Then I remember. I sit up and look at my legs. They are swollen in places and raw and red.The skin will grow back, I think. There’s nothing I can do.I try to stand up. It works. I can walk, too, though it’s difficult.Sitting back down is harder. It feels as if the scabs will rip open again.Oh man, I think, I can’t stand around all day.I make the mistake of leaving my room in just a long T-shirt. I run into Maria right in front of the door to my room. She’s probably been waiting there. Maybe she wanted to ask me a question or tell me something.But she forgets about it as soon as she sees me.And I thought it wasn’t that noticeable.I brush aside her horror, her sympathy, her complaints, her iodine tincture, her entreaties to go immediately to the doctor, her praying that I never go skating again without kneepads—as if they would have done anything. The best one is her asking me not to go rollerblading ever again at all, and her wanting to keep Anton from ever doing it again, as well.
