“Do you know where I live?” she asked him.

“Uh, no.” He was not in the mood for little first-grade girls asking him stupid questions.

“If I tell you, can you take me there?”

“Maybe,” he said, not planning on it.

She recited her address for him.

“You don’t know where that is? It’s three blocks from here.”

“Can you take me?”

“But it’s three blocks from here. You just go down that way and then turn the corner and there you are.”

She just stood there, looking at him.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Uh-huh. ‘But it’s three blocks from here. You just go down that way and then turn the corner and there you are.’”

“Then why aren’t you going?”

Her face suddenly went blank and she said, “Uh....”

“All right. I’ll take you home,” he said.

She reached out for his hand.

“What are you doing?” he forced himself to say, as he jerked his hand from her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I always hold people’s hand,” she said.

“Well, you can’t hold mine.” He pretended that his eyes itched.

“What is that?” she said, pointing.

“What’s what?”

“That. On your arms and hands. Were you burned or something?” She was excited.

He thought of saying yes. “No.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “You know what? At our house? We have this huge medical encyclopedia? And it has this chapter on burn victims? I read it all the time. I like it.”

“You’re weird,” he said.

“What is it, then?”

“Huh?” he said. “Oh. My eczema. You can’t catch it or anything.”

“That’s a funny word,” she said, and tried to spell it in her head. “Can I touch it?”

He put his hands on his elbows, protectively. “No.”

“Okay.” She was disappointed.

“You don’t want to,” he said. “It’s gross.”

“I think it’s neat.”

“You would,” he said. “And it isn’t. It itches.”

“Have you had it for forever?” she asked.

“It comes and goes,” he said, scratching.

“I’ve had my thing for forever,” she said, “I think.”

“What thing?”

“My neurological uniqueness.” She liked saying that.

“Your what?”

“I’m brain-damaged.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t surprized.

“I get lost a lot,” she said. “It’s hard for me to get my muscles to do what I want, too.”

“Is that why you walk funny?” he asked; he had been taking her on a detour, but he didn’t think she noticed.

“I guess so,” she said. “I fall down a lot, too.”

“And I scratch a lot. I guess we’re even.”

“Gee, you’re smart,” she said. “You know how to get to my house, and you’ve never even been there.”

“And you don’t know how to get to your house and you live there,” he said. “You must be stupid.”

“Don’t call me stupid,” she said.

“Why not? Because you are?”

“Nunh-unh. I’m in the highest reading class.” She didn’t tell him that she was in the lowest math class and that she went to the resource room. “You’re mean. I shouldn’t have talked to you.”

He hadn’t wanted her to say that. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, and scratched.

“Okay,” she said, brightly. “You know what? My dog? She was playing with a stick? And she kept throwing it up in the air and catching it in her mouth? And you know what the stick ended up being?”

“What?”

“Guess.”

“No.”

“A baby garter-snake. It was dead.”

“What a lovely story,” he said.

“I have lots,” she said. “One time? My mom let our bird fly around in my room? And I had to go to the bathroom? So I opened the door? And when I came out of the bathroom, my dog was eating it. Chewing on it and everything.”

“Your dog eats a lot of animals,” he said.

“And I fall down a lot,” she said. “And you scratch yourself a lot.”

He took her on another detour. “It keeps me up sometimes,” he said.

“Huh?”

“At night. The itching. It keeps me up.”

“Oh. My thing doesn’t do that. It keeps me--” She tripped and fell, suddenly. “--Down. See?”

“Are you okay?” He was looking at her pulling herself up off the ground.

“Unh-hunh,” she said. “I was just visiting my friend the ground. Do you like He-Man?”

“Masters of the Universe,” he said.

“Unh-hunh. You like them?”

“Um-hm,” he said. “Do you?”

“Yeah. Who’s your favorite?”

“He-Man. Yours is probably a girl.”

“Nunh-unh. Skeletor.”

“You’re not supposed to like the bad guy,” he said.

“You’re not?”’

“Unh-unh.”

“Oh.” She thought. “I like Orko, then. Do you think they’re wearing underwear?”

“What?”

“On He-Man. Are they wearing underwear, do you think?”

“What kind of question is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was just wondering. It doesn’t look like it.”

He thought about taking her on another detour, but then he decided he shouldn’t. “Your glasses are thick,” he said.

“You want to try them on? People are always trying on my glasses.”

He considered. “Sure,” he said. When she handed them to him, he took them very carefully in his fingers, so that his eczema wouldn’t touch them.

“Woah.” He started spinning around and around in circles. When he stopped and handed them back to her, he said, “You’re blind.”

“Unh-hunh,” she said, putting them on. “That’s what everyone says.” After a second, she said, “I’m glad I talked to you.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you remember how I said that you were mean before and I wished I hadn’t talked to you? I take it back.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Are you glad I talked to you?” she said.

“I guess.” Then he said, “Is that your mom?”

“Where?” she asked.

“There.”

“Where?”

“Right there.”

“Where?”

“There. God, you are blind.”

“Ooooh, you said God,” she said. “My Sunday School teacher says that hurts God’s feelings.”

“I don’t care what your stupid Sunday School teacher says.” He was about to ask her if she’d like to play sometime when her mom said, “Molly!”

“Mom!” She ran up the sidewalk. Halfway down, she fell; she was crying, but she picked herself back up again and ran.

He was crying, too--he pretended that his eyes itched. Her name was Molly; she didn’t know his name, and she wouldn’t play with him sometime. It wasn’t fair that no one would play with him. And not many people would talk to him, either--only little first-grade girls with brain-damage. He wished that he had let her hold his hand.

***

“Who was that boy, Molly?” her mother asked.

She wiped her eyes. “He brought me home,” she said.

“You didn’t touch him, did you? He looks like he has some kind of disease or something.”

“Unh-unh. He wouldn’t let me.” She was thinking of the story her Sunday School teacher had told her last week; the one about Jesus and the blind man. Jesus said, “In the name of God, your eyes are opened. Now go and proclaim the good news.”

Her eyes had been opened.

“I like him,” she said. “He’s neat.”

Looking was hard. She often stood on the playground, trying to separate all the kids from each other until she finally gave up and asked a teacher, “Do you know where Jane Swanson is?” or “Do you know where Stephen Jones is?”

And eventually, the teacher started saying, “You ask this every day. Why don’t you find them yourself?”

But she could not find them herself. She didn’t know how.

And that day, she could not even find her own house--again. The other kids were all in groups outside, but she didn’t see them, because looking was so hard.

She saw him, though.

He looked different from the other kids--he had something on his arms and on his hands. She saw him. And she went up to him, and asked if he knew where she lived.

Her mother was pouring her a glass of milk--it was hard for her to pour things without spilling them--and she said, “I can see! I can see!”

And she laughed.