Not because I was ashamed of him.
At least that was what I kept telling myself.
But I knew people.
I knew how quickly kindness could become pity.
I knew how adults sometimes slowed their voices when speaking to Ethan as if he were six instead of sixteen.
I knew how teenagers sometimes stared half a second too long.
I knew the tight smiles.
The exaggerated encouragement.
The applause people gave simply because someone with a disability had managed to stand on a stage.
I despised that kind of applause.
And secretly, I was terrified Ethan might receive it.
For four months before Senior Family Night, Ethan disappeared into our detached garage almost every afternoon.
The garage had belonged to Dad.
After Dad died, nobody used it much.
Mom stored Christmas decorations there.
I kept my bicycle against one wall.
Dad’s old red toolbox still sat under the window.
But beginning in January, Ethan started spending hours inside.
