front row. I grab my crutches and backpack, struggle up the steps, and through the door. By the time I make it to my locker, my face is red, my hands are sweaty, and my armpits are killing me. It may be my imagination or the painkillers I take every four hours as if my life depends on it, but I feel like everyone is staring holes into the back of my head. To work the combination, I balance on my good leg. After a few tries, I pop the lock. I grab my books for my first class from the shelf. My attempt to balance everything in one arm while grabbing the crutches is an epic failure. I know it’s
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