I liked him because nobody knew what he was. We were alike, bulging in all the wrong places. We tottered around, as if our bodies weren’t meant for movement. As if our bodies weren’t quite ours.
When I was twelve, my mother dropped me at the mall for a meet-and-greet. Grimace was planted in front of a plastic date palm. I was the oldest kid there. Mothers kept shooting me looks. A group of boys pointed, then giggled.
When I reached the front, he was bigger than I imagined—a swollen spade, a hill-sized bruise. He pulled me close for a photo, and I kept myself against his hide, too long. The mothers whispered. You gotta move on, kid, said the head inside the head. A soft voice. Too soft. Human.
