Finding Grace by Becky Citra Page A

you, I’ve always had it.” Grace is looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “My mom must have given it to me when I was little. I think she gave me all these stuffed animals.”
    â€œYour mom?” I say, confused.
    And then I get what Grace means. Her adopted mom, the nurse Sharon.
    How can I tell Grace that she’s wrong? That I don’t think it was Sharon who gave her the hippo. That I’m positive it was Granny. Granny told me that when I was two, she and Grandpa went on a cruise to Alaska and they bought Harry in a gift shop in one of the little towns they stopped in. Granny didn’t tell me the whole truth. She must have bought two hippos.
    Grace opens her top drawer and pulls out a piece of newspaper. She hands it to me, “Look at this.”
    I read it out loud:

    Ladies: Read This!
    Unwanted hair removed permanently from face, arms, and legs, with Egyptian misopile. Harmless – leaves skin soft and smooth. Egyptian misopile is a liquid and is applied directly from the bottle.
    Money back guarantee.
    $3.00 per bottle
    Fortune Products
    1176 Sherbrooke West
    Montreal, Quebec.

    By the time I get to the last line, we are both giggling like hyenas.
    â€œI sent away for it,” Grace says. “It might even come today. The mail will be sorted by now, so I gotta go to the post office before Aunty Eve gets there. She’ll kill me if she finds out I ordered this.” She grins. “But at least I won’t have hairy legs in my coffin!”
    This makes us screech with laughter again.
    Grace kicks at a mound of clothes. “I’ll do this later. Aunty Eve won’t be back for ages. She’ll never know if I go out. Come on!”
    If Janey and Louise were here, would Grace want to be with me? I guess she’s desperate for someone to hang around with. I push that thought away and follow Grace downstairs. She’s a little bit slower going down and she’s holding onto the rail with one hand.
    â€œYou didn’t bring your bike,” Grace says when we get outside.
    â€œIt’s the hotel’s and it doesn’t work that well,” I say. I add uncertainly, “If you want to bike, that’s okay; I can walk fast.”
    â€œI don’t have a bike,” Grace says. “I can’t ride one. My leg gets too tired.”
    I freeze.
    â€œI had polio when I was little,” Grace says. “It made my leg gimpy.”
    Grace sounds like it’s no big deal. I can’t think of anything to say. Not one thing. Finally, I stammer, “Does it hurt?”
    â€œNot really any more. It used to hurt a lot. Sometimes it aches, but mostly it just gets too weak to do stuff.”
    â€œOh.”
    Grace doesn’t have any trouble talking about herself. Not like me. I’m a pro at hiding stuff. I can’t believe how she can just rattle on. As we walk along the shady streets, she tells me more about the polio. She tells me how she used to wear leg braces and how when she moved to Harrison Hot Springs, the kids at school thought she was contagious.
    â€œDavid was the worst. He has this gang of horrible boys he hangs around with, but he’s the worst. He told everyone not to play with me. That I would give them polio germs.”
    â€œThat’s awful,” I gasp.
    â€œIt was awful. But then I met Janey and Louise. And we instantly became best friends.”
    When we get to the post office, we go inside and Grace takes a silver key out of her pocket. She opens a box in the middle of a wall of mailboxes. “Nothing,” she says, crouching down so she can see right inside. “Darn!”
    A man is sorting parcels behind a counter at one end of the post office. “Hi there, Grace!” he calls out.
    â€œAnything for me?” Grace says, sounding hopeful.
    â€œJust a sec.” The man looks at the last few parcels. “Nope. Not today.”
    â€œDouble darn,” Grace sighs.
    â€œWhen are