When You Reach Me

by Rebecca Stead

It’s crazy the things a person can pretend not to notice.

Upstairs, a weird thing happened. After living there almost every day of my life, I saw our apartment as if it were the first time. I noticed all sorts of things that were usually invisible to me: the stuffing coming out of the sofa in two places, the burns from Mr. Nunzi’s cigarettes, the big flakes of paint hanging off the ceiling, and the black spot next to the radiator where dripping water had stained the wood floor. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” In the bathroom, I stared at the white tile hexagons on the floor and saw nothing but the crud in between them. I hid Moms twenty-year-old jar of Vaseline in the medicine cabinet that’s been painted so many times it won’t close anymore.

“Well, it’s simple to love someone,” she said. “But it’s hard to know when you need to say it out loud.”

I make an origami frog for Richard and put it on top of his box. I make an origami frog for Mom and put it on top of her envelope. I can’t get enough of these origami frogs.