Make a wish. Break my leg.

My wish, as a child, was to have a broken leg.
Traditionally, in children's books and such, children are thought of having innocent and generic wishes to become princesses or superheroes. Looking back on my childhood, almost all of us were warped in the mind. All of us latched onto some ideal that looked magical in our eyes, but negligible or dreadful to the rest of adult society.
My wish to break my leg began when my best friend Christina broke her leg. We were seven years old at the time, and in the same 2nd grade class. Secretly, I knew she was cooler than me, even before she broke her leg. In my front lawn, she would do one cart-wheel after another. She made it look effortless, as if she was a windmill with a soft breeze blowing her along. I, on the other hand, feebly tried to do a somersault, but every time I ended up with a mouthful of grass clippings and a sore neck. We were both adventurous, but she always outpaced me. Christina broke my handlebar record on the playground, one which I had coveted since kindergarten. Christina could also jump farther than me. She had a loft bed, and we would spend hours jumping from it onto the floor of her bedroom. She always made a graceful arc through the air.
I remember one day I arrived at school, and Christina's desk was vacant. The teacher explained she was at the doctor's because she had broken her leg while jumping off her bed.
I was shocked and sad, but, secretly, I thought about how she wouldn't be cart-wheeling, jumping, or winning in handlebars any longer. I wondered if her popularity and grace would fall to me, her natural heir.
I was wrong. Christina arrived to school with a pink cast on her leg and a story to tell.
All day I reheard the tale, "I was trying to do a flip through the air, and I almost got it, but then I landed wrong. You wouldn't believe the pain. My leg was like this--" She tried bending her hand backwards, and everyone winced.
I was the only one who noticed the smug look fleeting across her face.
If I thought a cart-wheel would make you noticed, an injury made you a star. Lines would gather to sign her cast, and circles would form to hobble around on her crutches. She laid around all day, like a gluttonous queen, asking people to fetch her crayons, carry her bookbag, and finish her craft projects.
I was no longer Christina's best friend, considering she now had a group of doting servants.
I remember, in class, while we were learning how to multiply, Christina raised her hand.
"Mr. Stevens may I go to the bathroom?"
"Sure," he said, and returned to the board.
She made a slight huff. "But--"
"What is it Christina?"
"I can't get there by myself," she tilted her head towards her cast-bound leg, which rested on a pillow.
"Then what are your crutches for?" I grumbled under my breath. I few people laughed.
Christina shot me a glare.
"I don't see why you need any help," said Mr. Stevens without looking back at her.
"My leg is broken! And my doctor expressly told me--"
"Fine, whatever, someone go with Christina. Don't be gone long."
Christina gave a haughty smile. She waved for one of her servants, and theatrically proceeded to wobble out of the room with grunts of pain.

That afternoon, at recess, those who laughed at my remark found me at the playground. We were finished with Christina. Our plan was this: either prove her broken leg was a fraud, or break our own legs.
We spent a few evenings huddled together, in closets with flashlights, trying to figure out how Christina had faked a broken leg.
"Maybe she threatened the doctor to give her a cast!" suggested one girl.
We nodded in thought.
"Or maybe she swapped out the x-rays."
"Or maybe she bent her leg in a weird way, so it looked broken."
We never found anything conclusive, so we proceeded to phase two: attempting to break our legs.
I drug out my life-size plastic doll from my playroom, and henceforth it was the test dummy.
We would climb to the top of swing sets, soccer goals, tree houses, and tool sheds, and throw the doll off. Then we would inspect, if it looked like she had broken her leg. If yes, we proceeded to jump, if no, we jumped anyway.
But none of us ever broke our leg. We must of been drinking our milk and taking our vitamins. I got bruises and grass stains, but otherwise I was a healthy child. The only excitement we had was when a mom would give a startled scream from the window, and run out trying to stop us.
But I didn't give up on having a broken leg. I, instead, resorted to playing the part. My friends and I would rummage through my dad's socks and start putting on one sock on top of the other. After ten layers of socks it looked like I had a cast. I would then find a long stick or pole and hobble around on "so-called" crutches.
When I and three other girls wobbled into the kitchen, my mom look at us oddly.
"Do you guys have a cast on..?"
"Yes!" we squeled.
"Alright," my mom gave a small laugh and went back to scrubbing a pan.
My mother's acceptance was good enough for me. For the rest of the day we laid around like gluttonous queens--eating cookies and watching movies.