Free Auggie & Me by R. J. Palacio Page A

nightmares.”
    I logged on to Facebook and found our class picture, and zoomed in on Auggie’s face so she could see. She put her glasses on to look at it and spent a long time studying his face on the computer screen. I thought she would react the way Mom had reacted when she first saw that picture of Auggie, but she didn’t. She just nodded to herself. And then she closed the laptop.
    â€œPretty bad, huh?” I said to her.
    She looked at me.
    â€œJulian,” she said. “I think maybe your teacher is right. I think you were afraid of this boy.”
    â€œWhat? No way!” I answered. “I’m not afraid of Auggie! I mean, I didn’t like him—in fact, I kind of hated him—but not because I was afraid of him.”
    â€œSometimes we hate the things we are afraid of,” she said.
    I made a face like she was talking crazy.
    She took my hand.
    â€œI know what it is like to be afraid, Julian,” she said, holding her finger up to my face. “There was a little boy that I was afraid of when I was a little girl.”
    â€œLet me guess,” I answered, sounding bored. “I bet he looked just like Auggie.”
    Grandmère shook her head. “No. His face was fine.”
    â€œSo, why were you afraid of him?” I asked. I tried to make my voice sound as uninterested as possible, but Grandmère ignored my bad attitude.
    She just sat back in her chair, her head slightly tilted, and I could tell by looking into her eyes that she had gone somewhere far away.

Grandmère’s Story
    â€œI was a very popular girl when I was young, Julian,” said Grandmère. “I had many friends. I had pretty clothes. As you can see, I have always liked pretty clothes.” She waved her hands down her sides to make sure I noticed her dress. She smiled.
    â€œI was a frivolous girl,” she continued. “Spoiled. When the Germans came to France, I hardly took any notice. I knew that some Jewish families in my village were moving away, but my family was so cosmopolitan. My parents were intellectuals. Atheists. We didn’t even go to synagogue.”
    She paused here and asked me to bring her a wine glass, which I did. She served herself a full glass and, as she always did, offered me some, too. And, as I always did, I said, “
Non, merci.
” Like I said, Mom would go ballistic if she knew the stuff Grandmère did sometimes!
    â€œThere was a boy in my school called . . . well, they called him Tourteau,” she continued. “He was . . . how do you say the word . . . a crippled? Is that how you say it?”
    â€œI don’t think people use that word anymore, Grandmère,” I said. “It’s not exactly politically correct, if you know what I mean.”
    She flicked her hand at me. “Americans are always coming up with new words we can’t say anymore!” she said. “
Alors
, well, Tourteau’s legs were deformed from the polio. He needed two canes to walk with. And his back was all twisted. I think that’s why he was called
tourteau
, crab: he walked sideways like a crab. I know, it sounds very harsh. Children were meaner in those days.”
    I thought about how I called August “the freak” behind his back. But at least I never called him that to his face!
    Grandmère continued talking. I have to admit: at first I wasn’t into her telling me one of her long stories, but I was getting into this one.
    â€œTourteau was a little thing, a skinny thing. None of us ever talked to him because he made us uncomfortable. He was so different! I never even looked at him! I was afraid of him. Afraid to look at him, to talk to him. Afraid he would accidentally touch me. It was easier to pretend he didn’t exist.”
    She took a long sip of her wine.
    â€œOne morning, a man came running into our school. I knew him. Everyone did. He was a Maquis, a partisan. Do you know