By Jane Frances Gilles
The Senate building in Washington felt like church. So much marble. I didn’t like the loud echoes our footsteps made.
Dad covered the bathroom mirror. Just for a while, he said. I was glad.
Alma ran across the gym to me. I knew she was the Little and I was the Big, and I had to take care of her. Keep her safe.
The physical therapist says I’m doing great. But I don’t know.
At first, I thought someone dropped a great big book on the gym floor. One really loud bang. Like a crack of thunder.
I wrote my speech myself. The Senator wanted to read it before, but Dad said no one needed to edit it or make it better because my words would be perfect.
I don’t remember the ambulance or anything. Mom says that’s for the best.
My best friend Louise visited once at the hospital. Only once. Her mom said it was better if she waited until I came back to school.
The loud bangs came faster and faster. I thought of the district spelling bee. One of the words was cacophony.
Alma’s dad still brings meals to us on Fridays. My mom keeps saying he doesn’t have to, but I can tell she likes it. Because she’s tired all the time.
At school everything is normal again. Almost. My teacher says normal is good. But I don’t know.
The microphone made a loud pop when they tested it before my speech. I jumped. Dad said, it’s okay, it’s okay.
I pushed Alma down on the gym floor. I was going to lay on top of her, but she was confused. She started to get up again.
The only one who treats me the same as before is the dog. Everyone else seems kind of afraid of me.
The principal came to Washington to watch my speech. Every time I looked at her, she was doing a thumbs up, but her face was sad.
Time ran out, and I never got all the way on top of Alma. I didn’t get low enough. My head was still higher than the folding chairs.
In the Senate hearing room, the gavel was too loud. Bang. Bang. Dad held my hand.
Tomorrow my physical therapist is taking me to a park. He says it will be good for me to practice on uneven surfaces.
Mom keeps saying my hair will grow back just as long and beautiful as before. But I don’t know.
Right before my speech, I looked up. One of the senators was looking at me and wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. It made me nervous.
I was pushing on Alma’s shoulder. And then it happened. I didn’t feel anything at first.
This summer we’re going to the mountains. It’ll be quiet, and no one will recognize me there.
Our Senator said he was proud of me. I could barely hear him over the clapping. So loud. I flinched.
I felt wetness. And I saw the bright lights on the gym ceiling. The wet was blood, but I never knew that because I passed out. I didn’t wake up for 26 days.
Dad uncovered the mirror after my hair was all the same length. I don’t like my hair short, but at least it’s not obvious what happened to me at the holiday assembly.
The Senator said after the election he will do everything he can to keep kids safe at school. He said my speech will help. But I don’t know.
Jane Frances Gilles is a writer and former educator living in Minnesota. She holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English education and a Ph.D. in education policy. Her fiction has been published in The Writing Disorder and Writers Resist.
