Back to School I wake up to my pink cane propped up against the dresser-- a spot where I know I didn''t leave it before going to bed. Mami put it there while I slept, I''m positive, as if waking up and seeing it would logically make me grab it, as if its nearness to my carefully picked out first-day-of-school outfit would make it the natural accessory for my first day back. It doesn''t matter how many times I tell her that I don''t want it, she doesn''t listen-- always going on and on with her metaphors and cutesy phrases insisting my cane is inspirational and lecturing me on how using it is just like someone using glasses and so I shouldn''t be ashamed. But it''s not that I''m ashamed-- it''s that I''m confused. Nervous of what everyone at school will say if I come to class with a cane some days but not others, like I must be hiding a secret, like I did virtual school just for fun, like whatever they heard about me, about my accident, about my surgeries, has to be a lie because the Valentina in front of them doesn''t look injured, is rejoining her fencing gym this week, because the seventh-grade Valentina in front of them? With her Dutch braids, frowning face, calendar counting down the days? She looks exactly like the tough champion athlete she''s always been. Background Noise "No me voy a llevar el baston," I inform Mami as I come down the stairs, ignoring my stiff ankle and cutting her off before she can open her mouth to ask why I don''t have my cane. Luis Manuel is already at the kitchen table scarfing down chocolate Pop-Tarts with a glass of milk, and I see him make a face under his curls and concentrate on his breakfast because we both know those are fighting words in the Camacho Gutierrez morning routine. I grab a can of guava juice from the fridge as Papi instantly defends me, saying there''s no point in giving people the wrong idea when I''ll be starting up my training again so soon.

Which then immediately prompts one of Mami''s speeches, her most common one, the one about how I''m not the same Vale who competed in Summer Nationals last year, that me and Papi can''t pretend everything is fine just ''cause we want it to be and that if we''re all being honest, I probably shouldn''t fence again at all. I practically have this argument memorized by now, can mumble along with both of them as I take each sip of my juice. Papi all: She doesn''t need a cane. She just needs to strengthen her left leg. Then Mami: If she didn''t need a cane, the PT wouldn''t have suggested one. Then Papi: Look at her! She''s fine. Aren''t you fine, Vale? Tell your mother. And Mami: She''s not fine! Didn''t you see her limping? Vale, show your dad.

I don''t bother answering either of them because as long as I keep quiet, my parents will argue alone for twenty minutes easy, even if everything they say is just a repeat of something they''ve said before. Halfway through my juice, though, my brother swallows the last of his food and points at the garage door with his lips. And even though I was supposed to ride the bus today, even though Luis Manuel threw a fit last week telling us all how driving me to Jefferson Middle would make him late to Jefferson High, his tall, lanky self quietly leads me through the garage door, leaving our parents still arguing, and then drives me to school without a single complaint. I Know Me Best I wish I could say Mami just got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but she says stuff like this all the time now, buys me all sorts of random natural medicines that don''t work, the closer we get to me being allowed to fence again. It''s like she thinks giving up what makes me me shouldn''t be a big deal at all, that my energy could be better used trying out whatever "new solutions" for my pain she''s found online that day. And I don''t understand how she can''t see that fencing again, the promise of it, is the only thing that''s kept me going through the surgeries and the doctors and the complete rearranging of my life. That fencing isn''t just a hobby I can pick up and put down-- it''s who I am. It''s what keeps me me.

And anyone who can''t see that is clearly not Team Valentina, even if it''s my own mother, even if she insists everything she says is out of love. Because We Love You Before my accident porque te queremos meant my parents were tough on me when I didn''t win. It meant Papi would film me so we could go over all my mistakes, and I''d always get in trouble with Mami if I didn''t eat enough carbs the night before a match or didn''t get enough sleep due to nerves. It meant I wasn''t allowed to say I was tired after practice or say I wanted to take a week off and if I ever complained Mami would remind me that she never got the chance to ever compete to ever take lessons in anything and I''m lucky to have parents who work so hard. And, yeah, Papi is still the same, I think but it''s like Mami went to bed the night of my accident and woke up as someone brand-new. And as bad as it sometimes felt to be pushed and pushed all the time this? now? is a million times worse. Because if love used to mean never letting me give up what does it mean now-- now that Mami has forgotten who I used to be? Parallel Universe Even though I''ve been counting down the days, ready to restart regular life, Jefferson Middle School still feels weird, itchy, slightly off, and though I glare at everyone around me, though my raised eyebrows dare them to even try saying something to my face, I keep catching kids looking at me around corners and behind lockers, trying to see if I''m limping, WHICH I''M NOT trying to see me doing anything that would match up with what they were imagining in their gossipy group chats. And it makes the back of my neck prickle, the temper Coach Nate always warns me about threatening to flare up, because it''s not like I asked to get excused from group sports in gym it''s not like I asked to be allowed to walk slow and arrive late to class all because my flare-ups are so hard to predict.

And maybe I should have brought my cane to school just so I could test how similar to my epee blade it could be in knocking someone out. Whatever. It doesn''t matter anyway. School is just the place I go to during the day to learn all the things I won''t need once I''m a pro international fencer training day and night. Plus, Amanda is here. Amanda, with her straight shiny black hair and friendly eyes, who surprises me today with a bag full of 3 Musketeers and says, "Te extrane, Vale," in her soft Mexican accent