[Part 3] "Rules" by Cynthia Lord

by Yaroslav11T S. Tsuchiya Unsplash

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CHAPTER XIV. NO TOYS IN THE FISH TANK

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Monday morning my heart jumps to see the minivan in the driveway next door when I wake up.

I get dressed and eat my breakfast in little bites so if Kristi calls I won’t answer with a mouthful of cereal.

At nine o’clock the phone rings.

“I’ll get it!”

I yell in the direction of the kitchen where Mom and David are still having breakfast.

Please don’t let it be one of Mom’s clients.

Or Dad calling from work.

I wait two more rings so it won’t seem like I was waiting next to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Catherine?

It’s Kristi.”

I mouth “yes!”

to keep from squealing.

“Hi.”

“I was wondering if you want to do something?

I don’t have to be at the community center until noon.”

“Sure.

That’d be great.”

“Could we hang out at your house?

Mine is crazy today,” Kristi says.

“Mom forgot to tell me the plumber was coming, and now I can’t even have a shower.”

I’d like to say, “You can shower at my house” to be nice, but with David home, the embarrassment chances are too risky.

“Want to go swimming?”

“There’s a pool?”

“It’s a pond, but it’s not far.

There’s a raft and a little beach that anyone can use.”

She hesitates so long, I ask, “Are you still there?”

“I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

In my bedroom I tug open the top drawer of my bureau to pick a bathing suit.

The blue one-piece is good for swimming but not pretty.

I love the purple-and-white bikini that looks like batik, but the top slides when I dive.

So I’m left with the last suit: green with gold flowers, swimmable and not ugly.

Though I’m hurrying, I take a couple of seconds to stroke on cherry lip gloss and pink eye shadow, and comb my hair.

Maybe I’ll try my hair loose today, parted a little on the side.

With jean shorts over my bathing suit, my favorite beach towel draped around my neck, sunscreen lathered, and flip-flops on, I’m ready.

Mom’s still in the kitchen with David.

Kneeling beside a pile of wet paper towels, she’s cleaning a milk puddle from the linoleum.

At the table David swings his legs, eating his cereal.

“Kristi and I are going to the pond,” I say.

“I’ll be back by lunch.”

Mom looks up from the spilled milk.

“I’m heading to the store.

Would you like me to drop you girls off on the way?”

“No, thanks.

We’ll walk.”

She gathers the wet paper towels.

“David, when you’re finished, get your shoes on.

We need to go to the grocery store and buy something for lunch.”

He looks up from his bowl of cereal at the table, milk drops clinging to his chin.

“And a video?”

“Okay, but just this time.”

David bolts from his seat, pushing past me to drop his bowl in the sink.

“Watch out, Frog!”

he cries, bits of cereal splashing on the counter.

“Say ‘Excuse me, Catherine.’”

When he doesn’t say it, Mom gets up to block the doorway.

“Excuse me, Catherine,” she repeats, looking over her glasses at David.

The doorbell rings.

“See you later!”

I squeeze past David and under Mom’s arm.

Though my name’s part of the conversation, it’s got nothing to do with me.

I race down the hallway to the front door, but as soon as I see Kristi, I wish I’d picked the purple-and-white bikini.

She looks pretty in a long T-shirt and sandals, her hair hanging over her shoulder in a single braid.

“Can I borrow a beach towel?”

she asks.

“I couldn’t find mine.”

“Sure, I’ll go grab one.”

When I come back to the living room with my second-favorite beach towel, Kristi giggles.

“There’s a duck in your fish tank.”

Behind her, the aquarium cover juts out at a crooked angle.

In the tank David’s rubber duck bobs along the surface, a goldfish mouthing his tail.

“Come on.”

I fake a smile, handing her the towel.

“Let’s go.”

Outside the air smells summery, of mown grass and warm tar, and from somewhere high in the trees I hear a woodpecker rapping.

David is gone with Mom and I’m free, walking down the road with Kristi.

“I’ve never been swimming in a pond,” Kristi says, “only in pools and the ocean.”

“It’s fun.”

I make sure to keep in step with Kristi.

“Much warmer than the ocean — at least in Maine.

It’s gooey at the bottom when you’re out a ways, but that’s only old pine needles and leaves.

Once you get in, you probably won’t notice a big difference from a pool.”

She doesn’t look so sure.

Approaching the corner, I can’t believe how ordinary the bus stop looks in the summer, only another bend of sidewalk.

Kristi slows, staring at Ryan’s empty yard.

Was I her second choice?

“Are there fish in here?”

Kristi asks, kicking her sandals off on the sand.

I follow her gaze out across the pond to the fringe of pine and white birch trees on the other shore.

“Only minnows come near the shore.”

On our side of the pond there’s a strip of sandy beach, but the far side has a steep, scooped-out bank, tangled with bushes and the roots of trees.

“Once I overheard Ryan tell someone that there’s a big fish that lives under the raft,” I say, still smarting from Kristi’s long look at his house.

“But I’ve never seen it, so he might be lying.”

Kristi wraps her fingers around her braid.

“Is it deep?”

“Over my head, but not so deep I can’t swim down and touch.

Sometimes we dare each other to bring back muck from the bottom.”

Her knuckles whiten on her braid.

“But we don’t have to do that,” I say.

“Good.”

She walks to the shore, pulling off her T-shirt.

Seeing her candy-red bikini, I wish again I’d worn my purple-and-white one, even if I had to hold the top when I dove.

I undo my shorts.

“I like your bathing suit.”

“I wanted to wear the new one my aunt gave me.

But I think it’s with my laundry at Dad’s.”

Kristi points her foot, skimming the water with her toes.

Standing in the pond, my ankles look crooked, cut by the water’s surface.

I study the waterline’s ripple of distortion, wanting to capture it in my sketchbook.

“That’s a bad part of living in two places.”

Kristi shudders, stepping into the pond with me.

“I never have what I need at the right house.

And Mom doesn’t get it.

This morning she kept saying, ‘Just wear another bathing suit.’ like it didn’t matter.”

Watching her adjust the straps of her bikini top, I want to tell her I know how it feels to be split down the middle, too.

Pulled between the regular world of school and friends, and David’s world where none of the same things matter.

And how I don’t belong completely in either world, but —

When someone is upset, it’s not a good time to bring up your own problems.

Kristi takes a step farther into the water.

“I hate this bathing suit.

The straps are always falling down.”

I’m in water to my knees now.

“I know what you mean.

The top of my favorite bikini doesn’t fit perfect, and it slides.

It’s never shown anything, but …”

Kristi smiles.

“I had a bathing suit like that once.

It drove me crazy.”

Stepping deeper, the cold tingles my thighs.

I rub the goose bumps on my arms.

“It’s always chilly at first, but you’ll get used to it.

I promise.”

“Catherine, I’m sorry about the other day with the gum.”

I turn, but she’s not looking at me.

Chin down, Kristi skims her fingertips across the surface of the water.

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“David doesn’t get jokes sometimes.”

The water feels warmer on my legs and I take another step.

“Ryan didn’t mean to upset him.

He told me so.”

He didn’t mean to upset you.

The tiny waves created from Kristi’s hands moving the water make a freezing tickle on my stomach.

“He said —”

“The bottom gets gooey here,” I say to change the subject.

“If you dive in now, you don’t have to feel it.”

