Free Auggie & Me by R. J. Palacio

leadership for good, huh? Don’t forget: always choose kind!
    I don’t know why, but I was so, so,
so
happy to get that email from Mr. Browne! I knew he would be understanding! I was so tired of everyone thinking I was this demon-child, you know? It was obvious that Mr. Browne knew I wasn’t. I reread his email like, ten times. I was smiling from ear to ear.
    â€œSo?” Grandmère asked me. She had just woken up and was having her breakfast: a croissant and
café au lait
delivered from downstairs. “I haven’t seen you this happy all summer long. What is it that you are reading,
mon cher
?”
    â€œOh, I got an email from one of my teachers,” I answered. “Mr. Browne.”
    â€œFrom your old school?” she asked. “I thought they were all bad, those teachers. I thought it was ‘good riddance’ to all of them!” Grandmère had a thick French accent that was hard to understand sometimes.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGood riddance!” she repeated. “Never mind. I thought the teachers were all stupid.” The way she pronounced “stupid” was funny: like stew-peed!
    â€œNot all. Not Mr. Browne,” I answered.
    â€œSo, what did he write to make you so happy?”
    â€œOh, nothing much,” I said. “It’s just . . . I thought everyone hated me, but now I know Mr. Browne doesn’t.”
    Grandmère looked at me.
    â€œWhy would everyone hate you, Julian?” she asked. “You are such a good boy.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I answered.
    â€œRead me the email,” she said.
    â€œNo, Grandmère . . .” I started to say.
    â€œRead,” she commanded, pointing her finger at the screen.
    So I read Mr. Browne’s letter aloud to her. Now, Grandmère knew a little bit about what had happened at Beecher Prep, but I don’t think she knew the whole story. I mean, I think Mom and Dad told her the version of the story they told everyone else, with maybe a few more details. Grandmère knew there were a couple of kids who had made my life miserable, for instance, but she didn’t know the specifics. She knew I’d gotten punched in the mouth, but she didn’t know why. If anything, Grandmère probably assumed I had gotten bullied, and that’s why I was leaving the school.
    So, there were parts of Mr. Browne’s email she really didn’t understand.
    â€œWhat does he mean,” she said, squinting as she tried to read off my screen. “Auggie’s ‘physical appearance’?
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
”
    â€œOne of the kids that I didn’t like, Auggie, he had like this awful . . . facial deformity,” I answered. “It was really bad. He looked like a gargoyle!”
    â€œJulian!” she said. “That is not very nice.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œAnd this boy, he was not
sympathique
?” she asked innocently. “He was not nice to you? Was he a bully?”
    I thought about that. “No, he wasn’t a bully.”
    â€œSo, why did you not like him?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. He just got on my nerves.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you don’t know?” she answered quickly. “Your parents told me you were leaving school because of some bullies, no? You got punched in the face? No?”
    â€œWell, yeah, I got punched, but not by the deformed kid. By his friend.”
    â€œAh! So his friend was the bully!”
    â€œNo, not exactly,” I said. “I can’t say they were bullies, Grandmère. I mean, it wasn’t like that. We just didn’t get along, that’s all. We hated each other. It’s kind of hard to explain, you kind of had to be there. Here, let me show you what he looked like. Then maybe you’ll understand a little better. I mean, not to sound mean, but it was really hard having to look at him every day. He gave me