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Show Fair Forever ,22 At the store, I pick out some pants-all jeans-and duck into the fitting room. Before my surgery I never went shopping. Shopping had been a game of make believe. Mom would insist that I needed new jeans, or new shirts, or new shorts, and I would answer with halting breath that she could take me shopping as soon as I was better-as if waiting for a new heart were as predictable as waiting for the next tide. I try on one pair of jeans and settle on size twelve. An improvement. "They fit okay," I say. Mom looks at me over her glasses. "Did you try them all?" "Yes," I lie. "They're fine." She grumbles and purchases a set in both sizes. Then she looks at her list. "Did you ever find your math calculator?" she asks. "It's probably in my desk," I say. But I'm hot sure. I never used it. I hadn't stayed in class long enough. This year I'm starting over. I'm in classes with the younger students and the delinquent kids--the dropouts and losers-bigger than everyone else. Only, I'm not bigger. We stop at Wal-Mart for paper, pencils, pens, and notebooks. Mom checks each item off the lists I was given in my classes. She looks at calculators. They're expensive. "I think I left mine in my desk," I say again. "Or maybe my coat pocket." Mom purses her lips. On the way home, she volunteers to stop at Dairy Queen for Blizzards. I'm surprised when I see Katie Lindstrom and her friend, Lindley, ahead of us in line. Lindley turns and^ spotting me, opens her eyes wide. She elbows Katie and whispers |