Plunging forward, my chest and shoulders scream with the shock of cold.

I go under, breaststroking, kicking hard, until my lungs ache and I can’t stay under one second more.

Breaking the surface, my hair is plastered to my face.

I tread water, pushing it away.

Kristi stands in the shallows, her hands tracing across the pond’s surface.

“Come on,” I say.

“It’s not bad once you get in.”

She takes a step.

“Are you kidding?

It’s freezing.”

“Not once you get used to it.

I’ll meet you at the raft.”

I love swimming in water over my head, cold emptiness under my feet, those sudden warm spots or icy underwater springs.

Almost to the raft, I flip to my back and give in to the lightness of floating.

Held by the water, I watch the blue sky, waiting for Kristi to catch up.

This is what I wished for — a next-door friend I could just come and go with.

She’s out of breath when she reaches me.

At the ladder I grip the sides and swing my feet up to the bottom rung.

Water showers off me as I climb.

“About that big fish?”

Kristi says, swimming closer.

“What kind is it?”

The air makes me shiver.

I sit on the raft and wrap my arms around my knees.

“It’s probably just an eel.”

Her eyes widen.

“I mean it’s probably not an eel.

Just a fish that looks like an eel.”

Kristi scrambles up the ladder.

“Yuck!”

I tuck my soaked hair behind my ears, wishing I had brought my hair band.

I know without asking, Kristi won’t want to touch the bottom.

She doesn’t even seem to like the top of the water much.

“Maybe we can lay out in the sun?”

We lie on our stomachs, and I peek between the slats to the darkness below.

The slight rocking of the raft, the slosh of little waves slapping the boards beneath, and the sun drying my back makes me yawn.

“I have to find my other suit.”

I look over to Kristi fixing her shoulder straps.

“But if it’s not at Dad’s, I don’t know where it is.”

She lays her chin on her arm.

“I wish Mom wouldn’t give up so easy.

It’s not like he had an affair.”

“Maybe they’re just taking a break for a little while?”

“Maybe.”

Kristi sighs.

“Do you think there really is a fish down there?”

The sadness in her voice makes me want to give her something, even if it’s only pretend.

“What if he is down there,” I say, “but he’s magic like in that fairy tale ‘The Fisherman and His Wife.’”

Kristi squeezes the end of her braid, drops of water falling off the tip, beading onto the raft.

“I don’t know that story.”

“This guy catches a big fish, except the fish says he is really a prince under a spell.

The man lets the fish go, but his wife sends him back to get a wish granted.”

“I’d scream if a fish started talking to me.”

“Me, too.

But what would you wish?”

“I’d wish my parents would get back together and be happy.”

She turns to me, her eyes worried.

“Do you think that’s two wishes or one?”

“One.”

“Your turn.

What’s your wish?”

I look down between the raft boards and imagine my always-wish, my fingers reaching through the perfect top of David’s head, finding the broken places in his brain, turning knobs or flipping switches.

All his autism wiped clean.

But saying that wish brings trouble.

“All people have a place,” my third-grade teacher said firmly when I drew a pretend older brother in the “My Family” picture to be put out in the hallway for open house.

I tried to tell her it was still David — but I wanted him to be able to play with me, and since I was fixing things, I made him older so he could stick up for me.

But I had to draw the picture over and visit the guidance counselor instead of going to music.

“Why is it in fairy tales, wishes always backfire?”

I ask.

If you want to change the subject, confuse the other person by going off on a wild, chatty detour.

“Like in ‘The Fisherman and His Wife,’” I continue.

“The fisherman’s wife keeps wanting bigger things, and by the end of the story —”

“Hey!”

a voice calls.

“Kris!”

I sit up so quick, I scrape my knees on the raft.

Ryan waves, standing on the sand at the shore.

Behind him his bike rests propped against a tree.

Kristi waves back.

“Hi!”

I hope she yells at him to go home, but she says, “Come on, Catherine,” and does a running dive, heading for shore.

I let her swim ahead of me.

I do the breast-stroke, dipping my face in and out of the water, so I don’t have to see Ryan standing on the sand waiting for us.

At the shore I cross my arms over my stomach and walk to my shorts and towel.

“Your mom said you were here,” Ryan says to Kristi.

“Did you ask Catherine yet?”

Ask me?

Kristi smiles.

“Catherine, you know how the community center’s holding a dance on Saturday?”

I nod.

“They asked me to help decorate,” Kristi says, “and I was hoping —”

“I could help you decorate,” I say, grabbing my towel off the sand.

“I’m good at making posters.”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d like to go?”

Kristi glances at Ryan.

“Me and Ryan and you and somebody.

It’ll be so much fun.

Please say yes.”

I wrap my towel around me, tight as I can.

“I don’t know anyone to ask.”

“Ask Jason,” Kristi says.

“That boy you drew.

This is your chance to ask him out.”

I open my mouth, but Ryan’s smirk makes me close it.

But that’s not the only reason I don’t tell.

“I don’t dance.”

I slide my feet into my flip-flops.

“I’ll teach you,” Kristi says.

“My dad works late a lot so I don’t think I could get a ride.”

“My mom can drop us off and pick us up.”

On the walk home, Kristi has an answer for every one of my can’ts.

She’ll even loan me clothes and do my hair.

“Ask him,” she says.

By the time she’s heading up her driveway, Kristi has cornered me into a stuttered, “Hmm.

I’ll think about it.”

In my room I peel off my damp bathing suit and put on the first clothes I pull from my bureau, an old shirt and shorts that don’t match.

I comb wet snarls from my hair and watch Kristi’s minivan backing out of their driveway.

Did Kristi call me because she can’t go to the dance with Ryan unless I go, too?

The minivan disappears from view.

I turn to my bulletin board and the postcard from Disneyland tacked on the top.

I wish it wasn’t so expensive to call California.

I want to tell Melissa everything and hear her say, “It’s okay, Catherine.”

But it’d take too long to explain and maybe she’d be mad I cared so much about Kristi being my friend.

In my sketchbook I try to draw my ankles distorted by pond water, but they don’t look warped and interesting.

They look broken.

I write words in the white space beside the sketch, but after ‘pond’ and ‘icy’ the only ones that’ll come are: ‘guilty,’ ‘complicated,’ ‘hidden,’ and ‘weak.’

I close my sketchbook.

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CHAPTER XV. SOLVING ONE PROBLEM CAN CREATE ANOTHER

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I look over the top of my sketchbook at Jason’s mother standing alone.

Before I can ask where Jason is, she opens the door and he comes into the waiting room — on his own!

He has a new wheelchair with a joystick on the armrest.

His fingers circle the joystick, and the wheelchair whirrs past the front windows, across the carpet, right up beside me.

“Wow!”

I toss my sketchbook on the waiting room couch.

“How wonderful!”

Mom says.

“He never wanted a motorized chair before.”

Mrs. Morehouse smiles at Mom.

“But lately he wants to do lots of things for himself.

He’s even doing his hand exercises again.”

Jason reddens, flipping open his communication book.

“And since his birthday is this weekend,” Mrs. Morehouse continues, “his father and I knew this would be the perfect present for him.”

“This is cool.”

I lean close for a good look.

“How’s it work?”

Jason positions his hand on the joystick, and the chair surges — a foot forward, then back.

Catherine.

Walk.

