[Part 2] "Rules" by Cynthia Lord
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CHAPTER VII. SAYING YOU’LL DO SOMETHING MEANS YOU HAVE TO DO IT — UNLESS YOU HAVE A VERY GOOD EXCUSE
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In front of me, Mom holds David’s hand as we walk up the ramp to the clinic.
“It’s warm enough for the park today,” I say, glancing across the parking lot to the strip of sun-sparkled ocean gleaming between Coastal Marine Supply and Otis’s Hardware.
“After I give Jason his words, can we go?”
“If David’s doing well,” Mom says.
I watch the back of David’s head and repeat in my mind: Do well today.
Do well today.
Inside, I sit on the waiting room couch, watching out the window.
As soon as I see Jason’s mother’s van drive into the parking lot, I unload my backpack: word cards, sketchbook, colored pencils, CD player, and headphones.
“If you hadn’t insisted on changing your shirt, we wouldn’t be late,” Mrs. Morehouse says, pushing Jason’s wheelchair into the waiting room.
“And I had to stop for gas.”
“Hi, Jason.”
I hold the cards secret between my palms, waiting while his mother moves his wheelchair up beside me.
She walks over to her regular chair near Mrs. Frost, settling in with a magazine.
I whisper to Jason, “I picked some words about me, and a few words I thought you should have.”
But when I open my hands,
Awesome!
seems too flashy and bold for his book, and I feel silly for bringing it.
Jason looks at me, ready.
I wince, sliding the card into an empty pocket in his communication book.
“I drew fireworks, but my first choice for ‘awesome’ would’ve been this.”
I offer my CD player to him.
Jason doesn’t take it.
He sits there, his Adam’s apple rolling as he swallows.
Help.
On.
I flash a look to his mother.
“It isn’t far,” she’s saying to Mrs. Frost.
“Forty minutes or so.”
Maybe I can do this myself?
I pull the headphones wide, hoping to drop them over Jason’s ears, but as my hands come close, his hair tickles the underside of my wrist and surrounds my fingers.
I hold my breath to keep from yanking my hands away as I position the headphones.
Placing the CD player on his communication book, I push PLAY.
Jason startles.
“Sorry!”
I roll the volume way down.
Music.
Loud.
More.
“Everything all right, Catherine?”
Mrs. Morehouse asks.
“I think so.”
I roll the volume up until faint, stringy guitar music slips past the headphones into the waiting room.
Jason’s jaw tightens.
Like.
Guitar.
“Me, too.”
I don’t know if he can hear me with the headphones on, so I find
Me, too.
in his book and tap it.
Jason’s head sways slightly to the music.
Waiting for the song to finish, I run my thumb along an edge of my word cards.
Mom talks to Carol, the receptionist explains something on the phone, and Jason’s mother and Mrs. Frost discuss good restaurants that accommodate wheelchairs.
Outside, a family wearing bright sweatshirts walks by the window, the father stopping to take a picture.
Tourists!
I check my watch.
If I hurry, Mom and I’ll still have time to go to the park.
I feel a nudge on my arm.
“Oh.”
I hadn’t noticed the song was over.
Sliding my index finger under the top of the headphones, I pull gently.
“See that tourist family out the window?”
I ask, putting my CD player away.
“I think they’re a good-luck sign that summer’s here.”
I hunt through my stack of cards to find the word I want good luck for the most.
The last card I made, the one with a drawing of a girl’s hand raised in a “hi” wave.
Friend.
“I have a new neighbor who’s my age,” I say.
“I haven’t met her yet, but I’m hoping she’s nice.”
He smiles.
Catherine.
Friend.
“I do have friends — my best friend is Melissa — but no one that lives near me.
My neighborhood is mostly old people and families with little kids.
Well, except the boy who lives on the corner.
He’s my age, but he —”
Stinks a big one!!!
I put that card as far from my name as possible.
“You’ll have to be careful when you use this one.
The last time I yelled this, I had to sit in the front seat of the bus.”
No.
I mean.
Catherine.
My.
Friend.
My lips feel dry.
I lick them, though Mom always tells me not to.
“Sure,” I say, even if I think of us more as clinic friends than always friends.
Seeing Jason’s finger on the word, I wonder why he didn’t already have it.
“And this is a guinea pig.”
I wait for his hand to move.
“I have two of these at home.
Their names are Cinnamon and Nutmeg, and I’ll put ‘guinea pig’ right here next to ‘sandwich,’ because eating is what they like best.”
I slide the card into the pocket.
“And I thought you might want ‘gross.’
This lady I drew is eating cereal.
But do you see this white thing on the spoon?
It’s a maggot.”
Jason curls his upper lip.
“It’s even worse, because it’s half a maggot!”
I add the card to his book.
“And this word I picked for my brother, David.”
My other cards have the word printed small at the top, but the tall block letters of
RULE.
fill the card.
“David loves rules, so I use those to teach him.”
What?
RULE.
I usually don’t share my rule collection with anyone but David, but Jason’s different.
“David doesn’t learn from watching other people, so I have to teach him everything.”
I open my sketchbook to my Rules for David, figuring it’s easier to show than explain.
Take your shoes off at the doctor, but at the dentist leave them on.
If you want to get out of answering something, pretend you didn’t hear.
If someone is holding something you want, ask if you can have a turn.
“David has his own rules, too,” I say, “but those rules don’t make sense to anyone but him.”
What?
Those.
RULE.
I sigh.
“David’s got lots.
One is, the cellar door always has to be shut.
Even if I’m only going downstairs to grab something, he’ll race over and shut the door.
Once he even locked it and I got stuck down there with a whole bunch of spiders until Mom heard me yelling.
“And the worst part, it’s not just our house.
David’ll hunt through other people’s houses, too.”
I can’t help seeing it in my mind: David running down Melissa’s hallway, and Melissa’s mother saying kindly, “Don’t worry, Catherine, it’s fine.
David, that’s the closet.
That’s the bathroom.”
Jason nods.
Brother.
Me, too.
Matt.
“Is he younger than you?”
No.
Five.
Years.
Older.
“Oh, you’re lucky then!
You never have to babysit.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them back.
Of course he couldn’t babysit.
“Um.”
When you say something stupid, gloss over it with superfast
talking and maybe no one’ll notice.
“The next word is ‘drawing.’
I picked it because it’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Looking for a good empty pocket, it hits me — he can’t draw.
But Jason’s already seen the word, so there’s nothing to do but slide the card into a pocket beneath my name.
What?
Guinea pig.
Eat.
“Huh?”
What?
Guinea pig.
Jason waits for me to say each word before he taps the next.
Eat.
“What do guinea pigs eat?”
Yes.
“Oh.
Mostly they eat pellets from the pet store, but they’ll eat almost anything.
