The Bionic Boy

1 - I Froze

When I heard my sister crying, I froze.

My legs.

My mouth.

Every part of me froze.

Except my heart.

That was racing at Mach 10 speed, as fast as superhero Quicksilver. Ready to jump into action.

Dad had just said, “Benji, I’ll be right back from the office supply store across the way.” He pointed to show me which direction he was heading. “I have to get a few things for my classroom. You’re in charge. Five minutes, tops.” Then he hurried away.

But it took less than five seconds for my little sister, Becka, to ditch me at the back of the Santa line and head to the front.

I called after her with my best I’m-in-charge voice. “Becka. Come. Back. Now!”

But she kept going to get what she wanted. As usual.

Becka is a seven-year-old with Down syndrome, flyaway blond hair, pale skin, and a smile that lights up her face when she’s happy. Everywhere she goes, people say “Awww,” “Such a sweetie,” “So adorable!” They give her the first turn, an extra cookie, their biggest grins.

Cute-kid privileges, I guess.

And today’s privilege was cutting the Santa line at the mall. She was already having her turn with the jolly old guy. Except Santa didn’t sound jolly. And Becka definitely was not jolly. She was crying!

Loudly!

With Dad gone, it was up to me to “rescue” her, to save the day like my favorite superheroes.

I’ve been obsessed with superheroes ever since I moved to the United States eight years ago from an orphanage on the other side of the world and started watching superhero cartoons. Dad and Papa thought the cartoons would help me learn English, but what fascinated me was their action and suspense. I sat on the edge of my seat every episode, worried the superheroes might fail. There were just too many villains in the world! And even though I knew the superheroes would save the day in the end, I held my breath.

Every single time.

Now it was my chance to save the day.

Becka was crying louder, and everyone was looking around to figure out who was with her.

That was me!

I stared at my feet. Move! Move! Move!

But they only shuffled forward one inch, then two. Part of me wanted to save Becka. But another part of me hoped Dad would come back and do it.

I’d save her the next time. There were too many people watching this time.

As much as Becka likes to be front and center, I like to be last and hidden.

Which makes it harder to be a hero.

Becka’s crying turned to sobbing. I twisted like Plastic Man, looking every which way for Dad. But he wasn’t anywhere in sight, so I forced my feet to move until I got close enough to see and hear Santa and Becka. “Tell me again, little lady.”

Becka’s voice quivered. “M-m-medoh.”

“Meadow? But it’s winter, sweetie. Meadows grow in the summer—and they’re kinda big to fit down the chimney. Do you want a dolly instead?”

She pushed out her bottom lip. “No.”

Becka wasn’t saying meadow. I knew what she wanted, so I said it, but she yelled, “MEDOH!” at the same time, so no one heard me.

I tried again, louder this time. “She wants a MEDAL!”

“Yup, Bubba!” Becka always calls me Bubba—it’s easier to say than brother or Benji. She was so excited I’d told Santa what she wanted, she threw her arms up into the air and knocked his wig and cap off and onto the floor.

“Becka!” I hurried to get her off Santa’s lap, but her hand was tangled in his beard, and that fell off too.

As she slid from Santa’s lap, she grabbed hold of my arm to balance herself and fell onto the floor along with my jacket, which she’d pulled off me.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Becka stood up, put her hands on her hips, and announced, “I okay.”

Everyone laughed.

But then they stopped laughing, and I could feel their stares, stronger than Cyclops’s optic blasts, all lasered on me.

No one said a word.

Except for one girl, who gasped, “That boy has no hands.”

She was right.

I was born without hands.

2 - Lost

Santa gathered up his stuff and rushed away, muttering, “Santa needs a break . . .”

I wanted out of there too.

“Becka, let’s go.” I scooped up my jacket with my right arm and held out my left arm for her to grab. Without hands, I couldn’t hold my sister’s hand, but she knew to hold on to my arm, like she did when we crossed a street or were in a busy parking lot.

Some kids staring at me stepped closer.

“What happened to his hands?”

“Is he okay?”

“Did he get in a fight with an alligator?”

They talked as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t have hands, but I had ears.

Parents nudged their kids to move along, to stop talking, to quit staring.

I held my arm out to Becka again. “Come on!”

She didn’t get the message, so I turned and said, “Let’s go. Now!”

But . . .

She wasn’t there.

Not on my left.

Not on my right.

I spun around, but I couldn’t see her anywhere.