Outside.

Me, too.

“You want to take a walk?

Outside?”

I glance at his mother.

“With me?”

“Take my cell phone.”

She opens her purse.

“Call here if you need help.

The phone number is on those business cards at the reception desk.”

The receptionist circles the phone number on the card.

But even with the number, the cell phone, two blank cards, and a pencil in my pocket, I don’t feel prepared.

What if I can’t help him?

Or he needs something, and I can’t understand him?

I hold the door open and on his fourth try, Jason makes the turn around the door frame.

All the way down the ramp, I hold my breath, repeating slow, slow in my head like a prayer, so he doesn’t go too fast and tip or fall.

At the bottom of the ramp, I let my breath go in a relieved whoosh.

“Where to?”

Clusters of people stand near the shops and the brick sidewalks look too bumpy and uneven for a wheelchair.

I wish I could take Jason to Elliot’s Antiques and show him all the bottles and old things, but there is a long flight of stairs, and the aisles are too narrow for a wheelchair.

Water.

Jason taps.

“You need a drink?”

Go.

To.

Water.

Between the buildings, waves glitter with sun diamonds.

I scan the route for problems: down the parking lot (watch out for broken tar and the sewer grate), cross the street (easy), go to the driveway at Otis’s Hardware and use the little ramp to the curb (a sharp turn), down the sidewalk in front of Coastal Marine Supply (looks good from here).

After that, smooth paths run all the way through the waterfront park (home free).

I glance back to the clinic.

Mom and Mrs. Morehouse wave from the window.

“Okay, but we can’t stay long.

Your mom will be mad if you miss speech.”

Whatever.

Speech.

I walk beside his wheelchair and imitate Speech Woman, “WELL, JASON!

I GUESS YOUR DAY STINKS A —”

Footsteps pound behind us, and two women jog by, one on each side of Jason and me.

One of the women gives Jason a soft-eyed pity look.

Watching the soles of their sneakers running away, I push my hands into my pockets, touching my pencil, the business card, and the flat-topped buttons of Jason’s mother’s cell phone.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to go so far.

As we reach the crosswalk, a car stops for us.

I stare at the curls of hair on the back of Jason’s neck as we cross the street.

An old couple stands at the curb, the woman hunting for something in her purse.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“We need the ramp.”

“Oh, sorry!”

The man glances at Jason’s legs.

They move on, the woman still searching her purse.

I walk ahead on the sidewalk, kicking away pinecones and rocks and sticks so his chair won’t get stuck on them.

When I turn back, Jason’s coming up behind me, his fingers resting in sharp angles on his communication book, his eyes fixed on the water.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I say.

He nods.

More than.

Awesome!

What?

“What word means more than awesome?”

Yes.

Looking across the sun-dazzled waves, I have no word.

“I think after ‘awesome,’ you’re done with words.”

Make.

Card.

More than.

Words.

Even though we’re blocking the sidewalk and people have to step on the grass to go around us, I take a blank card from my pocket and write ‘more than words’ across the top.

Searching for something to draw, not even the ocean seems enough.

No.

Picture.

In his book the card stands out against the others I’ve made, plain as a field of new snow.

“You’re right,” I say.

“This way it can be anything you imagine.”

The air smells fishy, a green-brown, deep-water smell.

I choose the path winding along the shore, leading to a row of red-painted benches facing the ocean.

Down the shoreline a fishing boat pulls up to the dock at the seafood restaurant, and a man in a long white apron rushes down the gangplank to meet the boat.

Side by side, Jason and I take up the whole path.

A girl bumps my arm rushing around us, walking two black poodles.

“Sorry,” she says over her shoulder.

I whisper to Jason, “She’s late for the dog show.”

Jason flashes me a grin.

“Maybe that bench by the wharf?”

Usually I love listening to the pilings creaking, purring boat motors, and the sharp key-ow of gulls, but today my ears are full of the sound of Jason’s wheelchair and the silence of people who suddenly stop talking as we pass.

A man meets my gaze.

He smiles but I can only nod back, unable to let go the clench of my teeth.

At the long town wharf, a seagull stands on twig legs, facing the wind, shaking his feathers dry.

He reaches around to preen his wing as a group of preschoolers leans over the wharf railing, dropping rocks off the side.

I hear snatches of voices as we come closer to the wharf.

“You don’t even need this, but it’ll make you feel better.”

Reaching down, a girl puts a bandage on a little boy’s elbow.

Her head is bowed but I know her hair, parted on the side, a strand separate from having been twirled.

I fall to one knee on the path and dip my head to peer between the slats of an empty bench.

“Was that boy in an accident?”

the child says, pointing at Jason.

“Did he get hurt?”

I watch Kristi startle, looking at Jason.

She turns away quickly and touches her index finger to the child’s lips.

“Shh.

It’s not polite to talk about people.”

Jason backs his wheelchair up the path toward me, and I lean so his chair is between Kristi and me.

He stops, struggling to look over his shoulder at me.

“I’m coming,” I say.

He taps, but I can’t see his communication book from the ground and I’m too scared to stand up.

My shoelace is tied but I hold the loops in my fingers, knowing when I let go, I’ll have to do something.

Why can’t I just stand up and say, “Hi, Kristi?”

“Okay, grab your partner’s hand, everyone,” a woman yells.

“Time to get back to the bus.”

I peek, enough to see Kristi take the child’s hand.

She follows the line of children, stuffing bandage wrappers in her shorts pocket.

I stand slowly.

“I’m all set.”

At the empty bench closest to the wharf, I sit on the very edge of the wooden seat and watch Kristi growing tinier the farther she walks down the pathway.

Jason taps, and I tear my focus away from Kristi passing the last streetlight at the edge of the park.

Catherine.

Pretty.

Today.

I nod.

“It’s a very pretty day.”

Jason touches my arm.

Catherine.

Pretty.

My neck feels prickly.

I rub it, looking down to a frill of seaweed, bits of rope, and a broken lobster trap caught between the huge rocks at the water’s edge.

What does he mean?

Is he being nice or telling me he likes me?

When things get confusing, make a joke.

“No.”

I cross my eyes at him.

“I’m a dork.”

Jason doesn’t smile.

“We should get back.

Speech Woman will be coming out to get you.”

But Jason doesn’t circle his fingers on the joystick.

He turns to a new page in his communication book.

My birthday party.

Do you want to come?

The cards sit alone on the page, new and homemade.

My birthday party.

has red and blue balloons and a chocolate-brown cake.

I don’t know why, but I feel jealous that his mom made him nicer cards than usual.

But that feeling mixes with sadness that he had to ask her to make these words so he could invite me to his party.

I tell myself it’s a simple invitation to a birthday party, not a date.

“Sure.

When’s your party?”

Saturday.

My breath catches.

“This Saturday?”

Jason nods.

Is?

Good.

“Yeah, it’s great!

No problem at all.”

Walking back to the clinic, a woman reading on the grass stares over the top of her book at Jason.

I stare back.

Even though I told Jason it was great that his party is Saturday, it’s more than great — it solves everything.

Almost.

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CHAPTER XVI. NO DANCING UNLESS I’M ALONE IN MY ROOM OR IT’S PITCH-BLACK DARK

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“Six!”

David calls as a gray pickup drives by on the road.

“And thirty-six minutes twenty-seven seconds.”

