Alejandro nodded.
“Her wheelchair is breaking.”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s really bad, Mom.”
He sat down on the bottom step.
“The wheel sticks sometimes. One of the brakes doesn’t work properly. The cushion is torn. And the metal underneath is rusty.”
“Doesn’t the school know?”
“They know.”
“What about her parents?”
“They know too.”
“Then why didn’t they replace it?”
He looked at me.
“Because they don’t have the money.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Alejandro continued.
“She tries to hide it.”
“Hide what?”
“How much trouble she’s having.”
He rubbed his palms together.
“Yesterday she got stuck near the science building. The wheel wouldn’t turn properly. Everyone was going around her.”
His voice became quieter.
“Some kids laughed.”
My heart sank.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should have told a teacher.”
“I know.”
“And then?”
He looked at me.
“I helped her.”
“Okay.”
“But she kept saying she was fine.”
He gave a small, sad laugh.
“She always says she’s fine.”
Then he looked toward the empty guitar stand upstairs.
“So I sold the guitar.”
I sat beside him.
“Alejandro, how much did you get?”
“Eight hundred and fifty dollars.”
I stared at him.