“Becka! Becka!”

Where was she?

The crowd had thinned out, but I still couldn’t see her. So I hurried in the direction Santa had gone. She must have followed him to make sure he’d bring her a medal. But there was no sign of her.

I ran back to Santa’s big red armchair. She loved to play hide-and-seek. I checked to see if she was hiding behind it, but she wasn’t there.

“Becka!”

No answer.

I lost her. I lost her. I lost her.

The bathroom! That’s where she must have gone. I hurried down the hall until I found the bathroom sign and stood outside the ladies’ room door calling her name. No answer.

Did a bad guy grab her? Did she leave the mall? Did she go into a store? A toy store! That’s where she’d go, but I couldn’t see one.

I headed in the direction where Dad had pointed he was going. I had to find him so he could help me search for Becka.

Suddenly, I saw a mall security guard. He’d help me find her. But before I got to him, I heard, “Daddy!”

It was Becka!

I hurried in the direction of her voice and saw her.

“Daddy!” she said again as she ran to him.

I stopped and watched them.

Dad’s shopping bag slipped out of his hand and onto the floor as he lifted her up and twirled her around. “There’s my favorite girl in the whoooooole wide world.”

She giggled and hugged him. Hard.

I couldn’t help it. A tear slipped out.

I lost her and Dad found her.

He was my hero. Again.

Just like when he saved me from the orphanage.

He was Becka’s hero too. But I don’t think she even knew she was lost.

I knew, though.

I knew something else. I was no hero.

I couldn’t even save my little sister from Santa Claus.

3 - Dad

Dad pulled Becka in for another hug before setting her down. She was getting too heavy to carry.

That’s when he looked around . . . for me.

I didn’t want him to worry, so I dragged my arm across my eyes to wipe away any more tears trying to escape and rushed over.

“Here! I’m right here, Dad.”

“Oh, good. There’s my favorite boy in the whoooooole wide world.” He winked at me. “But why aren’t you two waiting for me in the Santa line? We’ll have to go back to the end again.”

“No, we won’t. Becka already had her turn.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “But that was a long line, and I have to get a photo of her with Santa.”

“Sorry.”

“But I promised Papa a photo.”

“Um . . . maybe . . . you could . . . photoshop Becka into a Santa photo.”

Dad laughed so hard, people passing by stopped and stared. But they weren’t staring at me this time.

Then he reached over and rubbed my head. He’d been doing that ever since I got a crew cut in kindergarten so I could get ready “all by myself.” Combs are too tricky to use without hands. So I’m stuck with a crew cut.

He used to pick me up and spin me around like he had just done with Becka. But now, at eleven, I’m too big, so he does the head rub instead.

But I’ll never forget the first time he picked me up and spun me around.

It was at the orphanage.

On the day my life changed forever.

My Chosen Day. We don’t know my real birthday, since I was left in a basket on the orphanage steps. So I’ve always had cake and gifts on my Chosen Day. I couldn’t believe that someone chose me to join their family.

I still remember the orphanage. There were rows of mattresses on the floor. And different grown-ups took care of us during the day and others at night. There were toys—a sock doll with a missing eye, a wooden top with a broken handle, a teddy bear with the stuffing coming out. Too many hands grabbed for turns with those toys. Without hands, I couldn’t reach for a turn, so I watched the other kids play.

And I became the watcher.

The most interesting days to watch were when strangers came. Children nudged each other out of the way, trying to get noticed. Some visitors left with one or two children. The older, left-behind children talked about what that meant—the chosen kids would have parents, a house, and toys that didn’t have to be shared.

I never got near any of those visitors. Instead, I hid in the back of the room and watched . . . until the day Dad arrived.

Toddlers hugged his legs and older children jabbered at him. When he talked, his words sounded strange. Later, I learned he was speaking English.

His eyes searched the room, then stopped when he saw me peeking out from behind a chair in the back corner. He stepped away from the huddle of children around him and took a step in my direction.

Before I could hide my head again, he dropped to his knees, and I didn’t look away. The man’s face was kind and gentle. So I took one little step out from behind the chair. The man didn’t move. I took another step. And another.

He held out his hands, and I somehow found a spark of courage and stepped closer. He reached out and held my arms in his hands.

His whole face smiled. His lips, his cheeks, his eyes. I smiled back. That’s when he picked me up and twirled me around and laughed. I laughed too.

It’s the first time I can ever remember laughing.