“Brenda?”
The voice sounds like it’s far, far away. That’s because I’m buried in what my friend Al calls one of my “body part” books. (The proper term is actually anatomy.) I get one from the library each week, since I want to be a doctor when I grow up. I’ll need to learn every bone and muscle in the human body at some point, so I figure I might as well do it now. Plus, I’m only nine, and I want to get all the important information I can into my head early, so it’ll sink in before my brain gets filled with ridiculous things like how to put on eye makeup and how to make boys like you.
I squint at a picture of a skull. I thought the main part of your skull was just one big bone, but it turns out it’s really a bunch of little bones that are all stuck together. Why is this? Wouldn’t a big piece of bone be stronger? Motorcycle helmets are supposed to protect your brain, too, and they don’t look like jigsaw puzzles.
A white-socked foot with a hole in the toe taps my leg. “Brenda!”
I surface. It’s late afternoon on Sunday. Mom’s at the other end of the couch. She’s put down the book she was reading, and now she’s poking me with her foot again.
