Rules (7 page)

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.

Watching his therapist push Jason’s chair down the hallway, I hold Nutmeg against my chest, stroking her back with my fingertips. “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.

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.”

Unfairness punches me in the stomach. “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.