Poster Child by Emily Rapp

away by the tooth fairy in exchange for a one-dollar bill, the cast was cut open and the pins were removed. I knew it was going to hurt, but when Dr. Elliot pulled each of them out—quickly, one after the other—I had never felt anything like it. It felt as if the tissue and bone were being yanked out at once or the body was being forcibly turned inside out. I gritted my teeth, determined not to cry out. "Brave girl," said the assisting nurse. "What a brave girl," she said again, wiping my sweaty forehead with a cool towel. Those words of praise made all the pain worthwhile. Bravery in these situations was a virtue; it set me apart and made me feel proud.
    The healing stump was wrapped in an Ace bandage, and I used crutches at home, but at preschool I continued to use the tank.
    I wore long jumpers to cover the Ace bandage, but I was known for plunking my stump out in public when it itched. Singing in the church choir, I often sat down and started scratching, with my jumper hitched up around my waist. Mom and I had a discussion she called "stump etiquette."
    "Don't plunk your stump," she told me.
    "It itches," I said. "I itch."
    "We don't itch ourselves in public."
    "You don't itch! I do."
    "It's not ladylike."
    "I'm not a lady," I replied. And I didn't feel like one. I had walked with a tank; I wanted to be gritty and strong; if something itched, it made sense to scratch it.
    "Well," Mom said, "soon you'll have a new leg. A prosthesis." That word sounded awkward coming out of her mouth, as if she were trying to hiss like a snake. This made me giggle. She continued, "And then things will be different. Things will be better." After the healing process was complete, I would be fitted for my first artificial leg. I'd heard this story before and had ended up in a cast.
    My parents showed me pictures of what this newest part of my body would look like: My left leg would be made of shiny, light brown wood.
    "When you grow," Dad said, pointing at the area where foot and ankle met, "we'll put something extra here, to make it longer, so you can have this leg for a long time."
    The SACH, or Solid Ankle Cushion Heel foot, was a flexible rubber shell that fit around a wooden core. When I took a step forward, the heel of the foot would compress and the toe area would bend. As I grew, length could be added at the ankle and the foot screwed back on again with a thick bolt that was tightened or loosened by the prosthetist. Essentially, the leg would grow with me, only the prosthetist would be responsible for its growth.
    "Will it be like the big table?" I asked.
    Dad waited for a moment and then seemed to understand. "That's it," he replied. Whenever we had big dinners at Christmas and Thanksgiving, the oak table in the dining room was pulled apart and a piece of wood sandwiched in to make room for more people.
    "My leg is like a table," I said, giggling.
    "No, it will be a leg," Mom said with a serious look on her face. "You're going to love it." She suddenly looked enthusiastic. I wasn't sure I trusted her smile. "We're going to make it work."
    I would be disappointed with the SACH foot. It was the thinnest foot around, but it was still bigger than my right foot and wasn't terribly functional. Only after my left hip and stump began to ache from the impact of running, skipping, and jumping rope did we learn that it was designed, according to the prosthetic company, for "moderately active to less active amputees." In short, I would be too active for that first foot.
    At the time, as I looked at pictures of SACH feet, they looked all right to me. I didn't understand anything about compression, but the foot and even the leg itself reminded me a bit of Barbie's long, slim legs and sleek feet without toes or veins. A clean look.
    "You'll learn how to walk with the new leg," Mom said. "It might be difficult at first, but you'll learn. Okay?"
    "Okay," I replied.
    Dad nodded. "That's right," Mom said.
    For a few weeks, my stump, when it was