Once I left a library book too close to their cage and they ate off half the cover.
That was hard to explain to the librarian, let me tell you.”
Jason laughs, a sharp bark like a Canada goose.
His mother looks up from her magazine as I scan the room and see everyone watching us.
“Uh, but I think carrots are their favorite.”
I lean away from Jason.
“They can hear me snap a carrot all the way from the kitchen.”
Jason closes his lips tight.
Thank you.
Catherine.
New.
Words.
“No problem.”
I stare at the rows of plain, black-and-white cards and wish that all his cards were colorful.
“Would you like me to make more?”
Awesome!
Tell.
Mom.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Morehouse?
Jason wants me to make him more words.”
She walks over, and I watch her eyebrows go up as her gaze sweeps Jason’s book.
“How many cards would you like?” she asks.
I don’t know where my voice comes from, but it says, “All of them.”
She looks surprised but hands me the whole stack.
When she’s settled back with her magazine, I slide the blank cards into my shorts pocket.
“I’m sorry I drew you that day,” I whisper to Jason.
Don’t.
Like.
Picture.
Me.
“I didn’t mean any —”
“HI, JASON!”
For the first time, I’m sorry to see his speech therapist stride into the waiting room.
“How’s his day been going?” she asks his mother.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Morehouse says.
“In fact, he was so anxious to come to speech today, he even changed his shirt for you.”
“How nice!” the therapist says.
“WE DO HAVE FUN” (two fingers tapping her nose then swinging down to her other hand) “DON’T WE?”
(cheesy grin).
Jason sneaks his hand over his cards.
Speech.
Woman.
Stinks a big one!!!
I nod and tap,
Very much.
As his therapist pushes his wheelchair toward the corridor, Jason glances back to me.
“See you Thursday,” I say.
His therapist’s voice grows softer the farther she goes.
I turn to my rule collection and add:
Some people think they know who you are, when really they don’t.
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CHAPTER VIII. IF YOU CAN ONLY CHOOSE ONE, PICK CAREFULLY
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On Wednesday morning the minivan is gone from the driveway next door, so I busy myself collecting words and phrases for Jason in the blank spaces of my sketchbook.
Words from commercials, conversations, and books run between my doodles and across the backs of my drawings.
The driveway remains empty until after dark.
An hour before OT on Thursday, I lay my sketchbook open on my desk and flip the pages, hunting for the right words and phrases to put on Jason’s cards.
Why not?
He already has “why,” but “why not” is pushier — like “why” with a fist on its hip.
Out my window I see the minivan still parked next door.
Why not?
Because Mom’s calling clients and Dad’s at work so David’s my responsibility — that’s why.
“Just for an hour,” Mom said, “until we have to leave for OT.
I’ve put on a Thomas the Tank Engine video so he shouldn’t be any trouble.”
I pull forward two blank cards and scrawl:
Yeah, right.
Whatever.
I know she needs me to babysit sometimes, but I hate when she tells me he shouldn’t be any trouble.
Trouble comes quick with David, and “should” doesn’t have anything to do with it.
He should remember to flush the toilet, too, but that doesn’t mean it happens.
When Mom had gone, I took my long mirror off my door and propped it at an angle against one corner of the living room, so I could work at my desk and still see David reflected in the mirror.
Every few words I make, I glance out my bedroom doorway to the mirror.
David stands at the TV, the remote in his hand.
He loves rewinding the trains backward up the tracks and speeding them ahead to almost crashing, over and over.
I turn another sketchbook page and choose among the words written along the edge.
Sure.
You bet!
Excellent!
Perfect.
Frustrating.
Pretty.
and
Dazzling!
to jazz up and stretch the words Jason has in bigger directions, and
Joke.
so he can be sarcastic if he wants.
I peek toward the mirror.
The TV train steams ahead, billowing smoke, toward the shed.
“Watch out!” David repeats, a perfect imitation of the narrator’s voice.
But at the last second possible before the smash, David hits PAUSE.
Jumping in front of the frozen TV picture, he waves the remote in circles, like it’s a magic wand.
Watch Out!!!
On the next page is my half-finished portrait of Jason.
I pick up a pencil and add the details I couldn’t add in the waiting room: eyelashes, thick eyebrows, and the outline of his thin lips.
Part of me wishes I could tear this picture out of my sketchbook and crumple it into a tight ball so I don’t hear his mother’s scolding in my head when I see it, but the rest of me is bothered that it’s —
Incomplete.
Too much like a Secret.
“Are you busy?” a girl’s voice asks.
I drop my pencil and flash a look from my unmade bed to the folded clothes piled on my bureau.
Cinnamon and Nutmeg crane their necks to wheek at Mom and the girl from next door standing in my doorway.
“I saw Kristi coming up the walk,” Mom says, smiling.
“Catherine, I have one more call to make.
Could you keep an eye on David for a few more minutes?
Then I’ll take over, I promise.”
Before I can get out “no,” I see Mom’s legs in the mirror, hurrying back toward her office.
David pushes REWIND, and Thomas speeds backward again.
“Come in!”
I offer my chair, but Kristi sits on the edge of my desk, crossing her feet at the ankles.
“Are you busy?” she asks.
No!
Seeing her up close, I know Kristi will be popular.
Not only for her straight brown hair, parted off-center, shining down to her elbows.
Or because she looks just right, even wearing frayed jean shorts and a T-shirt.
Kristi radiates “cool,” and I know it as sure as I know David’ll stop that speeding train at the last-last second.
Part of me feels sorry, because she doesn’t look like a flashlightand-Morse-code kid, but the other part of me is excited.
“I’m glad Mrs. Bowman sold you her house,” I say.
“Well, I guess, technically, the realtor sold it, but I’m glad your family bought it, because I’ve always thought it would be great if a kid lived next door.
Mrs. Bowman was nice, but she was really, really old.”
I clamp my teeth together to keep anything else dumb from escaping my mouth.
Kristi drags a strand of her hair between her fingers.
“I’m glad, too.
I was scared I’d have to start school next year without knowing anyone.”
My lips spread to a smile imagining Melissa’s surprise as I introduce Kristi into our group.
“This is my friend Kristi,” I’ll say.
“We hung out together all summer.”
I glance out my doorway to the living room.
Where’s David?
“Ryan said there’s a bus stop at the end of the street?”
I lick my bottom lip to keep from grimacing.
“At the corner.”
“That’s great.”
Kristi continues to twist her strand of hair.
“I used to walk three blocks to catch the bus — even when it was freezing or raining.
Mom’d say, ‘Take the umbrella,’ as though anyone carries an umbrella!”
David insists on bringing his bright red umbrella to school even when it’s only cloudy.
“My mom’s like that, too.”
