The girl grinned. "No, she can't."
That was Zoe. My first real friend.
It looked terrible.
Ray did that a lot. Put himself in front of the awkward and made it less sharp. When I was ten, I found a chair in the garage with yarn taped to the back, half braided.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Nothing. Don't touch it."
That night, Ray sat on my bed behind me, hands shaking.
"Hold still," he muttered, trying to braid my hair.
It looked terrible. I thought my heart would explode.
"Those girls talk very fast."
When puberty hit, he came into my room with a plastic bag and a red face.
"I bought… stuff," he said, staring at the ceiling. "For when things happen."
Pads, deodorant, cheap mascara.
"You watched YouTube," I said.
He grimaced. "Those girls talk very fast."
"You hear me? You're not less."
We didn't have much money, but I never felt like a burden. He washed my hair in the kitchen sink, one hand under my neck, the other pouring water.
"It's okay," he'd murmur. "I got you."
When I cried because I'd never dance or just stand in a crowd, he'd sit on my bed, jaw tight.
"You're not less. You hear me? You're not less."
By my teens, it was clear there'd be no miracle.
Ray made that room a world.
I could sit with support. Use my chair for a few hours. Most of my life happened in my room.
Ray made that room a world. Shelves at my reach. A janky tablet stand he welded in the garage. For my twenty-first, he built a planter box by the window and filled it with herbs.
"So you can grow that basil you yell at on the cooking shows," he said.
I burst into tears.
Then Ray started getting tired.
"Jesus, Hannah," Ray panicked. "You hate basil?"
"It's perfect," I sobbed.
