Free Poster Child by Emily Rapp Page A

to make an adjustment, asking again about pressure points and turning the left foot in and then out again to match the position of my right foot. "You don't want to look pigeon-toed!" he warned. I thought of a car race I'd seen on television, when a mechanic ran out to fix the cars after an accident to get them up and racing again. I thought of designers nipping a hem or adjusting a belt on a model before a fashion show. I was pleased with both of these associations—divided, as they were, between rugged and lovely—and I was absolutely thrilled with my new leg. After a while, I no longer needed the bars.
    "Look at that. Look at her go," said Schmidt. He watched me carefully, clearly admiring his handiwork. I'm going, I thought. Here I go. Dad looked as if he were about to burst into tears or laughter or both at once.
    "I want to go faster," I said, looking at Schmidt. "How fast can I go?"
    He took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, "You go as fast as you want to." I hugged him, cigarette and body odor and all. Dad laughed.
    After that, I walked everywhere until I was sore and exhausted. I did not allow the leg to be removed from my sight. At night, I slept with my arm slung around it, and if I slipped out of it to watch television at night, I made sure to keep a hand on the foot, the ankle, or the strap. If I hopped off to the bathroom, I instructed Andy to look after it, as if the leg might walk away on its own. Although I later went through periods of being cavalier about my prosthesis—tossing it about or throwing it down the stairs to watch it bend at weird angles like some kind of strange, anatomical Slinky—much of the time I guarded it as fiercely as I did during the days when it first was mine.
    Initially, everything about the new leg seemed miraculous. Not only was it much prettier and more interesting then my flesh-and-blood leg, but it had freed me.
    The leg slowly revealed itself to be far from perfect. The waist strap chafed against my hips and made my right leg go numb if I sat still for too long. I often dropped the strap into the toilet when I was in a hurry. The metal hinges ripped my clothes. The cheap silver buckle tarnished quickly. I liked the look of the leg's slick wood, but I could not sit in a smooth chair without sliding out of it. The SACH foot soon had its share of grass stains and dirt smudges that looked like bruises; after a while, the initial bounce disappeared, and it felt like walking on a block of wood.
    "Those feet are not free," Dad reminded me, pointing out the most recent, permanent stain.
    "Uh-huh," I said, but I didn't want to be careful while playing outside. I wanted to be active and adventurous.
    During the summer, the socket was incredibly hot; the thin fabric stump sock was wet and stinking at the end of the day. I used to dare myself to smell it, amazed that such horrific odor was produced by my body. The metal hinges on either side burned me when I touched them after being out in the sun.
    Dad oiled the hinges with WD-40 when they became stiff and creaky in the winter. I hopped up on the thick rope swing that hung from the garage rafters and moved back and forth through the air. My arm muscles strained as I rose higher and higher, leaning back to create more momentum. I felt as though I had two bodies: the one on the swing with its right leg pumping and straightening and the other body that needed the leg to walk and run, the one with the artificial part that was being oiled and tended to as I looked on. I was comfortable with both embodiments. After they were oiled, the leg's hinges leaked frequently, and I left a greasy mark on my clothes, car seats, bedsheets, or the couch—anywhere I sat down.
    While visiting my cousins one summer, I left my leg unattended at the public pool for just a moment to show Erica, Sarah, and Beth how well I could dive, and when I resurfaced and found that it had disappeared, I became hysterical. Erica and Beth stayed with me while Sarah