Leaving out isn’t the same as lying.
“She always says, ‘Well, at least wear your hood!’”
I continue, “Like I’d want hood hair.”
Kristi smiles, letting the twisted strand fall back to her arm.
“Ryan said he lets kids wait in his house when it’s raining, since he can see the bus come from there.”
But only if you’re invited.
I peek out the doorway into the empty living room.
Part of me would like to tell Kristi the truth, but I don’t want our conversation to become about David.
At the bus stop I always tell him, “You have your umbrella,” grabbing the back of his jacket to keep him from following Ryan’s friends up the steps.
“Going inside is for kids without umbrellas.”
I would be honest, but David doesn’t understand invited and not invited.
He thinks everything is for everyone.
“Ryan’s nice,” Kristi says.
“Don’t you think so?”
Nice as a cockroach.
“Want some sherbet?”
I ask.
When you want to get out of answering something, distract the
questioner with another question.
“What kind?”
Kristi asks.
“Raspberry.”
David rushes through my doorway, his eyes wide with panic, an audiocassette in his hand.
“Fix it?”
The tape has pulled out of the cassette, hanging in a long, delicate loop.
At first I’m relieved that’s all that’s wrong until my guinea pigs start to squeal.
With the cassette over one ear, and his hand shielding the other, David yells,
Quiet, pigs!
Kristi shoots a worried glance from David to the guinea pigs to me.
I pry the cassette from David’s fingers, knowing it’ll be faster to deal with the tape than the tears filling his eyes.
“Don’t worry.
This’ll only take a minute.”
I spin the cassette around and around on my finger, wishing I had two more hands: one to give the guinea pigs hay to quiet them, another to cover David’s mouth as he shrieks.
I spin the cassette so fast my finger keeps slipping out of the tiny hole.
When the tape lies flat and tight, I slide Frog and Toad Together into my cassette player and push PLAY.
Arnold Lobel’s deep voice joins the guinea pig squeals, and David’s face lights up like Christmas morning, Halloween night, and his birthday, all rolled into one big grin.
“You fixed it!”
“Go find Mom,” I say, pressing the cassette into his hand, “and tell her I’m done babysitting.”
Before I close the door, I peek into the living room to be sure David’s heading toward Mom’s office.
He disappears down the hallway, swinging his arms.
“That must be hard,” Kristi says.
“Even regular little brothers are a pain.”
“Regular” snarls in my stomach.
I grab my sticky notes and write “DAD!
Buy a new tape player!” and stick it on the back of my door to remember to tell him — again.
To quiet my guinea pigs, I pull strings of timothy hay from the little bale I keep under the cage.
Nutmeg yips as Cinnamon steals her hay.
“They’re so cute,” Kristi says.
“Can I hold them?”
“Sure.”
I toss her a towel.
“Better put that on your lap, in case they pee.”
I slide one hand under Nutmeg’s chest and cup her back legs with my other.
Cinnamon wheeks until I set her next to Nutmeg on Kristi’s lap, and the squealing turns to happy-pig cooing:
Nutmeg, I thought I’d never see you again!
Say, what are you eating?
Towel, medium rare, with a hint of fabric softener.
Care for a bite?
Don’t mind if I do!
My door bursts open.
“No toys in the fish tank,” David announces.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Kristi between my clenched teeth.
“No problem,” she says, stroking Nutmeg’s neck.
I close my door behind me so Kristi won’t see me run.
Why?
I sprint ahead of David.
Why today?
Because.
A tiny cowboy stands bowlegged on the gravel at the bottom of the fish tank, one hand poised to grab his pistol, the other holding the end of a lasso hovering in a loop above his head.
A goldfish swims right through the hole.
Git back here, ya pesky varmint!
Plunging my hand into the water, fish swoosh past my fingers.
I rescue the cowboy and throw him into the toy box.
Grabbing David’s wrist, I don’t even wipe my hand first.
Wet!
David twists to get away.
“You’re not going to ruin this for me.”
I yank him along behind me down the hallway to Mom’s office.
She’s on the phone.
“All right, then,” Mom says into the receiver.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you next week.”
I have company, I say, not caring about interrupting her,
and you need to watch David.
Mom holds up one finger for me to wait, but I push David ahead of me into the room.
Her eyebrows come down.
She grabs a puzzle off her bookshelf and dumps the pieces on the floor.
“Yes, that’ll be fine,” she says into the phone.
David sits beside the hill of pieces.
He can’t stand to see puzzles undone, but he insists on doing the pieces in lines, like he’s reading the puzzle.
He doesn’t look for all the red barn pieces or the daisies in the field or the glimmers of sunlit water.
Left to right, top to bottom, that’s his puzzle rule.
And if you add a piece out of David’s order, he’ll take it back out — even if it fits.
I slam Mom’s office door on my way out.
When I come back to my room, breathless from running down the hallway, I notice Nutmeg and Cinnamon are in their cage again.
“Everything okay?”
Kristi asks.
“I hope you don’t mind that I looked at this.”
She’s holding my sketchbook, open to the half-finished portrait of Jason.
Is he your boyfriend?
No!
Just a boy I started drawing.
Kristi tilts her head in an oooh-really?
look.
If you want someone to think something’s not important, use
“just” a lot.
He’s just a boy I know from — well, I don’t really know him.
Not very well.
I just see him at —”
I check my watch.
It’s almost time to leave for OT.
I can’t tell Kristi I have to go — not the first time we’ve met.
But I told Jason I’d see him today.
Kristi tosses my sketchbook onto my desk.
My hands itch to flip the page, but that’ll bring attention to it.
“Want to watch TV?”
Kristi asks.
If I say no, maybe I won’t get another chance to hang out with her.
I glance to Thomas the Tank Engine reflected in my mirror, his eyes closed, braced for a crash that’ll never happen.
From somewhere, David shrieks.
“We could watch at my house,” Kristi says.
That stings, even if I agree.
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll tell my mom.”
All the way up Kristi’s walkway, I want to skip or run or twirl with my arms out, like a six-year-old.
It feels deliciously easy to be visiting a friend’s house without having to say first, “Sorry, David, this is for me.
You can’t come.”
Hearing Mom’s car back out of the driveway, I turn to wave.
She waves, but David sits alone in the backseat, hunched down, his hands over his ears.
I follow Kristi up the steps and through her front door.
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CHAPTER IX. AT SOMEONE ELSE’S HOUSE, YOU HAVE TO FOLLOW THEIR RULES
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At a friend’s house, everything is uncomplicated.
No one drops toys in the fish tank, no one cares if the cellar door is open or closed, and no one shrieks unless there’s a huge, hairy spider crawling up her arm.
And they only have regular family rules:
No snacks right before supper.
Call if you’re going to be late.
