Say What You Will Read Free

she already was. In the end, he wrote the only thing he could think of: “I worry most about worrying too much.” After such an honest first sentence, he drifted into safe generalizations: “We have grades to maintain, along with family responsibilities. Someday we’ll have to worry about college applications and how we’ll pay for college, if we can get in. After that, I worry about jobs and what the cost of energy will be.”
    It went on like that for a few more paragraphs. At the bottom, most people wrote: “Good job, but you might want to get more specific.” He wanted to see what Amy, who had more to worry about than the rest of them, wrote. Was it mean to think this? He wasn’t sure.
    Then he read Amy’s essay:
    I’m not sure I do worry about the future.
    I don’t know what lies ahead but I know I’m not scared of it. I’m in no rush to be an adult, but I suspect when I get there, I’ll discover it’s easier than being a kid. There won’t be so many ups and downs. Or crises that get talked about as if they’re the end of the world. I think we’ll all come to understand that there isn’t any one big test or way to validate ourselves in the world. There’s just a long, quiet process of finding our place in it. Where we’re meant to be. Who we’re meant to be with. I picture it settling like snow when it happens. Soft and easy to fall in if you’re dressed right. I think the future will be like that.
    Oh come on, Matthew thought. Was she serious ? Was this a joke? Or—he had to admit this felt like a possibility—was she completely crazy ? She could barely walk, she couldn’t talk at all, and she wasn’t worried about the future? It made no sense. It made him mad. Amy, who couldn’t walk in snow, imagined a future that felt like falling into it?
    Later, when the best essays got pinned to the board of the classroom, he read the comments she got: “Oh my God, this is so amazing!”
    “You are an awesome writer!”
    Matthew felt small and stupid.
    And then last year, at the end of eleventh grade, the whole school got to read one of Amy’s essays when it was printed in Kaleidoscope , the school literary journal. Hers was the piece everyone talked about:
    Lucky
    By Amy Van Dorn, grade 11
    When people first see me, they may not believe this, but most days I don’t feel particularly disabled. In the ways that matter most, I believe I am more blessed by good luck than I am saddled by misfortune. My eyes are good, as are my ears. I’ve been raised by parents who love me as I am, which means that even though I can’t walk or talk well, I’m reasonably well adjusted.
    I know that for a teenage girl in America, this is saying a lot. I don’t want to be thinner than I am, or taller. I don’t look at my body parts and wish they were bigger or smaller. In fact—and this will surprise many people—I don’t wish I was fine. I don’t pine for working legs or a cooperative tongue. It would be nice not to drool and warp the best pages of my favorite books, but I’m old enough to know a little drool isn’t going to ruin anyone’s life. I don’t know what it would feel like to be beautiful, but I can guess that it makes demands on your time. I watch pretty girls my age and I see how hard they work at it. I imagine it introduces fears I will never experience: What if I lose this? Why am I not happier when I have this?
    Instead of beauty, I have a face no one envies and a body no one would choose to live in. These two factors alone have freed up my days to pursue what other girls my age might also do if their strong legs weren’t carrying them to dances and parties and places that feed a lot of insecurities. Living in a body that limits my choices means I am not a victim of fashion or cultural pressures, because there is no place for me in the culture I see. In having fewer options, I am freer than any other teenager I know. I have more time, more choices, more ways I can be. I feel blessed and yes—I