I wish I could just walk up Kristi’s porch steps and ring the doorbell like nothing happened today at the park.

But I can’t get my feet to move.

“Seven cars.”

David holds out his watch.

“And thirty-five minutes fifty-five seconds.”

“Remember the rule,” I say absently.

“Late doesn’t mean not coming.”

Beside me on the porch swing, David rocks, bobbling the swing.

When I first agreed to sit with David so Mom could call clients, I tried to draw, but David keeps jogging the swing out of rhythm, wobbling my pencil lines.

What’ll happen in September?

Will Kristi stand with me at the bus stop or with Ryan?

And what’ll happen when I don’t see Jason every week?

Will our friendship disappear?

The front door opens and Mom steps onto our porch.

“Catherine, Kristi’s on the phone.

David, let’s go in the backyard.”

The walk through the living room and down the hallway to the phone feels extra long.

Did Kristi see me at the park?

“Hi, it’s Kristi,” she says when I pick up the phone.

“I just got home from the day camp, and I signed up to make two posters to use at the dance.

Want to help?”

“Sure.”

I twist the phone cord around my finger.

“Um, about the dance —”

“Did you ask Jason?”

I twist the cord tighter, my fingertip turning purple with backed-up blood.

“We can’t come to the dance.

Jason invited me to his birthday party that same day.”

“His birthday party?”

“Yeah, he’s having a birthday party on Saturday.”

“How about after the party?”

“I really can’t,” I say, my finger throbbing.

Kristi exhales loud and long in my ear.

“Will you still help me make posters?

I promised to make two big ones.”

“Sure.”

I untwist the phone cord.

“Let’s make them at your house.

Mom’s taking a nap.”

I check out the window for David.

He’s swinging hard on the wooden swing set Dad made him.

Mom rests against the slide, her cell phone to her ear.

Leaning way back, David laughs, his eyes scrunched shut as he pumps his legs.

I can’t stand that feeling — free-falling through the sky with my eyes closed — but David loves it.

“Come on over.”

In my room I collect markers, pencils, my ruler, paints, and brushes, until Kristi arrives.

Her blank, white poster board reminds me of Jason’s cards, only huge.

“We need one sign for the admission desk and one for the refreshment stand.”

Kristi lays the poster board on my checkered rug.

“Which one do you want to make?”

I shrug.

“I’ll make the one for the admission desk.”

“It needs to say ‘dance’ and how much it costs,” Kristi says.

Kneeling in front of the poster board, there’s so much whiteness, I’m tempted to find a soft-lead pencil and draw tiny footprints, maybe two sets, walking through a windswept field of snow.

My marker squeaks as I write each huge red letter: D tipping forward, A leaning back, N shivery, C stretched tall, and the lines of E poking out at funny angles, the word itself dancing.

I begin a border of fireworks exploding around the edges of the poster.

Awesome fireworks.

“You’re a good artist,” Kristi says, grimacing at her pillow-fat letters spelling “Refreshments.”

R is big, but each letter after is a little smaller, like if the word kept going and going, it’d disappear.

“Maybe if you color them in?”

She picks up a yellow marker.

“I think I need another color on these fireworks.”

I show her my poster.

“What do you think?”

“You didn’t use green.”

Kristi hands me the marker.

“I still wish you were coming to the dance.”

“It’s better since I don’t dance — in fact, I have a rule against it.

No dancing unless I’m alone in my room or it’s pitch-black dark.”

Kristi huffs.

“That’s a dumb —”

My door bangs open.

For a change I’m glad to see David standing there, his face flushed from swinging.

“David, do you like to dance?”

Kristi stands up.

Holding the green marker, I look between David waiting in my doorway and Kristi choosing a CD from my shelf.

“Let’s show Catherine how.”

“Don’t.”

I scramble to my feet.

“He’ll step on the posters.”

But Kristi starts my Avril Lavigne CD.

“Come on, David.”

She shimmies her body, elbows bent, her hair swinging.

“Let’s dance.”

When David dances, it’s from his heart, from the inside out.

Jumping around my room in an all-over wiggly dance, feet kicking, he steps on markers.

Cinnamon and Nutmeg start squealing.

“Quiet, pigs!”

David claps his hands over his ears.

“Stop it!”

I snatch the posters off the floor as his heel snaps my ruler in half.

Stumbling across the room to my CD player, I wince as markers jab my bare feet.

I turn the music off.

“Why’d you do that?”

Kristi asks.

As I lay the posters back on the floor, I hear a car door slam outside.

David is gone from my room so fast my calendar flutters in the breeze he makes running past.

“Ready to go, sport?”

I hear Dad call — late again.

“You’re no fun.”

Kristi flops back onto my rug.

Behind my eyes, I feel the sizzle of tears.

I want to be fun, but — “I don’t like when people make David look stupid.”

“I asked him to dance.

How is that making him look stupid?

He liked it, didn’t he?”

Her marker squeaks, scribbling hard strokes.

Kneeling beside her, I uncap the green marker.

“Did your mom say you can only go to the dance with Ryan if I go, too?”

“I thought you said you couldn’t go.”

“I can’t.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” she says, not looking at me.

We finish our posters, barely talking.

Green ruins my fireworks.

I trace the lines and bursts, wishing there were a way to go backward and make them what I wanted them to be.

----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XVII. NOT EVERYTHING WORTH KEEPING HAS TO BE USEFUL

----------------------------------------------------------

I open the door that says ELLIOT’S ANTIQUES, tucked between the two storefronts, and climb the wide staircase.

I love this place: the jumble of old, glittery broaches in the glass case, the worn pots and dishes and frayed baskets on the bookshelves.

I can’t help stopping at the display of old bottles.

If I had lots of money, I’d buy that ruby one for my bedroom windowsill.

With sunlight shining through, I bet it’s beautiful.

“Can I help you?”

Elliot stands up, behind his desk.

His desktop is buried with piles of papers and used books.

Elliot is thin and old and always stooped, like he got tired of having to duck his head, so he does it always now.

“I’m looking for a guitar.”

I knew I couldn’t afford a new one at a department store or music store, and I don’t know if I can even afford an Elliot guitar, but I have to find out.

He steps away from his desk and over boxes to reach me in the aisle.

“I have a couple.”

He adjusts his glasses on his sharp nose.

I follow him through the maze of old chairs and tables covered with tools to the instruments.

There’s a saxophone in an open case, looking dull against the black velvet.

An organ is pushed against the wall, and next to that are three snare drums stacked one on top of the other.

Four guitars rest against the side of the drums.

Elliot shows them to me, and I can almost afford the cheapest acoustic one.

It’s scratched and dusty, which is good news for me.

Most places the price is the price, but sometimes Elliot will “take an offer,” especially if it’s something he’s had a long time and would like to get rid of.

I show him my money.

“That’s all I have.”

“All right,” he says, and I own a guitar.

Carrying it down the stairs, I worry that Jason will see me in the parking lot with the guitar, so I race to our car and quickly put it in the backseat.

In the waiting room, I take out the words I made: Seagull.

Wharf.

Park.

Sailboat.

Pathway.

Bench.

Together.

I made these cards extra special, the pictures detailed and beautiful.

I want to remember the good parts of our walk, not the part with me on the ground, hiding from Kristi, hoping Jason won’t notice.