Homework first.
But the best part of being at a friend’s house is I can be just me and put the sister part of me down.
Kristi’s room looks like a page from a catalog, the sort of shiny catalog I get in the mail and can only afford a toothbrush or a poster from.
But Kristi’s new pink-swirled curtains match the fat comforter on her bed, which matches the pink-and-blue rug on her floor.
It’s all beautiful, but what I envy most is the neat row of things on her bureau.
Photographs, makeup, her jewelry tree, and a long row of nail-polish bottles — everything out in the open, not jumbled in drawers like mine, out of David’s sight.
Lying next to Kristi on her new-smelling pink comforter, I wish I wasn’t wearing an old, sun-faded T-shirt and had put on makeup this morning.
“I think he’s cute,” Kristi says, and I force my gaze back to the Teen People spread in front of us.
The boy in the magazine has perfect teeth and stabbing dark eyes.
Kristi taps the little box that says UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH JAKE.
“He says his ideal date would be a sunset walk on the beach and a picnic supper she had prepared.”
“He sounds cheap.”
Soon as I say it, I wish I could stuff the words back into my mouth.
But Kristi laughs.
“Yeah.
Why can’t he bring the picnic?
If you get invited somewhere, you shouldn’t have to bring supper!”
She flips onto her back.
I roll over, too.
Her ceiling is ordinary, plain white with a simple, square glass light in the middle and two hooks, like upside-down question marks, holding nothing.
I think Mrs. Bowman hung plants here.
“Can you date yet?”
Kristi asks.
I shrug.
“I know boys from school and church, but no one I’d want to go somewhere with — by myself.
Well, not really by myself, because he’d be there, too.”
Oh, shut up, I tell my tongue.
“You should ask that boy you drew on a date,” Kristi says.
“What’s his name?”
I shift my shoulders, pretending I need to stretch so she won’t notice I’m squirming.
Is there any harm in telling his name?
They’re not likely to meet.
Jason doesn’t even go to the same school I do.
“Jason.”
“My boyfriend and I broke up before I moved,” Kristi says.
“But I think Ryan likes me.
His mom works at the community center where I volunteer.
Did you know the community center is sponsoring a summer dance?
It’s for kids aged eight to seventeen.
You could ask Jason.”
“You volunteer?”
I need to change the subject.
“Yeah, with the preschool day camp.
It sounded fun when I signed up, but they want me to come every day now.
And with going to Dad’s every weekend, I haven’t even had time to finish unpacking.”
I glance to her bureau, to the framed photograph of a man standing with a dog.
“My friend Melissa’s parents are divorced.
She’s in California for the summer with her dad.”
“My parents aren’t divorced.”
She says it so sharp, I gasp.
“I’m sorry, I thought because —”
“They’re just separated.”
Kristi reaches up to twirl a piece of hair in her fingers.
“They’re just taking a break for a while.”
It’s so quiet I can hear birds outside and cars driving past on the road.
Kristi holds the very end of the lock of hair and it spins back, falling against the path of freckles across her nose.
“Want to shoot some baskets?”
she asks, pushing her hair away.
“I don’t know which box my basketball’s in, but it’s in the garage somewhere.”
“Sure.”
I can’t help checking off a list of differences in each room we pass through.
No locks on the doors, no little-kid videos next to the TV, no safety plugs in the outlets, and a box of cookies left out on the kitchen table — no one worried someone will eat them all at once.
Kristi’s garage is full of boxes, bikes, rakes, a snow-blower, and a clutter of other things.
We open boxes until we find her basketball.
“I hope you’re not real good.”
Kristi passes me the ball.
“I’m only kinda good.”
“Me, too,” I say, relieved.
We play one-on-one, until I see Dad pull into our driveway with David.
David runs up the walkway to our house, clutching his video.
“Hi!”
Dad smiles, coming toward the fence.
“It’s a nice surprise to drive in and see you next door, Cath.”
First, I’ve told him not to call me “Cath,” because it sounds too much like he’s calling me a baby cow, and second, why’s it such a surprise I have a friend next door?
“You need to get David a new tape player.”
I set up for a shot.
“The one he has keeps pulling his cassettes apart, and I have to fix them.”
The ball bounces off the rim.
“Can’t you say ‘hello’ first?”
Dad asks.
“Hello.
But don’t forget.
I’m sick of fixing his cassettes.”
“I’m Catherine’s dad.”
He nods to Kristi.
“It’s nice to have you and your family in the neighborhood.
What do your parents —?”
“Oh, wow.”
I check my watch.
“It’s getting late.”
“Yeah, I have to start supper for my mom.”
Kristi shoots the ball.
“I’ll see you?”
“Definitely!”
I get the ball and pass it to her, loving the hollow thump it makes hitting her hands.
“I’ll be in in a minute,” Dad calls.
“I need to get something from the car.”
I walk home, easy as you please.
In the living room, I can barely keep from skipping past Mom reading the newspaper on the couch.
Next to her David shakes his hands with excitement as a video preview plays on the TV.
“Did you have fun?”
Mom asks me.
The newspaper pages make a whispery sound as she folds them.
“Kristi seems like a nice girl.”
I nod.
David slaps his legs with his hands.
“Rated PG for adventure, action, and peril!”
“Jason missed you today,” Mom says, and my happiness deflates like a balloon with the smallest tear.
“He said that?”
“Well, actually, what he said was, ‘Tell Catherine all gone stinks a big one.’”
Mom looks over the top of her glasses, giving the long, what-have-you-been-up-to-young-lady?
stare.
“Who’s Jason?”
Dad says from the doorway, a teasing smirk on his face.
“A boy at David’s OT place.”
I watch Dad’s eyebrows shoot upward, and I roll my eyes.
“He’s just a boy.
It’s not like he’s a boy or anything.”
“Oh, I almost forgot, Jason sent you something,” Mom says.
“It’s in a bag on the kitchen table.”
“PG-thirteen,” David shouts.
“Parents strongly cautioned!”
I stroll, ho-hum, to the kitchen but I’m curious.
On the table I find a paper bag and reach inside.
My fingers touch something tickly, cold.
I pull out a big bunch of carrots, the feathery green tops attached.
Untangling a carrot from the bunch, I imagine Cinnamon and Nutmeg in their cage, shuffling through the shavings, drinking from the water bottle.
I snap the carrot in half.
From down the hall comes a crazed burst of squealing.
Then a shriek: “QUIET, PIGS!”
By the time I reach my room, David’s standing in my doorway, his hands over his ears.
“Sorry.”
I push past him.
“Go back to your video.
They’ll stop in a minute.”
Cinnamon and Nutmeg jostle each other, their front feet high against the side of the cage.
Out of my way, fatso!
Who are you calling fat, hairball?
