Free In the Clear by Anne Carter

at my words. Why can’t I stay positive? I was inspired by Roosevelt. But the teeter-totter is going down. I feel all prickly and ornery, ready for a fight.
    â€œBut they never took his picture once in a wheelchair or with crutches. Even his statue doesn’t show him the way he really was. He had to pretend he had no trouble walking. Why? Wouldn’t people vote for a cripple?”
    For once, my mother doesn’t try to talk me out of my feelings. “He did hide some of his struggle. But …” she struggles to find the right words, “it was a time when attitudes were less accepting. People were so terrified of polio. And remember, being the president of the United States was a grave responsibility. It was the depression, then the war. More than ever, people needed to believe in their leader.”
    â€œIf they can’t let the president have polio, who will ever believe in me?”
    â€œYour dad does, and …” she smoothes the map one more time, “I do.”
    I feel as if someone’s jumped off the other end of the teeter-totter and I’ve crashed to the ground. Whomp.
    â€œYou do not! You don’t really want me to go to school. You worry about every little thing I do. You’d be happy if I never went outside this house.”
    She winces. She stops smoothing the paper and squeezes both hands tightly together. “Maybe you’re right. Your father says the same thing. So did Grand-mère. But,” she says, lifting her chin, “it’s not because I don’t believe in you.”
    â€œOh yeah. What is it?”
    â€œI don’t believe in the world out there. I won’t trust an institution again.”
    I remember the House of Horrors. “I’m growing up. I can handle things. I want to try.”
    â€œI know. I know. But you don’t have to throw yourself out there recklessly. That’s Marie’s way, and it’s not a good one. Better to take small, careful steps. You’re outside more, playing hockey. Isn’t that enough for now?”
    I’m back on the teeter-totter, mad at her again. Why does she have to criticize Tante Marie?
    â€œI just want to go to school!”
    She throws up her hands, exasperated. “I’m trying, Pauline! We’ll go for a visit on Tuesday. You’ll see for yourself. It’s not going to be so easy.”
    She’s right, too. We visit the school the following week. It is not what I’d hoped for. There are obvious problems and it’s confusing.
    Half the classes are upstairs. Mr. Dunlop, the principal, smiles at me nervously and assures me that he understands how courageous I must be to want to come to school. He wishes he could help, but, he hums and haws, he can’t arrange all my classes to be on the main floor. He stares at my brace. The science and language labs are all upstairs. Those classes are compulsory.
    â€œLet’s look at the stairs,” my mother suggests. I can tell she’s annoyed at him.
    We go out in the hallway to look at the stairs. There’s a lot of them. Stairs are hard for me. Exhausting! The metal brace supporting my left leg comes up to my thigh and I can’t bend my knee. Can I do it? Can I?
    There’s only one way to know.
    â€œI’ll try the stairs. Can you time me?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know if you should do this,” the principal starts.
    But my mother cuts him off. Her face is drained of color and she looks upset, but she stares down the principal. “She asked us to time her. Ready?”
    I don’t do stairs the way Nurse Fredericks taught me, using the support of both crutches. I made up my own way. I put both crutches under my left arm, lean heavily on the banister on my right side, swing my left leg out and up as I balance on my good leg. My mother is strangely quiet beside me, never saying a word.
    I gaze up the stairs. It’s a long way. The school is quiet. Behind me, behind