Dwarf: A Memoir by Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball

over the phone with
     his guitar.
    After a month of phone calls, that July I finally met the famous Mike face-to-face.
     My mom picked him up and brought him to our house. I waited anxiously under an umbrella
     at the patiotable in the backyard for him to arrive. Katie stayed over that weekend to calm my
     nerves about meeting the boy I had been gabbing about. The night before, she and I
     had torn apart my closet for the perfect outfit I could feel comfortable in when I
     met Mike. Every pair of jeans I had purchased with my dad at Filene’s were cut at
     the knees to fit my short legs. They frayed around my ankles and squared awkwardly
     over my sneakers, looking sloppy and unfinished. They were the only pants I had, other
     than the pastel pink leggings I had yet to throw out from Texas.
    The afternoon of Mike’s visit, I chose denim shorts and an oversized short-sleeved
     green T-shirt from UMass hospital. The sleeves easily covered the tops of my pins.
     It wasn’t the most fashionable outfit, but it was comfortable, and it spoke to a part
     of my life not many understood— but that Mike promised to try to comprehend. He wore
     a baseball cap and long, baggy shorts and brought a friend named Mike Dufault, or
     “Dufe” for short.
    Mike didn’t even say hello when he came around back. Instead, he pulled out a Nirvana
     CD.
    “Got a radio?” he asked. Then he sat down next to me, casually, as though we were
     lifelong friends.
    We all sat and listened as the sounds of Cobain’s mournful guitar filled the yard.
     When Mike noticed the pins in my arms, I was relieved to find out that he wasn’t afraid
     or grossed out.
    “Does it hurt?” he asked.
    I told him it didn’t.
    “How long do they stay in again?” He stared at the pins, then back at me.
    “Until I can reach the top of my head,” I responded.
    A few moments passed in silence.
    “If a monster came in here right now with a gun, Dufe, would you run?” Mike asked
     randomly.
    “No shit,” Dufe quipped, and we all laughed.
    Mike faced Katie and asked her the same question.
    “Yeah!” she squealed.
    “I wouldn’t,” Mike said. Then he turned to face me. “I’d stay here with you, because
     you can’t run. I’d stay right here.”
    My heart raced and I looked away from his eyes, feeling a rush of excitement and shyness
     at the same time.

    That fall, the pins in my arms were removed and I became a high school freshman. Most
     days, I ate lunch with a girl named Kelly Joyce, who was easily one of the tallest
     girls in school at five foot ten. She always offered to get my lunch for me (I couldn’t
     see over the buffet, let alone reach it) and in return, she’d get to snag an extra
     plate of fries for herself. Kids teased Kelly for her height and called her “Jurassic
     Joyce.” You just can’t win.
    After an incident in junior high when I passed out from lugging my heavy book bag
     down two corridors, I was no longer allowed to carry my own belongings. I had needed
     to get from one end of the junior high school to another, and, as always, I would
     drag my green book bag by its straps. It was so heavy that wearing it on my shoulders
     would literally pull me over backward. But dragging it down the hallways was incredibly
     draining. By the time I got to my classroom, I just toppled over, like a turtle flipped
     over on its shell. That was the end of dragging my backpack.
    Megan and I were still good friends and had nearly every class together. In high school,
     Megan volunteered to carry the extra weight. Together we walked to each class and
     she’d keep in step with my short gait, becoming something of a barrier between me
     and the other students who might not even
see
me walking.During one of our hallway expeditions, she talked me into joining the Marlborough
     High sports medicine team.
    Mike thought it was a great idea to get me out of my shell. Medical tape, injuries,
     bandages, bruising, strained muscles— I was familiar