The first thing I noticed about the pack of coffee sleeves by the door was that the plastic was already open. That was weird.
What was weirder, though, was that two sleeves from the top, when I pulled them out to check, there was a picture. In thin black marker, right on the sleeve, someone had drawn a picture. And I thought I knew who.
Underneath it was another coffee sleeve, with another picture.
Then another one, right under that.
On the next one, the picture of Donut Man looked just how I felt.
And then there was another coffee sleeve with a picture of Art Girl, and then under that, four with mostly just words.
• • •
When Nadine came down to the bodega thirty minutes later, she was mad, because she said she thought I’d run off and been hit by a bus or something, and also she talked to my mom who said that no way was I allowed to leave the apartment by myself, so boy, was I in trouble. But I didn’t mind. That’s because I had a secret.
Under the sleeves of my sweatshirt, I had two cuffs around my wrists, just like the superheroes sometimes wore in the comics. One had a drawing of a donut on it. And the other one said KIND.
And for the first time in maybe forever, I really did feel like I might just have superpowers.
almost.
I took that B is for Bear spelling test from a couple weeks before, and I taped it to my door, right underneath my letter from Mountford. I knew what Dad would probably say if he saw it, that even if a B was almost an A, that almost wasn’t good enough.
But I knew something else too.
You couldn’t get where you were going without knowing where you’d been.
And you couldn’t be anywhere at all without having been almost there for a while.
things i know.
I know the quickest way from JFK to 59th and Park in a cab, and I can tell the driver too.
I know all the best dog parks in Manhattan to go look at dogs, and all the best playgrounds, and which avenues go south and which go north and which ones go both ways.
I know how to put the key in the lock in our front door nearly-all-the-way-in-but-not-quite, so it won’t stick.
I know how to slice an apple with only four cuts, so there’s no core, only fruit.
I know that Erlan could beat me at Spit if he really wanted to, because he can be fast as lightning. But I know he never will, because he doesn’t mind when I win (and I don’t mind it either).
I know that when Betsy bites her lip, she’s nervous. I know that when she jiggles her left foot in class, she knows the answer but doesn’t want to raise her hand. I know that Betsy knows a lot more than she says.
I know that sometimes math isn’t as terrible as you might think, especially if it has to do with cup stacking. Or joke telling.
I know that parents don’t always know exactly what they’re doing, even if they’re trying their hardest.
I know that even cool kids wish they weren’t cool sometimes.
I know, at least I think I do, maybe, sometimes, definitely, what I’m worth.
I know what I’m worth.
I absolutely almost do.
There are a lot of things I know.
Turn the page to read an excerpt from Lisa Graff’s
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