Chapter 1: Symmetry 1 Symmetry It''s kind of hard to watch The Great British Bake Off over plates of Stouffer''s lasagna. Especially since it''s been in the freezer awhile--the edges are dry and crusty. But this is about all the cooking Mom chooses to do. She says she likes to leave the fancy stuff to me. Really, though, she just doesn''t have the energy to think about fixing anything that doesn''t come with directions on the box. Our TV is so old and tiny that I have to lean in to see what Mary Berry is pursing her lips about. The bakers are making English muffins, and she''s giving the stink eye to the redheaded guy who didn''t let his dough rise enough. If I were on the show, Mary wouldn''t have to tell me how long those muffins need to rise.

Any fool with a Betty Crocker cookbook or Google knows to let it double. I pick at a shriveled string of cheese on my plate and imagine what I''d say if I could send her a note across the ocean. Dear Ms. Berry, As an aspiring baker over here in Tennessee, I''d like to tell you how much I love every single one of your recipes, but especially your Cappuccino Coffee Cake. I made it once for my mom, and she said both coffee and cake would never be the same again. I think she meant that in a good way. Also, would you mind sharing your secret to a good scone? Because down here all we''ve got are buttermilk biscuits-- Mom''s phone rings and now I''m left wishing I had enough sugar to try another batch of scones. The only ones I ever made came out so hard, you had to dunk them in milk to take a bite.

Mom hits pause right as Mary is about to call out the top three English muffins. I already know which one will win. It''s all about symmetry. They have to look exactly the same. Mom sets her food on the coffee table. She''s barely touched it, but she picks up her phone and walks into the hallway. She says "hello" like the conversation has already run an hour long. It has to be Mema.

I saw off another bite of lasagna with my knife and review what I''m going to say if the phone rings again and it''s about what went down at school today. But there''s not a single scenario where I don''t get grounded. Grown-up trumps kid like paper beats rock. Mom leans back in from the hallway and mouths, "Chew, chew, chew," like I''m five and still in feeding therapy. I point at the phone. "Talk to your mother." Depending on how Grandpa''s been doing lately, this could either be a really quick conversation or a really long one. I take my chances and hit play.

I''m right about the muffins. When Mom still hasn''t come in by the credits, I push back from the table and roll into the hallway. She''s sitting on the floor with her legs stuck out and the phone in her lap. "How bad was it?" "He locked your grandmother out of the house and called 911 to report a burglary." "Whoa." "Yes." "Did the cops show up?" "No. He''s done it enough times, she reprogrammed the emergency button on the house phone to go to her cell.

" "Smart." "Not smart enough to remember to put out a new Hide-a-Key. She had to get the neighbor to break a window." I can picture it: Grandpa whispering into the yellow phone on the wall about voices and eyes looking in at him from the dark. Poor Mema. I wonder which window they had to bust. I lock the brakes on my chair and hold out a hand. Mom takes it and stands up with a grunt.

"Nice." "Ellie, you''re twelve. Just wait until you''re my age. You''ll make all kinds of noises you never thought you''d make." She tries on a smile, but it slides off. I hate it when she does that, pretends everything''s rosy because she thinks I can''t handle it. But I don''t say anything, just grab her plate off the coffee table in the living room and roll on into the kitchen. I don''t know the last time Mom ate a meal all the way through.

I pop her lasagna into the microwave. If it''s not Mema on the line, it''s Lauren, my aide, calling to tattle on me, which--I check the clock--might still happen tonight, with my luck. I''m not a bad kid, really I''m not. It''s just that anybody who sees a girl in a wheelchair thinks she''s going to be sunshine and cuddles. Sorry for having an opinion . Sorry for not thanking my lucky stars you get to follow me to the toilet three times a day, and sorry for not loving the fact that someone else has to carry my tray to the table at lunch and that I have to wait at the back of the bus, coughing in the cloud of exhaust, while the wheelchair lift goes down as slow as Christmas. I''m sorry for needing a little space . But mostly I''m sorry I let the whole being-stuck-in-a-wheelchair thing get to me today.

