Rules (13 page)

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.

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.

Cynthia Lord grew up next to a lake in rural New Hampshire. As a child, she loved to read and create stories. The earliest writing she remembers doing was a goofy song called “Ding Dong the Cherries Sing,” which she wrote at the age of four with her sister and forced everyone to listen to over and over. As Cynthia grew up, she wrote poems, newspaper articles, and stories.

As an adult, when Cynthia sat down to write her first children’s book, she knew it would be a middle-grade novel. As she recalls, “I remember being ten years old, lying on our pier, listening to the seagulls calling, and daydreaming about Borrowers and chocolate factories and secret gardens.”

A former teacher and bookseller, Cynthia still enjoys nature and reading a good book. And she hears plenty of seagulls at her home near the ocean in Maine, where she lives with her husband and two children. She says, “Though I have children of my own now, when I write it’s always for that daydreaming girl I used to be.”

Rules
, Cynthia’s first novel, was a Newbery Honor and Schneider Family Book Award winner and a
New York Times
bestseller. She is also the author of the critically acclaimed novel
Touch Blue
, and the picture books
Hot Rod Hamster
and
Happy Birthday, Hamster
. Visit her at
www.cynthialord.com
.

Q:
Where did the idea for
Rules
come from?

A:
I have two children, a daughter and a son, and my son has autism. One day when my daughter was about ten years old, she asked me, “Mom, how come I never see families like mine in books and on TV?” I didn’t know how to answer her, so I went looking for children’s books that included characters with severe special needs. I did find some, but most of the books I read seemed very sad to me. Sadness is part of living with someone with a severe disability, but it’s only one part. It can also be funny, inspiring, heartwarming, disappointing, frustrating—everything that it is to love
anyone
and to live in any family.

Q:
How much did you draw on your own family for this book? Are your kids anything like Catherine and David?

A:
The biggest elements in
Rules
are from my imagination. The characters are not my own family and the story itself isn’t true. Some of the small details in the book are real, though. My son used to repeat lines from books, and he loved Arnold Lobel’s stories. He also liked to drop things in our fish tank, which frustrated me. Then one day I realized I was the only person who minded (the fish loved having company!). It started me thinking about all those social “rules” we follow, sometimes without even knowing why. Catherine is more like me than my daughter. My daughter is an artist, though. So she was a big help when I was writing the scenes where Catherine is drawing.

Q:
What were you like as a child?

A:
I grew up in a house beside a lake in a small town in New Hampshire. As a child, I liked to go exploring on my bike. I also loved to play my clarinet in the school band (though I didn’t always like to practice!), imagine stories, teach my dog new tricks, go swimming with my friends, and read.

Q:
What is your writing process like? Do you have a special place or time of day?

A:
My writing day starts before dawn. I usually get up around four in the morning. That routine started when my children were small, because it was the one time I could depend on. Now I get up early, just because I love that time of day. It’s quiet and peaceful and I like to see the sun come up. I live in Maine near the coast, so in the summer, I open the window beside my desk, and I can smell the ocean. My dog gets up with me, and then he goes to sleep near my feet while I write. I also go to my local library to work sometimes in the afternoons.

Q:
What was your favorite part of writing
Rules?

A:
I loved so many parts, but writing the dialogue between the guinea pigs was especially fun.

Q:
How did Jason’s character come to you?

A:
My own son has had years of occupational and speech therapy appointments. One day, when I was waiting for him to finish his session, a boy and his mother came into the clinic waiting room. The boy used a wheelchair and a communication book, like Jason does. He and his mom were having an argument, and two things really struck me. First, I was surprised that someone
could
have an argument using a communication book. Second, I realized he could only use words that someone else had given him. I wondered if there were words he wished he had. That boy isn’t Jason (because I don’t know that boy), but that’s where his character began for me.

Q:
What do you do when you’re not writing
?

A:
I like to read, watch movies and TV, and walk beside the ocean. I spend a lot of time traveling and answering mail from readers, which is always fun. I also love to be home with my family and my dog.

Q:
One of Catherine’s rules for David is “Not everything worth keeping has to be useful.” What is your favorite possession?

A:
I have many special possessions, but one of my favorites is my Newbery Honor award. When I look at it, I know that dreams can come true.

Q:
Catherine has two guinea pigs, Nutmeg and Cinnamon, and then of course there are the family fish. Are there any pets at your house?

A:
I love animals, so we’ve had so many pets over the years. We’ve had hamsters, mice, guinea pigs, gerbils, fish, frogs, and dogs at our house. At the moment, we only have one dog. His name is Milo, and he’s half Pomeranian and half Maltese. He looks like a baby polar bear, because he’s all white, except for his black eyes and nose.

Q:
I hear you have a pretty extensive rubber duck collection. How and when did that start?

A:
I love
Rules’
cover. The first time I saw it, I thought it looked appealing and fun, but there was one problem. There was no rubber duck in my story. I thought to myself, “Kids will expect a duck in this book,” and so I traded one of the toys that David drops in the fish tank for a rubber duck right before
Rules
was published. Now, people give me ducks! I have duck pen holders, duck wall hangings, duck ornaments, duck toys, and lots of rubber ducks. I’ve discovered them on my signing table at events, floating in punch bowls, in my Christmas stocking, etc. It’s great fun!

A few ducks from Cynthia’s collection

Q:
What do you hope readers will take away from
Rules?

A:
First, I hope they will simply enjoy the story. But beyond that, I also hope that meeting David and Jason in
Rules
will help readers to have less fear and more understanding toward the people with disabilities in their own communities and schools.