Free A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass

what I’m saying?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. “Middle children can feel neglected, often for good reasons. Or they feel that they aren’t as special as the other children, or even as loved. When that happens, middle children often act out.”
    “Act out?” I repeat suspiciously.
    “A child may devise an elaborate plan to get his or her parents’ attention,” she explains. “Something that will make her stand out from the other siblings.”
    I do not like where this is heading.
    “Something,” she continues, “like telling her parents that she sees colors all the time. Colors that no one else, including her brother and sister, can see.” She leans forward and waits for my response.
    My heart sinks — a feeling I’m becoming all too familiar with. Another doctor who doesn’t believe me. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?
    “That’s not it,” I assure her, aware that I’m losing the battle to stay calm. “I am not making this up to get attention. I don’t even
like
getting attention. I just want to figure out what’s wrong with me.”
    She nods thoughtfully and scribbles some more notes. “Tell me, Mia,” she says, “do you often get depressed for no reason?”
    “No.”
    “Do you get enough sleep?”
    “Yes.”
    “Any trouble making friends?”
    “No.” Keeping them is another story, but I don’t tell her that.
    “And these colors and shapes, they feel real to you?”
    “Very real.”
    She looks at me steadily. “Well, then,” she says, “why don’t I talk to your mother for a while? We’ll see what she has to say.”
    As she leads me out of her office, I swipe three jelly beans from the bowl.
    When we reach the still-empty waiting room, I trade places with my mother. I wait until I hear Ms. Finn’s door close behind her, then tiptoe down the hall and stand outside her office.
    I put my ear as close to the door as I can without touching it. The first thing I hear is my mother exclaim, “A brain tumor?”
    I jump back against the wall; my eyes open wide. Does Ms. Finn think I have a brain tumor? Isn’t that what people in soap operas get before they die young and still beautiful? The grape-flavored jelly bean in my mouth suddenly tastes flat.
    “I’m sure that’s not it, Mrs. Winchell,” she assures my mother and, without her realizing it, me. “A neurologist does a lot more than test for brain tumors. If Mia’s problem is real and not in her imagination, then a neurologist will be able to test her brain functions.”
    Relieved but still shaken, I return to the relative safety of my deep chair. It sucks me in again, but this time I don’t mind. So another doctor will poke and prod and then send me to someone else. Why did I get myself into this?
    I pick up the magazine my mother left on the table and open to a page full of text. As I read, a rainbow of colors drifts by in my head. I close my eyes and watch the colors fade away. I imagine that when I open my eyes again all the letters are black, the color of the type they are printed in, and nothing more.
    I open my eyes and stare at the page. I see the black letters. But I also see the pinks and greens and purples and yellows. I can’t say I’m surprised.
    My mother ducks her head in the waiting room. “Let’s go, Mia.” By the time I push myself out of the chair, she’s halfway down the hall. I hurry to catch up.
    “So what’s going on?”
    Without turning to look at me, she says, “Ms. Finn gave me the number of a neurologist at the University of Chicago. He’s going to run some tests.”
    “What kinds of tests?” I ask as we head out to the car. “Is something wrong with my brain?”
    She finally stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with your brain, Mia.”
    I size her up as she stands by the car, searching her purse for the keys. “But you don’t know for sure, do you?”
    She keeps digging in her bag. “I suppose I don’t.”
    “Mom?”
    “What?” she answers, not