When they arrive, Mrs. Morehouse looks to Jason’s finger stabbing his communication book.

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me, young man!”

Jason whirrs up beside me.

Hi.

Catherine.

Time.

1:00.

My birthday party.

“Great!

I’ll be there.”

I reach toward an empty pocket in his communication book with

Seagull.

but Jason grabs my arm to stop me.

Your.

Brother.

Can.

Come.

“To your party?”

David would love to go, but it’ll be harder for me if he does.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

He’ll want to watch your TV, and he’ll need to know if your cellar door’s closed, and —”

OK.

With.

Me.

Jason looks like he means it, so I suggest, “Maybe he could come at the end and have a piece of cake?”

Jason nods.

Your.

Neighbor.

Friend.

Can.

Come.

Too.

“I’m sure Kristi’s busy with Ryan on Saturday, but thanks for inviting her.”

I show him my cards.

“Look, I made you words from the park.”

Awesome!

He smiles.

Mom.

Bought.

New.

Book.

For.

More.

Words.

I put

Seagull.

in a pocket.

“That’s good, because you’re almost out of room in this one.”

In fact, by the time I’m done,

Together.

has to go on the final page of his communication book.

It sits by itself, a picture of the bench with two people sitting on it.

Where?

Wheelchair.

Jason pulls his brows together.

“I imagined you without it.

Like in your dream where you can run.”

Want.

Wheelchair.

In.

Picture.

“I just thought —”

Take.

It.

Out.

Jason looks away, frowning.

I remove the card.

“I remembered your dream.

I thought you might like that.”

“Is everything all right?”

Mrs. Morehouse asks.

I look over to see her staring at us.

“Jason?”

she asks.

“Do you need something?”

He puts his hand over the wheelchair joystick and whirrs through the waiting room, down the corridor.

“I don’t think Jennifer’s ready for you,” Mrs. Morehouse calls.

“She usually comes out to get you.”

I feel everyone looking at me.

I slide

Together.

under my leg to hide it.

“Catherine?”

Mom asks.

“What happened?”

Ignoring Mom, I pick up my sketchbook and turn to my rule collection.

But I don’t know what to write.

----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XVIII. PANTLESS BROTHERS ARE NOT MY PROBLEM

----------------------------------------------------------

On Saturday Mom parks our car in front of a sprawling modern house with tall windows and a long wooden ramp leading to the front door.

I’m not sure I can do this.

I glance to the rearview mirror and see Mom’s eyes looking at me.

“Save a piece of cake?”

David flickers his fingers beside me in the car.

“At four o’clock.”

I catch his hand and hold it still so he’ll pay attention.

“Here are your rules.”

I pass him a sheet of paper.

David reads aloud, “‘Chew with your mouth closed.

Don’t open or close doors at other people’s houses.

Don’t look in their refrigerator or turn on their TV.

Use a fork for cake, not your fingers.’”

“Catherine, I’ll watch him,” Mom says.

“Don’t worry.”

Getting out of the car, I’m tempted to yell, “Oh, yeah?

Like you watched him at Melissa’s?”

but I have bigger worries.

Walking to the ramp, I clutch the bag of fancy jelly beans, the birthday card I painted with watercolors of guinea pigs eating cake (“Pig Out on Your Birthday!”), and the guitar wrapped in two white plastic trash bags, a huge red bow tied around the neck.

It was the best wrapping I could come up with for something so big.

My pulse beats with my footsteps on the ramp, and as I get closer to Jason’s front door, I hear a thumping bass line and muted laughter.

I stab the doorbell.

Part of me wants to drop the guitar on the welcome mat and jump into the shrubs, but before I can move, the door opens.

I look up at a teenaged boy with familiar wavy reddish-brown hair.

“Hi,” he says.

“I’m Matt, Jason’s brother.”

“I’m Catherine.”

“Oh, you’re Catherine?”

He grins, raising one eyebrow.

“You’ve made Jason some cool cards.”

I blush.

Of course, everyone who talks to Jason sees my cards.

Why didn’t I ever think of that?

“Come in.

I’ll tell Jason you’re here.”

The living room is crowded with people.

Some adults and kids sit in chairs spread around the room, talking and laughing.

Others stand at the table drinking coffee and soda.

On the couch there’s a family with two little kids.

The mother smiles at me and I smile back.

But I don’t see Jason anywhere.

I hold the guitar at my side so it’s less noticeable.

“Catherine!”

Mrs. Morehouse comes toward me.

“Welcome.

There’s pizza in the kitchen.

Grab a plate and make yourself at home.

Matt, we could use a few more chairs.

Would you get the ones off the back porch?”

She’s wearing a skirt and heels, and I kick myself for not putting on lip gloss or wearing something nicer than jean shorts and a T-shirt.

When she steps close, I say, “Did you know Jason invited my brother to come for a piece of cake?”

“Yes.

I’ll put a big piece aside for David.”

Glancing at the people talking and laughing loudly, and all those doorknobs David’ll want to turn, I worry coming was a mistake.

I add the card and jelly beans to the presents piled on the table and sit next to an older woman, sliding the guitar under my chair.

I should’ve brought Jason a music CD.

I swallow, imagining him opening a beat-up guitar in front of all these people.

“Hello,” the woman says, her hands smoothing the lap of her cotton dress.

“Isn’t this a lovely party?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you know where —?”

“Jason.”

Mrs. Morehouse calls.

“There you are.

Catherine’s here.”

In the doorway to the kitchen, Jason turns his head until he sees me.

I walk over, wishing he’d smile or frown or anything that’d tell me if he’s still mad.

But Jason’s mouth stays a flat line.

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“I left something on the present table for you, but I have another present, too.”

Thank you.

I tap,

Secret.

Jason moves his hands away so I can turn the pages of his communication book.

I tap,

I want.

Open.

Present.

I reach into my shorts pocket and pull out

Together.

On the card I drew myself sitting on the red bench and Jason beside me in his wheelchair.

“I’m sorry.”

Jason smiles.

Me, too.

Come.

With.

Me.

He gestures to the hallway, and I slide the guitar out from under the chair.

Following him, I hold the guitar behind my back, counting four doors for David to open before Jason goes through a doorway.

A shiver passes between my shoulder blades.

Though there’s a houseful of people down the hall, it feels sneaky and wrong to step into a boy’s bedroom.

On the wall over Jason’s bed, between two baseball posters, is my drawing of Kristi’s house.

And in front of the window is an electric piano.

“Is that your piano?”

I ask.

He nods and turns the page in his communication book.

Play.

Bad.

But.

Like.

It.

“I’d love to hear you play.”

I bring the guitar out from behind my back.

“Sorry about the wrapping, but I couldn’t really disguise it.”

I untie the bow, and he pulls away the trash-bag wrapping.

Nobody’d mistake the guitar for new, but I cleaned it until it shone.

“Mom took it to the music store and they put new strings on and tuned it,” I say.

“That part’s a present from David, but the guitar’s from me.”

He smiles wide.

Thank you.

Catherine.

Perfect.

Guitar.

“You’re welcome.”

I lay it across his wheelchair and he traces his fingers across the strings.

It sounds rich and mysterious, lingering in the air even after his hand moves away.

Dazzling!

He gestures for me to put his guitar on his bed.

I take the guitar from him and set it on his pillow.

Behind me, I hear Jason cross the room to the window.