That carrot is mine!
I toss carrot bits into the cage, and a shaving-flying scuffle breaks out, finally settling into happy chortling and chewing sounds.
A trickle of guilt curls through me.
Why can’t the world be simpler, like it is for guinea pigs?
They only have a few rules:
Crying will get you attention.
If it fits in your mouth, it’s food.
Scream if you don’t get your share.
But I can make it up to Jason on Tuesday.
I already know how.
----------------------------------------------------------
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CHAPTER X. IF IT FITS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’S FOOD
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday I bring something to the clinic I’ve never brought before.
Something that means I need to leave the top of my backpack unzipped, and instead of swinging it to my shoulder, I carry it gingerly in my arms.
Jason is already there when I arrive, his wheelchair parked next to my usual spot on the couch.
“Hi.”
I sit beside him, arranging my backpack on my lap.
“Thanks for the carrots.”
Did?
Guinea pig.
Like.
“They thought they were awesome.
In fact —”
I pull my backpack zipper all the way down.
A furry, eager face pops out.
What’s up?
And more to the point, what’s for lunch?
Pellets?
Carrots?
Ooh, is that carpeting down there?
“This is Nutmeg,” I say, cradling her against my chest.
“And she says, ‘Thanks for the carrots.’”
Nutmeg has chocolate-brown whorls of fur, glossy black eyes, and a friendly personality.
Of my two guinea pigs, I figured she’d be more tolerant of Jason’s sudden movements and noises.
Jason’s mouth hangs slack.
“Would you like to pet her?”
I ask.
“She might squeal, but she doesn’t bite.”
Awesome!
Nutmeg walks across Jason’s communication book.
She sniffs the air and poops on Van.
“Sorry!”
I jump to grab a tissue from the box on the receptionist’s desk.
“Nutmeg!
What kind of ‘hello’ is that?”
Gross!
Hello.
I clean Jason’s book.
“You can say that again.”
Gross!
Hello.
“Very funny.”
I reach into the front pocket of my backpack.
“Speaking of jokes, I made words for you.”
When I look up, Jason is stroking Nutmeg’s back with his fingertips.
I can see by the clench of Jason’s jaw how hard he’s struggling to control his movements to not frighten her.
When he brings his hand away, he’s trembling.
I pretend not to notice, afraid it’ll embarrass him.
“This first card is ‘joke.’
I thought you could use this word when you’re telling a joke or being sarcastic, to make sure the other person knows you’re kidding.”
Like.
Word.
“And this is ‘whatever.’”
I lean over to whisper, “It’s good for annoying your mother; at least, it has that effect on mine.”
I demonstrate, swinging my gaze to the ceiling.
“Whatever.”
Jason grins.
Good job.
Whatever.
I move Nutmeg over so I can slide the cards, word after word, in Jason’s book.
“And this is ‘secret.’
I thought sometimes we might want to talk without everyone hearing us.
When one of us taps ‘secret,’ we’ll switch to only using your cards.
Want to try it?”
Yes.
I look around for something to talk about.
Out the window a man hurries across the parking lot, his beagle on a leash.
“Do you see that guy?”
I ask, pointing.
“Let’s imagine who he is.”
The man dashes past the windows.
The beagle trots beside him, head down, sniffing.
Jason taps,
Late.
For.
Dog.
Show.
I give Jason a thumbs-up.
Good job.
My.
Turn.
I imagine the man and his dog as a perfect spy team, too ordinary to be noticed.
But Jason doesn’t have “spy” or “secret agent” or even “mysterious.”
Searching Jason’s book,
Man.
Is.
A.
Secret.
is the best I can do.
“I was imagining them a secret agent team,” I say finally.
“Maybe we can talk about music, instead?”
Yes.
I pull my CD player from the front pocket of my backpack.
“This is my favorite CD.”
Putting the headphones over Jason’s ears isn’t as awkward as last time, but I still fight the urge to shiver as his hair brushes my fingers and the backs of my hands.
Who?
Music.
I check his book, but of course, there’s no card.
“It’s —”
Jason taps,
Secret.
I clamp my hand over my mouth.
Don’t speak.
Catherine.
Make.
Word.
Who?
I don’t have a blank card, so I remove
Good-bye.
from Jason’s book and draw on the back.
It’s not a great picture of Avril Lavigne, but I’m in a hurry.
I don’t bother to slide it in Jason’s book, just lay the card on top.
It’s a temporary word, and he’ll need “good-bye” more.
Jason studies the picture, headphones on, music playing.
Avril Lavigne.
Stupid.
“What?”
I startle Nutmeg into skittering across Jason’s book.
Jason grins.
Joke.
I dip my head in my best imitation of Mom’s no-nonsense look.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
I lift one side of the headphones, so he’ll hear me better.
“My next card is going to say ‘you big jerk.’”
Secret.
I spoke again!
I bite my tongue to keep from using it and scan my word choices, lifting Nutmeg to see what she’s sitting on.
Jason taps,
Like.
Avril Lavigne.
Me, too.
is all I can find to say.
“HI, JASON!”
Jason scowls as I take the headphones off his ears.
Speech.
Woman.
Yell.
All the time.
He taps.
I.
Can’t.
Talk.
But.
I.
Hear.
Fine.
“HI, JASON!” his therapist repeats, louder.
“How’s his day been going?” she asks his mother.
Jason’s hand moves.
Loud.
Day.
“What a sweet little animal!” the speech therapist says.
“But what’s it doing?”
I glance at Nutmeg busy chewing the edge of
Good-bye.
I lunge for her.
“I’m sorry, Jason.”
He smiles.
od-bye.
Guinea pig.
“Could we stop at the mall on the way home?”
I ask Mom.
“I need card stock and a paper cutter.”
Jason needs so many words.
----------------------------------------------------------
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CHAPTER XI. SOMETIMES PEOPLE LAUGH WHEN THEY LIKE YOU. BUT SOMETIMES THEY LAUGH TO HURT YOU
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
On the ride home from the mall, Mom says, “I can’t believe Nutmeg ate Jason’s card.”
I laugh with her, stroking Nutmeg huddled against my stomach.
“She loves paper almost as much as carrots.”
I rub Nutmeg under her chin, right where she likes it best.
She hates the rumbling of the car, and only my touch stops her from shaking.
I peek into the bag at my feet: a paper cutter, white card stock, and a tin of forty-eight colored pencils, twelve more than the set I have.
“Thanks for the new colored pencils.”
“You’re welcome,” Mom says.
“I’ve seen you making words for Jason and you’ve been babysitting a lot lately.”
I can’t wait to get home and see those colors on the page: aquamarine, magenta, limepeel, peacock blue, and the others.
And I won’t have to limit using my crimson and indigo pencils anymore.
