-five. A hundred twenty-five books this year already.” He naming titles. “Only one had less than four hundred pages.”

I worked out all summer. I read one book the school assigned. Miss Baker say that's why I failed my first test. I wasn't prepared.

The elevator doors slide open.

“I like movies better than books.”

He don't move.

I look down the hall, making sure no teachers around. Then follow him on.

His fist slams into the elevator wall. “Stop stalking me!” He puts up one finger. Then two. Then five when he say, “You show up at the van. Now you're at the elevator. Last week you were waiting for me after a morning meeting with Mr. Epperson. Plus you came to
my AP psychology class. You forgot something, you told the teacher.”

It sound wrong when you hear it out loud.

If he had legs, they would be walking away from me right now. “I do not like aggressive girls.” Cuff links fall off his lap, onto the floor — rolling into corners like dice.

Bending down, picking them up, I'm trying to explain. “I ain't like that. For real. It's just that — what if I texted you? Would that be better?”

“Are you in special ed?”

I know what he mean. What he trying to say. So I stick him as hard as he sticks me. “It wouldn't be so funny if I said something about you and that chair, would it?” I'm sorry right away. 'Cause I ain't like that.

When the elevator doors go to shut, he stops 'em. “I get straight As in this chair. What do you get?”

M
a pulls up to the theatre, and who do I see? Autumn with Patricia. “Oh God. Why are they here?”

Ma looks ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “Well. Have fun.” She peers out of the window at Autumn, and smiles at me.

I am on my first date with a regular — an able-bodied person. I hope they do not ruin it.

Raven climbs out of our van. I lock my wheels in place, and ride slowly down to meet her on the pavement. Ma drives away, waving.

“Adonis. What y'all doing here?”

Autumn cheerily walks over to us. Patricia stays behind. Her lips and eyes reveal what she thinks of me. They roll and twist, along with her body when she
turns her back toward me. “Autumn, let's go,” she grunts.

They dress alike at times. Today they have on burgundy sweaters and black tights with rhinestone buttons at the ankles. A few guys whistle when they pass by Autumn. They throw their eyes at me. Raven moves in closer, like a pup protecting its territory. Her hand extends when she introduces herself to Autumn. I like mature girls.

It doesn't take long for Autumn to annoy me. She traipses along beside us while we head toward the ticket booth.

Patricia avoids looking at me. “Let's go, Autumn. C'mon.” Autumn disappears in the crowd ahead of us. Periodically I can see her looking back at me. A guy standing behind her pulls at her curls. She laughs. He squeezes her arm muscles. “Wrestling …” I can hear her say that. “Beacon Academy …” I do not hear her finish her sentence since Raven is speaking to me. Patricia glares at me while she purchases her ticket.

I ask the cashier for 3-D, balcony tickets. She looks at Raven and winks at me. “Would you like popcorn? A drink?” I ask Raven on our way inside.

She holds out a crisp ten-dollar bill. “I can buy the popcorn.”

I've banked 20 percent of my money since I was six years old. “I'll pay for everything.” She smiles on her way to the restroom. Moving quickly behind her, Autumn is smiling, too.

Patricia buys their snacks. While she waits, she focuses on the movie posters. I look at my watch, and then back at her. She told them to put me in that pond. I know it.

I try to forget eighth grade, but seeing Patricia always reminds me of it. I had to tell that Anthony stole the midterm. It was only right. She should have been suspended, too. Anthony swore she had a copy.

Five against one was a fair fight to them, I suppose. And to Patricia. When they dumped me from my chair and tried to drown me, I saw her by the trees, spying. She should have gone for help. Or told the principal what she'd seen.

I get a text from Raven and go to order our food, wondering if she and Autumn are in there fighting, or discussing me.

“Next. Whatcha want?” a cashier says. Looking over my shoulder, I see Autumn rushing toward theatre seven along with Patricia. Whispering.

I do not like carrying trays, so our drinks sit between my hips and my chair. If you stop them from filling the cups to the top, you will not have a problem.

Popcorn, Raisinets, and Goobers sit on my lap as I head for the butter machine, a woman standing close by wants to know if I'll need help. She does not wait for an answer. Her hands grab my tub of popcorn, holding it under the spout. “How much do you need?”

“I'll butter my own food!”

Reaching for the container, I knock over our drinks. Popcorn spills everywhere. Soda and ice splash, soaking my pants, chair, and floor.

Raven walks up to me while the woman is apologizing. Should she call my mom? Do I want to go home and change? She's asking such ridiculous questions.

I dry off some in the men's room. I begin with my watch, wiping it clean, including the face and inside the leather band. On my way out, I still find ice cubes in my chair.

At our seats, Raven asks again, “Are you sure … you're okay?” I tell her yes. Only I'm not. Everything bothers me. My chair is damp and sticky. My pants smell of buttered Coke. The regulars — able-bodied people — who saw me in the lobby walk past me, staring. Including the guy who couldn't keep his hands off Autumn.