Music startles me.

I spin to see Jason’s shoulders bowed forward, his hands reaching over his wheelchair tray to the keyboard.

I walk over to look closer at his fingers.

Bent nearly double, his fingers touch the keys much like he touches his cards, one at a time.

It’s a simple song, spare and haunting.

“That’s beautiful.”

My.

Own.

Music.

“Jason?”

a voice calls.

I turn.

His mother stands in the doorway, smiling.

“Grandpa needs to leave soon, so let’s do your cake now.”

Jason backs up and turns for the hallway.

I sweep a last look across the piano, the guitar left on his pillow, the baseball posters, and my drawing of Kristi’s house.

Walking down the hallway, I hear people singing “Happy Birthday,” but I hum Jason’s song under their singing.

I want to remember it.

The cake is chocolate, my favorite, but I move the cake bits around on my plate, squeezing them flat with my fork.

Beside me on the couch, Jason’s elderly neighbor is going on about his problem with chipmunks in his cellar.

“They’re cute until they chew through your wires,” he says.

Mrs. Morehouse answers the doorbell.

“Thank you for inviting us.”

I hear Mom’s voice.

“David’s been looking forward to this all afternoon.”

“Now I don’t think about cute,” the man next to me says.

“I think about that electrician’s bill.”

Before I can greet Mom and David, David rushes past me.

“Cake?”

I keep David in my line of sight as he sits at the kitchen table — especially as Mrs. Morehouse shows Mom something out the window.

“How lovely,” Mom says.

“Are they hard to grow?

My husband is the gardener in our family.”

I stand up.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to the chipmunk man as I watch David slide his hand toward the platter of leftover cake.

“And, um, good luck.”

“Darn little pests.”

He turns to the woman on his other side.

“If you’ve got one, you’ve got a whole bunch.”

I hurry to the kitchen and drop my plate of cake in front of David.

“Use a fork,” I whisper, pressing mine into his hand.

“Not your fingers.”

Around me a woman rinses cups in the sink, and Matt scrapes crumbs from his plate into the trash.

A teenaged girl with braids brings a baby in, his mouth ringed brown with frosting.

“Can I have some extra napkins?”

she asks.

Jason comes up beside me.

Sorry.

Neighbor.

Talk.

All the time.

“No problem.

My old neighbor, Mrs. Bowman, used to talk a lot, too.”

Sorry.

Catherine.

New.

Neighbor.

Friend.

Can’t.

Come.

My birthday party.

“I’m sure Kristi would’ve had fun.”

I throw David a strict look as he picks a bite of cake off his plate with his fingers.

“But the community center dance is tonight, and she had to help decorate.”

Do you want to come?

Dance.

“No.

She’s going with Ryan.

I’m sure he doesn’t want me hanging around with them, any more than I want to be with him.”

David licks frosting off the side of his hand.

I pass him a napkin, but he wipes his mouth with it instead.

I mean.

Do you want to come?

Dance.

Me.

I look up from Jason’s book.

He’s watching my face, his eyes serious.

“I can’t.”

Why?

I stare at the word card with its big question mark.

Are?

You.

Embarrassed.

About.

Me.

“Of course not!”

I hear Jason pound his cards, but I can’t look.

I brush crumbs off David’s shirt into my cupped hand.

“I’m just a horrible dancer.

Terrible.

In fact, I’m so bad I even have a rule against it.

No dancing unless I’m alone in my room or it’s pitch-black dark.”

Jason makes a loud, rumbling sound.

RULE.

Stupid.

Excuse.

My breath catches.

Everyone in the kitchen has stopped to look at us, except David, who pushes back his chair.

“My rules aren’t stupid,” I say quietly, “or excuses.”

Yes.

Excuse.

Just.

Like.

Music.

He scowls.

And.

You.

Ramming the joystick forward, Jason whirrs out of the kitchen, past David opening a cupboard door.

“More cake?”

David asks as I pry his fingers off the door handle.

“We’re all done.”

Holding his arm, I pull him behind me.

“Excuse me,” I say, passing people.

“Sorry, gotta go.”

“Catherine?”

Mom asks.

“Is something wrong?”

I push open the door.

Tears spill down my cheeks as I run with David down the ramp.

The party’s over.

----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XIX. SOME PEOPLE THINK THEY KNOW WHO YOU ARE, WHEN REALLY THEY DON’T

----------------------------------------------------------

My head against the car window, I cross my legs and arms, folding the ache inside.

Beside me, David holds his hands over his ears.

“Did David do something to upset you?”

Mom asks.

Unbelievable!

I look up to the rearview mirror.

“You were supposed to watch him!

You promised!”

“I could see him,” she says.

“He wasn’t doing any harm.”

“He was opening doors!”

“So what?

He opened one door.”

Her eyes flash to mine in the mirror.

“For goodness’ sakes, Jason’s family understands.”

“Understands what?

That we’re as different as they are?

Is that supposed to make it okay?”

“Shh,” Mom says, her eyes moving to David.

I look at him, wishing he’d take his hands off his ears and say, “It’s going to be all right, Catherine.

Don’t worry,” or “I’ll try harder next time,” or even “I’m sorry.”

But he only sits, rocking gently, a faraway smile on his face.

“Do you want me to call Mrs. Morehouse and apologize?”

Mom asks.

“It’s too late.”

I turn to stare unfocused out the window, the side of the road becoming a sand-colored smear.

“Jason asked me to the community center dance.

When I said no, he asked if I was embarrassed about him.”

“Are you?”

Mom asks.

“No … well … the rest of the world isn’t like the clinic.

Other places, people stare.

Or they hurry away, and I know what they’re thinking.

‘Oh, isn’t that too bad,’ or ‘What’s wrong with that kid?’ or ‘Whew, I’m glad that’s not me.’

I get so sick of it.”

“Just because other people think something, that doesn’t make it true.”

Maybe there’s some truth in that, but it’s unsatisfying, bitter-tasting truth.

I glance at David.

“It doesn’t make it easy, either.”

“No, it doesn’t make it easy.”

David stops rocking and gives me a fleeting look.

“I’m sorry, Frog.”

For once, Mom doesn’t correct him.

********

At home Mom says she has to drop paperwork off at a few clients’ houses.

“You can both come or you can babysit David.”

“I’ll babysit.”

I’ve had enough of David at other people’s houses for one day.

I dump a puzzle on the living room floor, glad for the simple right and wrong of a single, perfect fit.

“Where’s the sky, Frog?”

David asks, beside me.

I hunt for sky-blue and cloud-white pieces.

First, the top-left corner, then another straight-edged piece of blue.

I hold up a cloud.

“I think this is next.”

David’s hand shoots out, grabs the piece from my fingers, and snaps it in place.

Piece by piece, the sky appears, a put-together line of blue and white.

Reaching the top-right corner, David hunts for the second row of pieces, sharp-pointed roofs and the tops of trees.

I leave him leaning over the puzzle, his hair falling forward as he picks up pieces and discards them, one after one.

In my room I open my sketchbook to the page with ‘guilty,’ ‘complicated,’ ‘hidden,’ and ‘weak.’

Out the window, Kristi’s driveway is empty, and I don’t even care.

I miss Melissa.

I miss how she goes swimming at the pond with me and isn’t afraid.

