I sink back into the vinyl couch cushions, my sketchbook propped against my knees, listening to Mom’s voice changing, character to character.
There’s not much new to draw in the waiting room. The same yellowed awards cluster the walls, the same books spill off the bookshelf, and the same old toys are heaped in the toy basket. And there are only two people I haven’t already drawn: Jason and his mother.
I worry that glancing will turn into staring too easy with Jason, and I hate when people stare at David. But Jason’s mother fidgets — crossing her legs, picking up magazines, putting them down, smoothing her short, flipped-under, brown hair — so she’d be harder to draw.
Mom said Jason started coming to the clinic after Christmas, but the first time I saw him was February vacation. That day I didn’t know where to look, so I looked at his feet on his wheelchair footrests.
Maybe by drawing Jason, I could look at him easier.
Looking closer can make something beautiful.
Sometimes I can change how I feel about something by drawing it. Drawing makes me find the curves, the shadows, the ins and outs, and the beautiful parts. I solved my hating snakes by drawing their scales, tiny and silvery, overlapping and overlapping, until all I saw was how perfect they were. Can’t say I’d want a snake crawling across me, but I don’t have to run screaming to Dad every time I see a garden snake now.
“Should I go on?” Mom asks. “I could stop there.”
“No, keep reading.”
I turn to a clean page in my sketchbook and swoop a faint pencil line, beginning the outline of Jason’s head: over the top, down his temple and cheek, around the bumps of jaw and chin, and back to where my line began.
I don’t know what’s wrong with Jason, and it doesn’t seem polite to ask. Whatever it is, though, it’s something big. There’s a tray on Jason’s wheelchair, and on the tray is a communication book. At first Jason’s book seems like a big blue photograph album, but inside it’s full of word cards, not photographs. Jason can’t speak, but he turns the pages and touches the cards to tell his mother if he wants a drink, or has to use the bathroom, or is mad about something.
Today he’s mad — fighting mad. Jason slides his hand across his book, jabbing at cards. His fingers curl, clawlike, as his knuckle raps one word and another.
“Yes, I know they had a guitar,” Mrs. Morehouse says, fiddling with her earring. “But I told you, we didn’t have time to stop. If I had stopped, you’d have been late for speech!”
Jason stabs his book. I hope he has a “So what?” or a “Whatever!” card.
His hands twitch, and he makes rumbling-throat sounds, near to growling.
Mom shuts our book.
Jason’s jaw is a little crooked, not as perfect as I drew. But if I draw how it really is, it might look like I made a mistake.
Reddish brown waves of hair sweep over Jason’s brow. A few wayward strands dangle near his eyes. Hair’s my favorite thing to draw, but I only rough it in. Otherwise, I may not have time to finish before Jason’s speech therapist comes out to get him.
“What?” Jason’s mother asks.
I’ll draw his eyes downcast, looking at his book. That way they’ll be mostly lids, and it won’t matter that I don’t know what color they are.
“Girl don’t? What girl?”
Everything falls quiet. I glance up.
Mrs. Morehouse is staring at me. “Are you drawing my son?”
My pencil freezes, midstroke.
“Just because he can’t talk,” she says, “don’t assume he doesn’t mind!”
Everyone looks at me. My fingers move over my sketchbook, finding the corner. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, turning the page. It takes all my strength, every ounce, not to cry.
“A drink?” I hear Mrs. Morehouse say. “All right. Wait here.”
Mom reaches over, but I scoot down the couch, out of reach.
I pick up a lime-colored pencil and swish a tiny blade of grass on my page. One eyelash-curve of green, cutting all that white.
Footsteps pass me, but I don’t look up. I tick line after line, making grass.
“Oops,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “It’s only a little spill.”
I risk a peek. If that were David, he’d be wild to get those clothes off, but Jason sits there, a dark water spot spread on the front of his navy Red Sox shirt. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Or maybe he knows there isn’t another shirt. Or maybe he’s used to being wet. David wouldn’t care about any of those things. That shirt’d be off, faster than you could blink. And the pants, too — if any had spilled there and I didn’t remind him of the pants rule quick enough:
Keep your pants on! Unless Mom, Dad, or the doctor tells you to take them off.
