The Hale’s backyard was straight out of a Pinterest board when they pulled up Saturday evening. String lights crisscrossed between the oak trees, a cotton candy machine hummed in the corner, the smell of grilled hot dogs and buttered popcorn hung thick in the warm summer air. There were at least 30 kids running around, plus a dozen parents clustered by the bar, sipping wine and laughing. Leo adjusted his NASA hoodie, gripping the little robot keychain in his pocket. “Okay, I’m ready.” Daniel nodded, parking his truck at the end of the street. “I’ll be over on that back patio bench, okay? If you need anything, just wave. I’m not going anywhere.” Leo rolled his eyes again, but he reached over and squeezed Daniel’s hand before he rolled through the gate. Daniel walked in a minute later, staying out of the way, taking a seat on the weathered wooden bench, pulling out his laptop to answer a few work emails. But he kept one eye on Leo the whole time, his jaw tight. He watched Leo roll up to a group of kids by the foosball table, pull out his tiny Lego robot, show them how it could move across the table. A few of the kids leaned in, curious, laughing when the robot beeped. Then Jax Hale showed up, blonde hair gelled back, wearing a custom birthday jersey with his name on the back. Leo lit up, pulled the 3D-printed robot keychain out of his pocket, handed it to him. Jax took it, turned it over in his hand, mumbled a half-hearted “cool” before shoving it in his pocket and walking away to join a group of older boys. Leo’s face fell for half a second, then he shook it off, rolling toward the long table stacked high with cupcakes. They were all robot-themed, vanilla with blue frosting, little candy robots perched on top. Daniel smiled to himself. Leo had been talking about those cupcakes for three days. Then a woman stepped in front of him.
Chapter 3: The Push
Cynthia Hale was the kind of woman who carried herself like she owned the whole town, and in a lot of ways, she did. Her husband Mark was the biggest real estate developer in Maplewood, he owned half the commercial buildings downtown, he was on the board of the country club, and Cynthia was the PTA president, the woman who planned all the school fundraisers, who could get your kid benched from the soccer team if you crossed her, who could get you kicked out of the PTA if you showed up to a meeting in the wrong brand of leggings. She was wearing $400 Lululemon jeans, a white silk blouse, cherry red manicure, diamond earrings the size of peas, and she smelled like expensive rose perfume that made Leo’s nose wrinkle even from three feet away. She looked down at him, her lip curled in a sneer. “You really think you belong here?” Her voice was sharp, loud enough that the kids nearby went quiet, turning to stare. “My son didn’t invite charity cases. This party is for kids who actually contribute to the school, not people who show up looking for handouts.” Leo froze, his face burning hot. “I–I was invited. Jax gave me the invitation at recess.” Cynthia laughed, a harsh, mean sound that made Leo’s chest tighten. “Oh honey, that was a prank. We invited you so the other kids could have someone to laugh at. Did you really think a kid like Jax would want a cripple at his birthday party? Now get out of my yard before I call the cops.” Before Leo could say anything else, she shoved the side of his wheelchair as hard as she could. The metal frame screeched against the concrete patio. The chair tipped sideways, and Leo went tumbling out, hitting the grass hard. His elbow scraped raw, blood seeping through the fabric of his hoodie, his wrist brace ripped, the little Lego robot he’d brought to show the kids crushed under his weight. He could taste dirt in his mouth, his eyes burning with tears. The whole yard went dead silent, then he heard a few kids snicker, some parents shifting awkwardly, not one of them moving to help him. He lay there for a second, humiliated, wanting to disappear, wanting to crawl under the patio and never come out. Then he remembered what Daniel had told him a week earlier, when a kid at the playground had called him a cripple and thrown a rock at his wheelchair: “You don’t owe anyone an apology for existing. If someone tries to make you feel small, you stand up, even if your voice shakes.” He clenched his fists, pushed himself up a little with his good arm, lifted his chin, his voice wobbly but clear enough for everyone to hear: “I do belong.”
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