I miss how we build mazes and guinea-pig playgrounds on my floor for Cinnamon and Nutmeg.

I miss being myself with my friend and not having to try so hard.

If she were home, I could tell Melissa everything about Jason and Kristi and she wouldn’t laugh unless I did.

“Fix it?”

David stands behind me.

I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Next time, don’t forget to knock.”

I hold out my hand and feel a cassette dropped on my palm.

But when I look, there are two long lines of tape hanging down, snapped.

David folds my fingers around his cassette.

“You can fix it?”

“No.”

He puts his hand over his ears.

“Don’t worry.

You can fix it.”

“You don’t get it.

I can’t fix it!”

I throw the cassette.

It clangs, hitting the bottom of my trash can.

“Fix it!”

David screams.

“When someone is upset, it’s not a good time to bring up your own problems!”

I scream back.

“Why don’t you understand?

No toys in the fish tank!

Chew with your mouth closed!

Don’t open or close doors at other people’s houses!”

David drops to the floor and wraps his arms over his knees.

“Trash goes in the garbage can,” he says, between sobs.

“That’s the rule.”

He’s crying so hard, his whole body shakes.

I get David’s cassette from the trash, but it’s too broken.

“I can’t fix it.”

Tears fill my eyes.

I walk over and kneel beside him.

Circling his knees and shoulders with my arms, I lay my chin on David’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry, Toad.”

********

Each phone ring sounds like a long breath in my ear.

One ring-breath.

Please be home.

Beside me, David leans against my arm.

Two rings.

Please listen.

Three.

Please —

“Hello?”

“Hi.

This is Catherine.”

When Mrs. Morehouse doesn’t say anything, for a split second I think about hanging up, but somehow I squeeze the words around the lump in my throat.

“Can I talk to Jason?”

Mrs. Morehouse pauses.

“Just a minute.”

Waiting, my heart throbs: please, please, please.

“Catherine?”

Mrs. Morehouse says.

“He doesn’t want to come to the phone.”

“Would you tell him something for me?

Would you tell him I’m sorry, and I’d like to invite him to the dance tonight.”

She sighs.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.

Please tell him I really want him to come.”

I give her the details, even though she won’t even promise to tell him.

Hanging up, I say to David, “Now we’re calling Dad.”

The pharmacy worker who answers the phone tells me Dad’s busy, but I say it’s an emergency.

“Catherine!

What’s wrong?”

Dad asks.

“You need to come home,” I say.

“But on the way, you need to stop at the mall and buy a cassette of Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel.

It’s very important.

Are you writing this down?”

“Catherine, I have to —”

“We matter, too!”

I snap.

“You need to buy Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel and a new cassette player and come home now.”

“Of course you matter, just give me a few —”

I hang up.

After changing into my favorite jean skirt and black tank top, I sit on the front porch with David, brushing my hair and watching the road.

Twenty-three cars later, Dad drives in the driveway.

“Come on, David.”

I take his hand.

“I’m going to a dance.”

----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XX. LATE DOESN’T MEAN NOT COMING

----------------------------------------------------------

I hear music.

The double doors to the town community center are propped wide open, a rectangle of yellow light spread on the sidewalk.

David jumps into the box of light.

He waves his fingers in excitement, watching his shadow.

“Catherine, next time, you need to plan better,” Dad says.

“I can’t leave work for something like this.”

I watch David jumping, his shadow hands fluttering.

“You take David to the video store every time he has OT.”

“That’s different.”

“Different because it’s him?”

Dad huffs, turning to me.

“David needs —”

“I know what he needs!

Believe me!”

I push my way past Dad, not even caring that I’m yelling.

“Maybe he does need you more than me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need anything at all!”

“Go inside?”

David asks as I step on his shadow.

“Ask Dad.

He’s in charge.”

My throat is raw.

Looking ahead to the community center, I’ve never felt so alone.

I hear footsteps coming up behind me.

“Cath?”

“I have to matter, too,” I say.

“As much as work and your garden and even as much as David.

I need you, too.”

I feel his arm go around me, turning me to face his shoulder.

“You matter,” Dad says, holding me.

Even though strangers glance at us as they pass, I hold him tight.

“Would you stay until I know if Jason’s coming?”

“Sure.”

My forehead pressed into the hollow of Dad’s shoulder, his shirt smells sickly sweet, like cherry cough syrup from the pharmacy, but I don’t care.

“And can I borrow some money?

I spent all mine on Jason’s present.”

Dad digs in his pocket with his free hand.

“Here’s extra so you can call me when you’re ready to come home.

I’ll come as soon as you call.”

“Go inside?”

David asks.

I nod.

“I’m ready.”

Inside the doors a woman looks up from the admission table.

The poster I made is taped on the wall behind her.

“Welcome,” she says, opening her cash box.

“Are you here for the dance?”

“My daughter is.

My son and I are only here until her friend comes.”

Dad pays for all of us, but David doesn’t want his hand stamped.

“Watch.

It doesn’t hurt.”

I hold my hand out and the lady says, “Would you like a flower or a frog or a dragonfly?”

“A frog, please.”

She presses the stamp onto the back of my hand and I show David.

“Look, it’s Frog.”

David holds his hand out to me, and I turn it over so she can stamp the back.

“Something smells good,” Dad says.

“We have a bake sale going on, and there’s popcorn and soda.”

The woman points down the hall toward tables piled with brownies and cookies.

“Everything is fifty cents or a dollar, but you can’t bring food or drinks in the gym.”

“It’s the rule,” David says.

Ahead there’s a scatter of flyers on the bulletin board, and the doorway to the gym is surrounded with colored streamers and twinkly white Christmas lights.

Dad stops to talk to someone at a long table selling T-shirts with the community center logo on them, and I hear snips of the conversation: “lots of kids,” “lovely night,” “the pharmacy is good.”

Beside me David steps close to the lights, his fingers flickering at his sides, fast as moth wings.

“The lights are beautiful, aren’t they?”

I say.

“Like hundreds of stars.”

“Like stars,” David says.

“Make a wish, Frog.”

I close my eyes and reach in my skirt pocket, fingering the money Dad gave me.

From inside the gym, a song starts — a fast, wonderful, bursting-with-life song.

When I open my eyes, David’s staring at me, inches from my face.

Most people say if you tell a wish it won’t come true.

But I don’t think wishes work like that.

I don’t believe there’s some bad-tempered wish-fairy with a clipboard, checking off whether or not you’ve told.

Oops!

You told your wish.

No new bike for you!

But it’s a long shot I’ll get my wish, so even if there is a fairy in charge of telling, it won’t matter.

“I wish everyone had the same chances,” I say.

“Because it stinks a big one that they don’t.

What about you?

What did you wish for?”

“Grape soda.”

I can’t help smiling.

“You wished for grape soda?”

He doesn’t answer, and I pull my hand from my pocket.

Taking one of his fluttering hands, I wrap his fingers tightly around a dollar.

“Wish granted, Toad.”

He takes off running, and Dad runs after him.

I close my eyes and make a new wish.

I wish the refreshment stand has grape soda.

----------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXI. A REAL CONVERSATION TAKES TWO PEOPLE

----------------------------------------------------------

Alone on the bleachers I run my hands over my knees to wipe the sweat away.

In the half-lit gym, the white stripes on the floor and the basketball backboards almost glow.

