I know I’m not an ordinary ten-year-old kid. I mean, sure, I do
ordinary things. I eat ice cream. I ride my bike. I play ball. I have an
XBox. Stuff like that makes me ordinary. I guess. And I feel ordinary.
Inside. But I know ordinary kids don’t make other ordinary kids
run away screaming in playgrounds. I know ordinary kids don’t get
stared at wherever they go.
If I found a magic lamp and I could have one wish, I would wish that I
had a normal face that no one ever noticed at all. I would wish that I
could walk down the street without people seeing me and then doing that
look-away thing. Here’s what I think: the only reason I’m
not ordinary is that no one else sees me that way.
But I’m kind of used to how I look by now. I know how to pretend I
don’t see the faces people make. We’ve all gotten pretty
good at that sort of thing: me, Mom and Dad, Via. Actually, I take that
back: Via’s not so good at it. She can get really annoyed when
people do something rude. Like, for instance, one time in the playground
some older kids made some noises. I don’t even know what the
noises were exactly because I didn’t hear them myself, but Via
heard and she just started yelling at the kids. That’s the way she
is. I’m not that way.
Via doesn’t see me as ordinary. She says she does, but if I were
ordinary, she wouldn’t feel like she needs to protect me as much.
And Mom and Dad don’t see me as ordinary, either. They see me as
extraordinary. I think the only person in the world who realizes how
ordinary I am is me.
My name is August, by the way. I won’t describe what I look like.
Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.
Why I Didn’t Go to School
Next week I start fifth grade. Since I’ve never been to a real
school before, I am pretty much totally and completely petrified. People
think I haven’t gone to school because of the way I look, but
it’s not that. It’s because of all the surgeries I’ve
had. Twenty-seven since I was born. The bigger ones happened before I
was even four years old, so I don’t remember those. But I’ve
had two or three surgeries every year since then (some big, some small),
and because I’m little for my age, and I have some other medical
mysteries that doctors never really figured out, I used to get sick a
lot. That’s why my parents decided it was better if I didn’t
go to school. I’m much stronger now, though. The last surgery I
had was eight months ago, and I probably won’t have to have any
more for another couple of years.
Mom homeschools me. She used to be a children’s-book illustrator.
She draws really great fairies and mermaids. Her boy stuff isn’t
so hot, though. She once tried to draw me a Darth Vader, but it ended up
looking like some weird mushroom-shaped robot. I haven’t seen her
draw anything in a long time. I think she’s too busy taking care
of me and Via.
I can’t say I always wanted to go to school because that
wouldn’t be exactly true. What I wanted was to go to school, but
only if I could be like every other kid going to school. Have lots of
friends and hang out after school and stuff like that.
I have a few really good friends now. Christopher is my best friend,
followed by Zachary and Alex. We’ve known each other since we were
babies. And since they’ve always known me the way I am,
they’re used to me. When we were little, we used to have playdates
all the time, but then Christopher moved to Bridgeport in Connecticut.
That’s more than an hour away from where I live in North River
Heights, which is at the top tip of Manhattan. And Zachary and Alex
started going to school. It’s funny: even though
Christopher’s the one who moved far away, I still see him more
than I see Zachary and Alex. They have all these new friends now. If we
bump into each other on the street, they’re still nice to me,
though. They always say hello.
I have other friends, too, but not as good as Christopher and Zack and
Alex were. For instance, Zack and Alex always invited me to their
birthday parties when we were little, but Joel and Eamonn and Gabe never
did. Emma invited me once, but I haven’t seen her in a long time.
And, of course, I always go to Christopher’s birthday. Maybe
I’m making too big a deal about birthday parties.
How I Came to Life
I like when Mom tells this story because it makes me laugh so much.
It’s not funny in the way a joke is funny, but when Mom tells it,
Via and I just start cracking up.
So when I was in my mom’s stomach, no one had any idea I would
come out looking the way I look. Mom had had Via four years before, and
that had been such a “walk in the park” (Mom’s
expression) that there was no reason to run any special tests. About two
months before I was born, the doctors realized there was something wrong
with my face, but they didn’t think it was going to be bad. They
told Mom and Dad I had a cleft palate and some other stuff going on.
They called it “small anomalies.”
There were two nurses in the delivery room the night I was born. One was
very nice and sweet. The other one, Mom said, did not seem at all nice
or sweet. She had very big arms and (here comes the funny part), she
kept farting. Like, she’d bring Mom some ice chips, and then fart.
She’d check Mom’s blood pressure, and fart. Mom says it was
unbelievable because the nurse never even said excuse me! Meanwhile,
Mom’s regular doctor wasn’t on duty that night, so Mom got
stuck with this cranky kid doctor she and Dad nicknamed Doogie after
some old TV show or something (they didn’t actually call him that
to his face). But Mom says that even though everyone in the room was
kind of grumpy, Dad kept making her laugh all night long.
When I came out of Mom’s stomach, she said the whole room got very
quiet. Mom didn’t even get a chance to look at me because the nice
nurse immediately rushed me out of the room. Dad was in such a hurry to
follow her that he dropped the video camera, which broke into a million
pieces. And then Mom got very upset and tried to get out of bed to see
where they were going, but the farting nurse put her very big arms on
Mom to keep her down in the bed. They were practically fighting, because
Mom was hysterical and the farting nurse was yelling at her to stay
calm, and then they both started screaming for the doctor. But guess
what? He had fainted! Right on the floor! So when the farting nurse saw
that he had fainted, she started pushing him with her foot to get him to
wake up, yelling at him the whole time: “What kind of doctor are
you? What kind of doctor are you? Get up! Get up!” And then all of
a sudden she let out the biggest, loudest, smelliest fart in the history
of farts. Mom thinks it was actually the fart that finally woke the
doctor up. Anyway, when Mom tells this story, she acts out all the
parts--including the farting noises--and it is so, so, so, so funny!
Mom says the farting nurse turned out to be a very nice woman. She
stayed with Mom the whole time. Didn’t leave her side even after
Dad came back and the doctors told them how sick I was. Mom remembers
exactly what the nurse whispered in her ear when the doctor told her I
probably wouldn’t live through the night: “Everyone born of
God overcometh the world.” And the next day, after I had lived
through the night, it was that nurse who held Mom’s hand when they
brought her to meet me for the first time.
Mom says by then they had told her all about me. She had been preparing
herself for the seeing of me. But she says that when she looked down
into my tiny mushed-up face for the first time, all she could see was
how pretty my eyes were.
Mom is beautiful, by the way. And Dad is handsome. Via is pretty. In
case you were wondering.
Excerpted from "Wonder" by R. J. Palacio. Copyright © 0 by R. J. Palacio. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.