Mom opens our book again. “Let’s see, where were we?”
“Harry was about to use his cloak.”
“That’s right.”
As she reads, I think how useful a cloak that made me invisible would be right now. If I had one, I’d throw it over my head and run out the door and across the parking lot and the street, all the way through the waterfront park to the wharf, and board the first boat I saw going somewhere, anywhere else.
Mom reads, the receptionist types at her computer, Mrs. Frost looks at a magazine, and the baby sleeps on Carol’s lap, his little fingers still clutching a pink plastic block.
“HI, JASON!”
Jason’s smiling speech therapist finally comes out to get him. I’m relieved to see her, even though Mom stops reading when she comes.
“How’s his day been going?” the therapist asks his mother.
“He wanted to stop at a yard sale,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “So, he’s upset.”
“Oh?” The therapist turns to Jason. “YOU WANTED” (hands pointing, pulling) “TO STOP” (one hand karate-chopping the other) “AT A YARD SALE?” (fingers flying, eyebrows arched in a question).
Jason scowls.
His therapist pouts, her finger tapping his communication book. “Sad.”
I swallow a giggle. Sad? Is she kidding? If I were Jason, I’d want cards that said: “Get out of my face!” and “Go away!” and “This stinks a big one!”
The therapist pushes Jason’s wheelchair down the corridor, and Mrs. Morehouse picks up her purse. “I have a couple of errands,” she tells the receptionist. “I’ll be right back.”
The bell above the clinic door jangles as she leaves. Through the window, I watch her cross the parking lot to her van. “What do you think Jason would do with a guitar?” I ask Mom.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe just having one would be enough.”
Watching the van’s red taillights, I wonder, Enough for what? But as the van pulls away, I close my eyes and make a wish. Please go back and buy that guitar.
In case Mom’s right.
“I didn’t mean to hurt Jason’s feelings. I was only sketching.”
“You could tell him that,” Mom says.
I cringe. “But he can’t answer me.”
“Maybe he’ll point to the answer in his book. Or maybe he’ll answer in his head.” Mom returns to reading, and I draw the front of a gray-shingled house, porch steps, and a front door with a doorbell. I reach for a blue-sky pencil, but pick up midnight black instead.
I hear a faraway David-shriek, and Mom stops reading to watch the corridor. But then it’s quiet, and I figure David gave in and did whatever Stephanie wanted.
My drawing takes shape under my hand: lemon for the stars, cream for the moon, pine for the trees along the fence, charcoal gray for the darkened windows, all but one.
When the clinic bell jangles again, I peek up long enough to see Jason’s mother isn’t holding a guitar.
“HERE WE ARE!”
The speech therapist pushes Jason’s wheelchair up beside me. “I saw you drive in,” she says to his mother. “He was so upset, we stopped early.”
Mom slides her elbow over in a “here’s your chance, Catherine” nudge. “Hi, Jason,” she says.
“How are you today?”
His head stays bowed, his chin almost touching his chest.
Mom’s question hangs in the air. Maybe Jason is answering in his head? Maybe he’s think-saying, “I’m fine, thank you.”
Or maybe, “Well, I’ve been better.”
Or maybe, he’s think-screaming, “I’m in this wheelchair, you idiot! How do you suppose I am?”
Whatever he’s thinking, his silence stings me. I lay my sketchbook on my lap. “I’m sorry about that guitar,” I tell the reddish brown waves of hair on Jason’s head. “I like music, too.”
His head snaps up and Jason stares hard — right into my eyes. His eyes are stunning, ice blue.
Mrs. Morehouse spins his chair toward the door, and Mom stands up to help.
“It’s okay.” Mrs. Morehouse holds the door open with her foot. “I can get it.”
I pick up my palest-yellow pencil and add a dot to my drawing, gleaming in a window. From the dot, I sweep down a shivering beam cutting the darkness. I imagine myself sitting on my bed, hugging my knees, counting Morse code dashes and dots.