Now I have brand-new long ones.
“Wouldn’t you like to sign up for an art class?”
Mom says.
“I hate to see you spend your whole summer doing nothing.”
I meet her gaze in the rearview mirror.
“I’m doing things.”
“Mrs. Deschaine tells me there’s still time to register for yoga.
Wouldn’t that be fun?
Or one of the bus trips?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Leaning my head against the side of the open car window, I pull in a long breath of warm clam flats.
The tide is out, almost to the inner islands, and a lone man is digging clams.
Far away he looks like a doll bent over his rake, a bucket at his feet.
Beside me David is asleep, his head dropped over almost to his shoulder as if trying to cover one ear.
He gasps a tiny sound, wrinkling his nose, and I wonder if it’s the clam flats he’s smelling or if he’s dreaming.
But I don’t even know if David does dream — he’s never told me.
“David’s asleep,” I say.
Mom glances in the rearview mirror, and her cheeks lift to a smile.
“Stephanie must’ve tired him out.”
Almost home, I see Ryan playing basketball with Kristi in her driveway.
She waves, but that doesn’t untie the knot in my stomach.
David wakes, stretching his legs long as he can, still wearing his seat belt.
Kristi sets down the basketball and comes toward my yard, Ryan following.
“David,” I say, “go inside with —”
Too late.
Seat belt undone, he’s already out of the car, running to meet Kristi and Ryan.
“I’ll take Nutmeg and your things,” Mom says.
“Send David in if you go next door.”
“But, Mom!”
“He doesn’t have any friends — not like you have.”
She looks at me over her glasses.
“Surely you can let David stay a few minutes?”
I’m torn between all losing choices.
David will scream if I make him go inside now.
Mom’ll think I’m selfish if I beg her to take him with her.
Then there’s Ryan.
I cross my arms and pick the one “maybe” choice.
Maybe Ryan doesn’t want to look bad in front of Kristi any more than I do.
“I’ll be in my office,” Mom says.
Ryan leans against our fence and blows a bubble with his gum.
“Gum?”
David might not notice lots of things, but gum is something he never misses.
“Yeah,” it’s gum.
Ryan pulls a piece from the pack in his hand and gives it to Kristi.
He throws another at me.
My hand shoots up to catch the gum, before I can even decide if I want it.
“Can I have a turn?”
David asks Ryan.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
Kristi unwraps her gum.
“I went to OT with David.”
I drop the gum in my shorts pocket.
“Then I had to stop at the mall.”
“Can I have a turn?”
David asks again.
“If someone is holding something you want,
ask if you can have a
turn.
That’s the rule.”
What’s OT?
Kristi asks.
I don’t want to explain, but both Kristi and Ryan are watching me.
“Occupational therapy.
David works on writing, jumping, stuff like that.”
Ryan turns to David.
“You can’t jump?”
If we were at the bus stop, I’d already be yelling.
But Kristi’s forehead is creased in concern.
“Of course,” he can —
Jump!
Ryan says.
David jumps up and down.
“Stop it,” I tell him.
Up and down, David jumps, staring at the pack of gum in Ryan’s hand.
Up and down.
“Stop!”
I grab David’s arm, but he won’t stop jumping.
He lands hard on my foot as I’m reaching into my pocket, fumbling for my piece of gum.
“Ryan,” give him some gum,” Kristi says.
“It’s a miracle!”
Ryan holds a piece of gum out to David.
“You’re cured!”
But when David opens the wrapper, there’s nothing inside.
He head-butts his face into my shirt.
“It’s gone!”
“You jerk!”
I scream at Ryan so loud, David bursts into tears.
“Get out of my yard
and take your stupid gum with you.”
“It was just a joke.”
Ryan pulls another piece of gum from his pack, but David has his arms wrapped so tight around me, he can’t take it.
“He can have mine,” I snap.
“We should go,” Kris,” Ryan says.
“I have to get home.”
“I’m sorry,” Catherine,” Kristi says, her face white.
“I’ll call you,” okay?”
“Okay.”
I pull David up our porch steps and into the house, not stopping until the front door bangs closed behind me.
“MOM!”
Through the window, I watch Ryan gesturing, like he’s explaining something.
Probably telling Kristi all the bad things I’ve ever said to him and leaving out all the reasons why.
Kristi nods, and that tiny “yes” bleeds the fight out of me.
“Gum?”
David asks.
I study the hair on the top of his head.
How can his outside look so normal and his inside be so broken?
Like an apple, red perfect on the outside, but mushy brown at the first bite.
“Can I have a turn?”
I pull the gum out of my pocket and put it on the perfect top of David’s head.
He takes it off his hair.
I watch him unwrap it and stuff the gum in his mouth, dropping the wrapper on the floor.
“Trash goes in the garbage can,” I say.
“That’s the rule.”
“I’m sorry,” Frog.”
I turn away, but David’s hand holding the wrapper comes into my view.
“I’m sorry,” Frog?”
he says, panic edging his voice.
David gets scared when people don’t answer him, and the first tiny pinpricks poke me, little guilty jabs whispering, “He’s doing the best he can.”
And I brace myself for the ka-boom, sure to follow.
The full guilt avalanche, thundering down the mountainside, sweeping away houses, knocking me flat.
I take the wrapper.
“Okay,” Toad.”
“Catherine!”
Mom says.
“He needs to speak his own words, but he won’t if you keep encouraging him to echo.”
“You let him ruin everything!”
I say.
“It’s always about him!”
“He needs more from me.
Stop overreacting.”
I run to my room, slamming my bedroom door so hard Nutmeg and Cinnamon dart to the far corner of their cage.
Grabbing my sketchbook, I flip to a blank page and write words, bearing down so hard the letters cut into the page.
‘Unfair.’
‘Cruel.’
‘Hate.’
‘Ruined.’
‘Murky.’
‘Tease.’
‘Embarrassed.’
My hands tremble as I write.
They shake so much, it doesn’t look like my handwriting.
I try to rob the words of their weight by concentrating on the letters.
Nice, sharp T, round O.
‘TORN.’
But I’m not fooling myself.
I know the power these words hold.
I drop my forehead on my arms.
My door creaks, but my head is too heavy to lift.
“Go away,” I say.
A cassette comes into the dark space between my arm and face.
“I’m sorry,” Frog,” David says.
I do what will send him away.
Around and around and around, I spin the cassette on my finger.
David leans against my arm.
“I wish it had been Kristi without Ryan,” I say.
“Everything would’ve been different.
Or if Mom hadn’t —”
“You fixed it!”
David says.
I look down.
The tape is wound tight again.
As it plays, I watch David’s lips mouth the words, every pause, every word, perfectly in time with Arnold Lobel’s voice.
