Free The Encyclopedia of Me by Karen Rivers Page A

hadn’t said a thing. “. . . magazine is going to do a story about our family,” she said.
    â€œWhat?” I said. “What? WHAT?”
    â€œ
Everybody
,” she repeated. “
Everybody
magazine. Isn’t that great?”
    â€œErfhvbla?” I said. I looked at the copies stacked up on the coffee table in a messy heap and then I looked back at Mom. I picked up the top one and looked at Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt and an assortment of orphans. Then I dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a sad-sounding smack.
    AS
IF
WE WERE GOING TO BE IN
EVERYBODY
MAGAZINE.
    She was obviously lying!
    I wanted her to be lying!
    But also I didn’t! For a split second, I allowed myself to imagine that we suddenly became hugely famous and papa­razzi followed me to Cortez Junior and photographed my every move. Then I went ahead and wondered what kind of TV shows I’d get to be on and who my boyfriend would be. Maybe my first boyfriend would be famous! Way better than Kai! Maybe even Prince X!
    Then I felt sad. Prince X probably
wasn’t
better than Kai. I didn’t want to be famous. And I hate looking at pictures of myself. My mouth always looks like I’m chewing something huge, like a gobstopper or an entire tomato. And don’t get me started about my hair. If paparazzi followed me to school, I’d have to have good hair at least!
    â€œIt is the greatest thing ever!” said Mom. “Your dad is going to die of excitement!”
    â€œHow did this happen?” I whispered.
    â€œWell,” she said, plopping herself next to me and wrapping me up in a hug like she used to when I was little. I wriggled away. “Because of me, of course. Someone at
Everybody
heard me on the radio, read the blog, and the rest is history! Of course, people are interested in our story and there are so many families like ours. And,” she added, “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that the boys are so photogenic.”
    â€œGak,” I said, which is what you say apparently when you are choking to death on the tidal wave of acid that has just unexpectedly slammed into your mouth.
    â€œOf course,” she said, “you’ll get to be in it too. I’m not sure they’ll interview you, but you’ll definitely be in the pictures.”
    â€œNo thanks,” I muttered. “I’d just wreck them.”
    She laughed, even though I didn’t mean it in a funny way. “It’s a story about autism and how
families
cope,” she said. “And you are part of the family, Tink. Obviously. Boy, your dad will be thrilled, won’t he? And Freddie Blue is going to be so jealous!” She elbowed me.
    I elbowed her back. Hard. “What. Ev. Er,” I said, for the sake of saying something. Inside my brain, there was a loud scream of staticky noise, like a ringing in the ears by a million different off-key bells. It sounded like
dread
.
    â€œDread,” I mumbled.
    Not that Mom was listening as she paced around the room, yelling, “BAX! BOYS!” every few seconds.
    I tried to imagine how this was going to go. Badly, I could predict with 100 percent certainty. I would likely be edited out anyway. I shut my eyes and pictured someone at
Everybody
hard at work Photoshopping a potted plant over me, or perhaps an adorable photogenic puppy.
    â€œMore dread,” I whispered. “Extra dread. Dreadsome.” I patted Hortense, which I rarely do, and she meowed in a horrified sort of way and climbed down my leg, glowering at me from the floor.
    â€œYou aren’t photogenic either,” I said.
    â€œOh, Hortense is so exotic,” Mom said. “I bet they put her in the picture for sure. We’ll have to get you some great new clothes! Maybe get your makeup done professionally.”
    Mom flew out of the room like a fairy with a drinking problem, knocking over a teetering pile of mail that we keep conveniently balanced on the newel post.