"Leo Armadillo"

All I saw at Keller's funeral were shoes: Molly's blue ballerina shoes that she wore even to bed; Sully's old sneakers with gaping holes that looked like mouths hanging off his toes; the shiny clickety shoes Mom bought me for church (I could see my face in them). I might have seen a leaf and a stick or two. I heard crying somewhere, but I never saw who was doing it.

I tried to hide in Grandpa's ugly yellow recliner during the wake. If my head weren't so fat I probably would've shoved it into the crack between the ripped arm and the seat cushion with an outline of Grandpa's butt. The next best idea was to curl my face into my knees (itchy under the tights) and play the armadillo game. The living room was stuffed with talking black suits and sniffling knee-length skirts; no one would notice me in my black velvet ball of steel. I had a stash of cheese and crackers in my pocket. I was safe for awhile.
“Is that my Leona?”
A particularly large, loud skirt was now poking at my ball. Safety never lasted.
“No.” I scrunched my eyes closed.
“Oh, Leona,” the big skirt persisted, “you must be having the hardest time with this!”
My roly-poly aunt Polly was filling that big skirt. Almost exploding out of it, actually.There was nowhere to go for cover. I was blocked in by black shoes and black pants all trying to get a piece of carrot cake. I took a deep breath and lifted my head.
Roly-Poly Polly looked down at me and sighed. Her eyes were watery blue and sad, but her eyebrows stayed badly drawn in place—like two wet noodles thrown to the wall.
“He's in a better place, Leona. With the angels.”
“It's Leo,” I corrected her for the billionth time since deciding to make myself less dorky in third grade.
The flood gates opened; her sniffles became huge heaves of snot and drool and mascara tears, and I didn't have time to feel bad as I dove for escape through her legs. Army crawl. The crackers in my pocket didn't stand a chance now. But the cheese, maybe...