His fingers flicker, like blades of grass shivered by wind.
Fluttering their own silent dance.
“Who are you?”
I ask.
“I’m David,” he says.
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XII. OPEN CLOSET DOORS CAREFULLY. SOMETIMES THINGS FALL OUT
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
As Mom reads, I sketch the scene: Harry sneaking down the hallway on a midnight search.
I practice drawing perspective, angling the lines of the corridor narrower with each door to pass.
I imagine David turning the doorknobs, needing to know what’s on the other side.
Not even realizing the walls are squeezing in, tighter and tighter, the farther he walks.
I flip my page to save him.
Beside me, my word cards sit upside down on the waiting room couch, a tiny white pile.
At home I felt ready to share these words, but what if Jason tells me I’m being selfish to feel bad for me when David — and he — has it worse?
“And how much for shipping?” the receptionist asks, the phone to her ear.
“Is there any discount if we buy two boxes?”
I yank the zipper open on my backpack to find a blank card.
Maybe I have time to make new words before Jason gets here.
“That does seem a lot for one box of hearing-aid batteries,” the receptionist says.
I lay a card on my sketchbook, but before I can choose a word, Carol rushes through the clinic doorway, her baby balanced on her hip.
“And there was such a line of traffic on the bridge!” she says over Jason’s head to Mrs. Morehouse, behind her.
“Figures they’d have to raise it for a ship on the day I’m already late.”
Excuse.
I write the word, quick as I can.
“That’s always the way, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Morehouse pushes Jason’s chair across the carpet toward me, and Mom picks up her bookmark, leaving Harry still searching in the hallway.
Jason smiles, his hair curling along his forehead and above his ears, no longer dangling past his eyebrows.
“Your haircut looks good.”
I slide my words pile under my leg.
Too.
Short.
He nods toward the card in my lap.
What?
Word.
I frown, sliding
Excuse.
into an empty pocket of his communication book.
With no picture, the card looks rushed and cheap.
My fingers itch to pull it out again.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“The rest of the words I brought aren’t good words.”
Want.
Bad.
Words.
“Not that kind of bad,” I say, a grin sneaking out.
“I mean I was upset when I wrote them.
Maybe I could make double for next week?”
He shakes his head.
Want.
Those.
Words.
I glance to Mom, but she doesn’t look up from her magazine.
“And how soon can I expect delivery?” the receptionist asks into the phone.
“Maine.”
Jason stares at me, touching an empty pocket in his book, his finger tapping a soft drumbeat.
I pull a card from under my leg.
Not even looking at what it is, I reach across and slide the word into a pocket of Jason’s communication book.
Murky.
What?
Drawing.
Murky.
“What did I draw for murky?”
I ask.
He nods.
“I wrote that word for a feeling,” I say.
“But a feeling isn’t always drawable, so I drew the pond where I go swimming.
There’s a raft, and we dare each other to jump off and touch bottom.
You have to go way down and the water gets ice cold, but the worse part is when you touch.
The bottom’s all squishy with old pine needles and mud that sucks your feet down, right to your ankles.
By then you’re almost out of air, and you start thinking maybe this time the mud won’t let go and you won’t make it back up.
But the rule is that you have to bring back a handful of that murky stuff from the bottom to prove you made it all the way.”
I expect disgust on Jason’s face, but I see something else — wishing.
Is?
Fun.
I nod.
“Coming up makes it worth it.”
He sighs and I realize he’ll never feel the thrill of breaking the surface, fist raised, mud dripping down his wrist.
How can someone live a whole life and never feel that?
You.
Said.
You.
Write.
Murky.
For.
Feeling.
Jason taps.
What
happened?
I reach down to finger the word cards beside me.
“You know Kristi, my new neighbor I told you about?
On Tuesday she came over.
Which would’ve been great, except Ryan came with her.
He’s the boy I can’t stand.
David wanted some of Ryan’s gum, but Ryan teased him and everything was —”
Ruined.
“And the worst part,” I whisper so Mom can’t overhear, “David thinks Ryan’s his friend.
He doesn’t understand Ryan’s only making fun of him.”
I add the words fast.
Cruel.
Tease.
Embarrassed.
“And I get stuck making it better when it all goes wrong.”
Hate.
Unfair.
Beside me, little yellow-white sand grains cling to the wheel of Jason’s wheelchair.
I wipe them away a few at a time and watch them disappear, too tiny to see fall.
“So I felt like that.”
I touch
Murky.
“Stuck at the bottom of the pond, only this time the mud wasn’t letting go.”
Sometimes.
Jason hesitates, his fingers held in the air over his book.
I.
Wish.
Die.
“Don’t say that!”
Mrs. Morehouse startles.
“What’s wrong?”
I look from Jason’s finger on
Secret.
to Mrs. Morehouse sitting forward in her chair.
“He just surprised me, that’s all.”
I flip through his pages to find words.
I.
Would.
Miss.
You.
Jason smiles.
But.
Why?
Wish.
Die.
He shrugs.
No.
Word.
Frustrating.
Most.
I roll one last sand grain, perfect and sharp, between my finger and thumb.
I.
Am.
He turns the page in his book and points to
Incomplete.
“No you’re not.
But I know what you mean.
Sometimes I don’t feel whole, either.”
I find an empty pocket for
Torn.
“I feel like I’m ripping in half.
One half wanting to run away and be a regular person with my friends, but my other half is scared to leave David because he can’t make it on his own.”
Make.
Word.
Please.
I open my backpack and reach for a blank card.
“What do you need?”
Leg.
Go.
Very much.
Fast.
“Run?”
He nods and I scribble the letters, leaning forward, rushing across the top of the card.
Jason taps,
Sometimes.
Asleep.
I.
Dream.
I.
Can.
Run.
“Really?”
He nods.
How?
Does.
It.
Feel.
To.
Run.
“Strong.”
I struggle for the right words.
“And fast and in a weird way — weightless.
Like if you could go fast enough, you’d fly.
It’s an amazing, free feeling.”
I squeeze my toes, imagining the slap of my sneakers on the sidewalk.
“Is that how it feels in your dreams?”
No.
He looks away from me, his lips pressed together.
How could I bring these words to comfort myself when they put that hurt in his face?
“I could push you around the parking lot, really fast,” I joke.
“That’d be close to running.”
Jason taps,
Okay.
My smile freezes.
“Okay?”
Sure.
Why not?
Out the window, a man in a gray sweatshirt walks down the gift shop steps.
A woman opens the door to Elliot’s Antiques, and a family comes out of the restaurant, laughing.
Between the rows of parked cars, a seagull struts, looking side to side.
“Because there are cars out there, and tourists,” I say.
“And seagulls!”
You.
Can.
Watch out!!!
For.
Car.