I wish I could have brushed it off like usual. Then I wouldn''t be in this mess. Mom wanders in from the hallway and slumps down at the kitchen table. The microwave beeps, and I plop the lasagna in front of her. It slides across the plate like a wet sock, probably tastes like one too by now. She''s rubbing her fingertips in a slow circle on the side of her head. I wish she would stop doing that--it makes me worry she''s going to go bald. I push the plate forward with one finger until it''s about to topple off into her lap.

She picks up a fork. "Chew, chew, chew," I say, and roll into my bedroom to finish my algebra. It''s almost midnight and I still haven''t started my math. I forgot to close the blinds, and the streetlight outside is casting an orangey glow across the walls, but I''m too tired to drag myself into my chair and deal with it. The chair''s sitting at a right angle to the bed, where Mom always puts it in case I need to get up in the night. Right angles. See, I don''t even need the math homework. My current skills are greater than or equal to whatever problem set is due tomorrow.

I could probably use some solid pluses and minuses to distract me right now. I can''t stop thinking about what happened at lunch. It so wasn''t a big deal until everybody made it a big deal. I mean, I get it. Lauren''s whole entire job is to chaperone me from place to place, so when I pull a runner and disappear, it kinda makes her look like she''s slacking. But Emma Claire wasn''t there today. She''s basically the one friend I have at school. She also has CP.

Birds of a feather and all that. But she only has a limp and can still play soccer. I tell her she''s got a "touch of CP" and I''ve got the whole bucketful. We''re not close close. But at least we sit together. And when she''s gone, it''s just me in my cone of silence in the middle of the cafeteria. So there I was, sitting at the end of the row of tables and away from everybody else like a doorstop, and it was loud, and not the kind of loud you can tune out. And it was chili day.

The whole place smelled like meat chunks. Barf. So I packed up the sandwich I''d made with the cranberry relish and goat cheese, which Mom says isn''t a sandwich because it doesn''t have meat, and left. I just put it all on my lap and rolled on out and down the back hallway that leads to the exit doors by the gym. I sat in a little ray of sunlight that snuck past the dumpsters outside and finished my lunch, and then the bell rang and. I just needed another minute, was all. Except when Lauren found me, I might have been dozing in the sun spot and it might have been after too much "travel time" had passed for me to blame it on the chair. But I wasn''t trying to skip class.

Really. The thing is, kids skip all the time, and yeah, they get in trouble. But nobody freaks out about it like they do with me because I''m a health risk. And okay, yes, it was maybe a teensy bit antisocial to go eat in a corner by the dumpsters, but sometimes it''s all just too much. I get tired of bearing witness to everybody else''s normal. I never got sent to time-out when I was little. I think the teachers couldn''t bring themselves to lock me and my wheels in the corner. But I wish I could now.

I wish I could just declare a giant TIME-OUT from school and people and take a long nap in the sun. I think about The Great British Bake Off again and how happy the winner looked, holding up his English muffins like a doof next to tiny Mary Berry. I bet no one bothers Mary when she wants to eat alone. I bet she dines like a queen. One day I will write her a real letter and ask her to tea. I could handle company if it were Mary. We would sit in easy silence and let the food speak for us. Two days later I''m at school, sitting out front by the curb and waiting for Mom to pick me up.

It''s freezing. I don''t care what they say about winters in the South; it still feels like a bucket of ice water thrown over you every time you go outside. "You want your jacket, honey?" Lauren stands next to me with one hand on the back of my wheelchair. I shake my head, don''t look at her. I''ve got my backpack in my lap with my jacket inside. If I wanted it, I''d get it. I''m working too hard not to be nervous about this appointment to have any room left to make small talk with Lauren. It''s lunchtime and this is usually her "Ellie break," but since the "runaway" incident, she hasn''t given me an inch of space.

I can tell she''s ready to go inside to the teachers'' lounge, down a Lean Cuisine, and check her IG. I hate it when she calls me "honey." She''s probably twenty-five at most. I wish we could just wait together in the quiet. "We need to talk about what happened the ot.