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Informationen zum Autor Jake Maia Arlow is a podcast producer, writer, and bagel connoisseur. They studied evolutionary biology and creative writing (not as different as you might think) at Barnard College. They live with their girlfriend and their loud cat in the Pacific Northwest. Klappentext Twelve-year-old Al, short for Alison, navigates an overprotective mother, growing apart from her best friend, and her first girl crush, all while her recent Crohn's diagnosis puts a knot in her stomach. Leseprobe Chapter One AN UNFORTUNATE GURGLE Some “scientists” claim that everybody poops. Which might be true, but I have a hard time believing it. I’m not saying I want to see some proof, because that would be disgusting. But if everybody poops . . . how come no one talks about it? And even if everybody does poop—which, as I mentioned, I don’t believe—I’m pretty sure no one on Earth thinks about pooping as much as me. Not because I want to think about it—I don’t. I’d rather think about anything else, such as being mauled by a walrus or having my face eaten by a bunch of tiny cute mice. But the problem is, my body makes me think about it. My stomach hurts all the time —at home, at school—and especially during gym class. I wish that my brain didn’t have to be attached to my body. Having flesh and bones and arms and legs and intestines is the cause of almost all my problems. If I were just a brain in a jar connected to a supercomputer, I’d never worry about having stomach pain or pooping or doing something embarrassing. No one would be able to tell if I was a kid or an adult or someone with a messed-up stomach or a normal one. No one would be able to tell if I was a girl or a boy or maybe something else. But I’m not a supercomputer, so I have to run laps. “Do you think the Addisons sweat at all?” That’s Leo. He’s not a fan of gym either. We’ve been walking around the track for like fifteen minutes, and at this point my pit stains have pit stains. All the other gym classes got to stay inside today, but Mr. DiMeglio used to be a professional wrestler, so he’s really hard on us. He doesn’t care that it’s a hundred million degrees on the track. “No, definitely not,” I whisper to Leo, watching as the Addisons—Madison and Addison—lap us for the second time. “They’re robots.” Madison and Addison (yes, those are really their names, and yes, it’s annoying) are best friends, and they’re both super athletic. They never post pictures on IG without each other, and all their posts get a ton more likes than everyone else in seventh grade, and sometimes more than people in eighth. Leo and I are not friends with the Addisons. We’re pretty much only friends with each other. “Wanna know what my Italian teacher told us last period?” Leo asks as we walk to the outermost lane of the track to let everyone pass us. “That you should’ve taken Spanish with me?” He rolls his eyes. “No, he said it’s the language of opera .” Leo turns to me and grins, and then, when he’s sure no one’s listening, he imitates an opera singer, arms outstretched. “ CIAO, MI CHIAMO LEOOOOOO.” He sings it so that only I can hear, and I can’t help but laugh. “What does that even mean?” He slips his hands into his khaki shorts’ pockets. He never changes for gym if he can help it, and I don’t blame him. I always wear shorts or sweatpants and a T-shirt on gym days and then swap whatever shirt I wore to school for a baggier, dirtier one that hides my body. “It means ‘Hi, my name is Leo,’” he tells me. “It’s the only thing I know how to say in Italian so far.” We both lose it at that, giggling so hard that we have to stop walking. “Leonard! Alison! This isn’t the mall! I want to see you jog!” Mr. DiMeglio shouts at us from his lawn chair. Yup, his lawn chair. Leo and I cringe. Neither of us likes our real first names—we’re Leo and Al, thank you...