My fingers long for a fat paintbrush to stroke color across the white backboards: bloodred, electric blue, tangerine — blistering colors.

But I have nothing to hold and nothing to do but wait.

I’ve checked all along the sides of the gym, across the dance floor, out in the hallway, even past the little offices holding sports equipment.

The lit clock above the EXIT sign barely moves, and I make deals with myself.

He’ll come when the minute hand is on the four.

The music blares.

I can’t hear my feet tap, but someone must’ve spilled a drink because my sandals catch on something sticky.

Worry twines in my chest, and I keep unsticking my feet, in case I need to run out to find Dad and tell him I want to go home, now.

I last saw him and David drinking grape sodas on the stairs.

Jason’ll come when the minute hand is on the six.

Watching kids dancing, I flicker my fingers on my knees.

Some of the dancers look goofy — one boy reminds me of David, his elbows bent sharply.

But there are so many kids, it doesn’t matter.

The other dancers make room for him.

I see kids from school I recognize, but no Kristi or Ryan.

My fingers trace a cut in the wood of the bleacher beside me, over and over.

I slide my fingers along the groove, feeling every bump.

Jason’ll come when the minute hand is on the eleven.

It’s hot inside the gym from all the kids, and I wish I could get a drink or step outside and breathe some cooler air, but I’m afraid I’ll miss Jason.

So I lean back, rest my elbows on the bleacher behind me, and look at the ceiling.

I imagine the beams gone, the roof pulled away, only the endless night sky above me, full of stars.

The song ends, and kids fill in the bleachers around me.

Some kids turn back to the dance floor as another song begins.

It hurts how life goes on, unknowing.

All these kids walking by, heading to the dance floor or toward the hallway.

Not even seeing me.

I watch a girl move toward the door.

In the bright light from the hallway, she darkens to a shadow, passing the outline of a wheelchair in the doorway.

“Sorry!

Excuse me!”

I step around knees and feet, trying not to push but wanting to shove past everyone.

“I have to get over there.”

As I come closer, Jason looks at me, eyes narrowing.

Mrs. Morehouse stands at his side.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

“I really wanted to talk to you.”

“I’ll be in the hall where it’s quieter,” Mrs. Morehouse says.

“Come get me if you need me.”

“Excuse me,” I call over and over to kids’ backs, making room for us to move down the quiet hallway outside the community center offices.

Through the windows, I see the dark outline of grape clusters of basketballs, stacks of pointed traffic cones, and a rack of hockey sticks.

Standing next to Jason, I don’t know what to say to get started.

“It’s a nice night out.”

Jason turns his wheelchair to leave.

“Wait!”

I reach into my skirt pocket and pull out my first word.

Complicated.

Jason lifts his eyebrows.

I kneel to be at his eye level.

“I see how kids stare at David and it hurts me, because I know what they’re thinking.

Or even worse, they don’t look at him, just around him, like he’s invisible.

It makes me mad, because it’s mean and it makes me invisible, too.”

Jason watches my face, but his hand moves to give me room to reach the last empty pockets of his communication book.

Hidden.

“I didn’t tell Kristi everything about you.

I didn’t tell her about your wheelchair or your communication book.

I didn’t know how she’d react.

I should’ve because you’re my friend, but it got harder and harder.”

I drop my gaze to the tiled floor.

“No, that’s an excuse, too.

The real truth is I was scared what she might think of me, not you.”

When I look up, Jason is staring toward the dark windows of the community center offices.

“You’re a good friend,” I say, “and I’ve been —”

Weak.

“Catherine?”

I knew this moment was coming, but I still feel caught red-handed.

Kristi hurries up the hall, wearing white jeans and a bright pink shirt.

“I thought you couldn’t come!

I’m so happy you changed your mind.”

Beside her, Ryan puts his hand on her arm.

I stand up.

“Jason, this is Ryan and my next-door neighbor, Kristi.”

Her smile slips.

“Hi.”

“Kristi, this is Jason.”

She glances from Ryan to me to Jason.

“Uh, happy birthday.”

Thank you.

Kristi looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

“Jason can’t talk so he uses these cards, and I’ve been making words for him.”

I smile at Jason.

“He’s my very good —”

I tap,

Friend.

She looks where I’m pointing, to the card of a girl’s hand waving.

Jason taps,

Catherine.

Talk.

About.

You.

All the time.

“Really?”

Kristi makes a hmm sound.

“She could’ve told me more about you.”

Ryan pulls Kristi’s arm.

“Come on, Kris.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I should’ve told you the truth.”

“Yeah,” she says flatly, not looking at me.

“You should’ve.

I’ll see you around.”

As they walk away, I open my hand to show Jason my last card.

“I have one more.”

He shakes his head.

Don’t.

Want.

It.

I fold

Guilty.

until it’s so small it won’t fold again.

Jason starts his wheelchair down the hall.

“Wait,” I say, rushing to catch up.

“Where are you going?”

Dance.

Do you want to come?

“But I don’t —”

Break.

Dance.

RULE.

Jason tips his head down, looking under his eyebrows at me, like he’s expecting me to blast off on a wild, chatty detour.

And a detour sits on my tongue like an airplane waiting on the runway.

All systems go, cleared for takeoff.

“All right.”

I follow him down the hallway and out across the dark gym floor to the very center where there’s a clearing in the kids.

Next to me a girl lifts her arms above her head.

One by one the other dancers join her, palms reaching upward, swaying back and forth.

Jason joins them, palms open.

Standing there, in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone, I lift my hands and reach for the ceiling, the sky, the stars.

And I dance.

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CHAPTER XXII. IF YOU NEED TO BORROW WORDS, ARNOLD LOBEL WROTE SOME GOOD ONES

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Before I climb into bed, I circle the date on my calendar when Melissa will be home.

I have so much to tell her, not the least of which is I danced with a boy who isn’t even related to me, and I liked it.

And on Tuesday, I’m not bringing my backpack to the clinic, only me.

If Jason needs a word I’ll make it, but I’ll wait for him to ask.

I lift my shade and imagine a beam flashing from Kristi’s dark window, counting dashes and dots.

A-r-e y-o-u t-h-e-r-e?

But there is no light.

Her window stays dark, only the streetlamps and the stars shine, white brightness.

The tiniest knock comes, and my door creaks open.

David stands framed in the light from the living room.

“No toys in the fish tank.”

I slide my slippers on and follow.

In the aquarium a toy wizard stands on the gravel, his wand raised, mid-spell.

Standing beside the castle, he’s so big only his pointy shoe would fit through the tiny castle door.

Oops!

Wrong spell!

And instead of a fierce dragon to slay, a huge, curious goldfish mouths the end of the wizard’s hat.

I can’t help but laugh.

“‘“What are you laughing at, Frog?”’”

David asks, worried lines cutting his forehead.

I touch the tiny frog stamp on his hand and show him mine.

‘“I am laughing at you, Toad,” said Frog, “because you do look funny in your bathing suit.”’”

David smiles.

‘“Of course I do,” said Toad.

Then he picked up his clothes and went home.’”

“The end.”

Tomorrow I’m going to tell Mom she has a point about David needing his own words, but other things matter, too.

Like sharing something small and special, just my brother and me.

Kneeling beside David, our arms touching, our faces reflect side by side, in the glass.

I let that be enough.

THE END.