Jason smiles.
Bird.
Will.
Move.
“I don’t think —”
Tell.
Mom.
I’ll be right back.
He stops his finger on
Please.
I pull in a shaky breath.
“Mrs. Morehouse?
Jason and I are going out in the parking lot for a few minutes.
We’re going for a run.”
I say the last part extra quiet.
“A what?”
She looks up from her magazine.
“A run.”
I step behind Jason’s wheelchair and push.
It rolls smoothly, easier than I expected across the carpet.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
Mrs. Morehouse asks as we pass her.
I can’t see what Jason taps, but she moves to open the door.
“Be careful, Catherine.”
She fixes me with a stern look.
I grip the wheelchair handles as we go down the ramp, my muscles tight as rope.
My palms feel slick, but I don’t dare relax even one finger, afraid he’ll roll from me.
At the bottom of the ramp, we both let go a relieved sigh.
I turn the wheelchair to face the parking lot.
“If this gets too wild, lift your hand and I’ll know to stop, okay?”
Jason nods.
Run.
I jog, more a fast walk than a run.
Jason’s head and shoulders shake as I bump him over cracks in the tar.
There’s so much to watch out for: holes and rocks and sand near the side of the building.
I stop beside the Dumpster.
“Sorry this is such a bouncy ride.
Are you sure you want to do this?”
Run.
Fast.
I start again, pushing Jason’s chair ahead of me.
I run past the fire hydrant and around the parking sign, keeping a lookout for cars pulling into or out of the parking lot.
Every few feet I shoot a lightning-quick glance at Jason’s hands.
He doesn’t pick them up, just holds tightly to his communication book.
So I make the first turn, running faster.
Clouds of seagulls take to the air in front of us, quarreling and shrieking.
Running hard now, my feet pound the tar, the flap of seagull wings as loud as my breath in my ears.
People are looking, but I try not to see them as real, just statues to run past.
At the final turn, I see Mrs. Morehouse standing in the entrance to the parking lot, her palm out like a traffic cop, keeping cars from pulling in.
I dash past the mailbox, the EXIT HERE sign, past Mrs. Morehouse.
Leaning into it, faster, harder, my feet slap the pavement, until it comes — that weightless, near-to-flying fastness.
“Do you feel it?”
I yell to the back of Jason’s head.
But if he answers, it’s only in his head.
I run all the way to the clinic ramp.
“How was that?”
Awesome!
I bend over to steady my breath.
When I straighten up, I see not only is everyone in the waiting room standing at the clinic windows watching us, but a family on the sidewalk is staring, shopping bags in hand.
And in several of the restaurant windows surrounding the parking lot, people have stopped eating to watch.
Most of them have their mouths dropped open.
Jason waves.
A man in one of the restaurants gives a thumbs-up, and everyone in the waiting room cheers, Carol holding her baby high so he can see.
“One more time?”
I ask Jason.
He grins.
Excellent!
And we’re off!
Past the windows and the Dumpster, around the parking sign.
Seagulls billowing into the air at every turn.
Strong, flying-fast, and free, we run.
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIII. SOMETIMES PEOPLE DON’T ANSWER BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T HEAR YOU. OTHER TIMES IT’S BECAUSE THEY DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
Though my legs are tired, I run faster up my driveway, trying to put every feeling into words for Jason’s cards.
Fierce, hard — my sneakers slap the tar — swift, brisk.
I take off across the lawn (squishy, springy), but as I round the far corner of the house, my feet slow to a walk.
Dad is kneeling in our garden, his back to me.
Watching him, I think of Kristi at her dad’s for the weekend and Melissa in California with hers.
Part of me wants to run up and hug Dad from behind or cover his eyes with my hands, like I did when I was little.
“Guess who?”
I’d say and he’d guess everyone but me — even though we both knew he was pretending because he’d give impossible answers like “Queen Elizabeth” or “Little Bo Peep.”
Before I can decide what to do, Dad spots me.
“Look, Cath.”
He twists a ripe tomato from the vine and holds it out to me.
“Isn’t this beautiful?
I’m sure not many people have ripe tomatoes yet.”
I walk over and take it from him.
“I bet we’re the first.”
Dad’s always proud we have tomatoes before anyone else.
That’s because he starts the seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill while snow’s still deep on the ground.
I study the tomato closely, drawing it in my mind.
It’s so smooth I’d need dense color, layered until not even a flicker of white paper showed through.
Alone, each of my colored pencils would be too bright, but blended, I could make it look real.
“People usually think tomatoes are red,” I say, “but they’re more red-orange with yellow-orange streaks.
And there’s even the smallest hint of purple here in the creases.”
“Purple?”
He looks over, his forehead lined with concern.
“Is it mold?”
It feels stupid to be jealous of a tomato, but sometimes I think Dad likes them more than he likes David and me.
“No, it’s just a shadow.”
“Oh, good.”
Dad turns a frilly leaf to check the underside.
Standing above him, I’m startled to see more gray hair than brown on the top of Dad’s head.
When did that happen?
“Have you heard from Melissa lately?”
he asks.
“I got a postcard last week.
Her father took her to Disneyland.”
I roll my tomato between my hands, the prickly stem poking into my palm.
“Maybe you and I could do something special, too?
Just us?”
He sighs like it’s the millionth thing I’ve asked him for today, instead of the first.
“You know we can’t afford something like that.”
“I don’t mean Disneyland.
Just something, me and you.”
Dad smiles, but it’s a worn-out smile that doesn’t light his eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey.
I’ve been dealing with doctors and customers and staff all week.
I really need to stay home today and be quiet a while.”
Watching him pick another tomato, I mouth words at the back of his head: “But what about me?”
“Maybe we could cook spaghetti tonight?”
He places his tomato with the others in his basket.
“These would make a great sauce.”
Before I can answer, Mom yells, “It’s three o’clock.”
Dad frowns at his watch.
“I’d really like to finish up here first,” he calls to her.
“I’m almost done.”
In the kitchen doorway, Mom crosses her arms over her stomach.
“David has his shoes on already, and I have paperwork to do for my meeting on Monday.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad shouts.
The sound of Mom slamming the kitchen door makes me cringe.
I’m torn between wanting to yell at him for choosing tomatoes over Mom and wanting to cry that he’s choosing David over me.
“Maybe we could go to the mall?”
“You heard Mom, I have to take David to the video store.
Do you want to come with us?”
“No, thanks.
Maybe we could do something afterward?”
“Someday soon,” he says.
“I promise.”
I drop my tomato in his basket with the others.
I know he’s just promising to stop me from asking again.
Walking away I turn once to check if Dad’s watching me go.
“Look for me.”
Staring at the back of his head, I imagine him turning left and right, searching.
He picks another tomato.