His name is Emery, and he won't leave my side for a minute. The boy clings to my arm as if for protection, his bony hip occasionally bumping my thigh. The way he glares with cagey reticence at the other kids draws a rueful smile from my lips. His lips pout triumphantly. You can't get me now, they seem to say.
He's like a baby duckling that's imprinted on me. It should be annoying, but no sooner does the irritation creep in than the boy looks up at me with startlingly wide, glassy eyes, and all thoughts die in my head.
He loves me, thinks I'm the greatest thing ever. 'Cause sometimes I tickle him so hard he pees, and when I get to kissing his curls, he nearly falls asleep until I have to pry his eyes open again.
I let him play with my toys and sit in my lap on the carpet and hold my hand when the teacher makes him speak out loud. He's not very good at sports, and I've dried many tears after his perilous interactions with a ball. He can't read very well, and usually when I read to him he falls asleep in my lap. He's not very social, clamming up instantly when someone approaches him for a conversation. But he's all mine.