A-r-e y-o-u t-h-e-r-e?
The bell jangles again. I look up to see Mrs. Morehouse in the doorway, watching me. She crosses her arms over her stomach.
Mrs. Frost drops her magazine and even the receptionist has stopped typing, her hands held above her keyboard like a conductor waiting to cue a symphony.
“Jason insisted I come back,” Mrs. Morehouse says, “and tell you he likes the picture you’re drawing.” She turns to leave.
I look out the window to Jason at the top of the ramp. “Wait!” Lifting my page, I pull gently so it’ll tear neatly. Colored pencils fall off my lap, scattering and rolling across the floor, but I don’t bother with them. “If he likes it, he can have it. Please tell him the dot in the window is a flashlight.”
His mother smiles. “I’ll tell him.”
I’m too embarrassed to watch her give Jason my picture, so I get down on my knees and hunt for colored pencils, some of which have rolled under the heater.
“That was kind of you, sweetheart,” Mom says.
I slump back on the couch. Though I move my orange pencil over a fresh page, I’m only making lines. Too-busy-to-talk lines. Leave-me-alone lines.
I bear down so hard, my pencil lead breaks.
“Sorry! Gotta go!” David runs through the waiting room, heading for the door to outside, his brown hair damp with sweat. Mom jumps up to block his way.
I flip to my rule collection and add:
If you want to get away with something, don’t announce it first.
On the ride home from the clinic, the rain comes. David holds his hands over his ears, blocking the tiny squeaks of the windshield wipers against the glass.
David hears everything extra loud, Stephanie says. Milk being poured, shopping carts clanging at the grocery store, my pet guinea pigs squealing, the school bus braking as it pulls up to the corner, and the whoosh of the bus door opening — all those things and a million more make David cover his ears, fast as lightning.
The last day of school should’ve been a happy day, but I can’t think of it without seeing David at the bus stop, clutching his umbrella, his head tipped way over to his shoulder to cover one ear, his hand covering the other. Ryan Deschaine said he’d steal David’s umbrella if he let go of it, and David believed him. I told him Ryan was joking, but that made it worse, because David laughed and laughed in that twisted position, and Ryan mimicked David, tipping his own head way over, laughing.
I got in trouble with the bus driver because she caught me shoving Ryan. We had to sit in the front seats so she could keep an eye on us, she said. On the ride to school, I added another rule to David’s list:
Sometimes people laugh when they like you. But sometimes they laugh to hurt you.
I hope David can learn that rule by September, when we have to go back to the bus stop.
“Maybe the family next door will be moving in when we get home.” I watch a heron hunting fish in the low-water area under the bridge. His feathers are dark, slick with rain. “The movers said five, but maybe they were wrong.”
“Maybe,” Mom says, “but our new neighbors might have a long drive, and there’s always last-minute things to do when you move.”
I try to hold my hope down, but it keeps popping up again. Until Mom turns the corner to our street and I see Ryan Deschaine getting on his bike, an orange newspaper bag slung on his shoulder, his curly black hair looking frizzy from the rain.
I let loose one hope, skyward: I hope he gets soaked.
David waves out the car window. “Hi, Ryan!”
“Don’t say ‘hi’ to him,” I tell David. “He’s not your friend.”
“Catherine!” Mom snaps, the reflection from her glasses flashing in the rearview mirror. “Don’t stop David from talking to people! Not after all the work we’ve done on initiating conversation.”
Part of me wants to tell her about Ryan, but she’ll call his mother or the bus office and make it worse for David next year. Mom doesn’t understand how not everyone is on David’s side.
“I ran into Ryan’s mom the other day and she was telling me all the fun things the community center is sponsoring for kids this summer,” Mom says. “Wouldn’t you like to sign up for something, Catherine?”
Why is it the minute kids have free time, parents want to fill it up?
“She said they’re having swimming lessons, tennis, yoga,” Mom continues. “They’re even sponsoring a few bus trips and a summer dance. Won’t that be fun?”
“I have a rule against dancing,” I tell her. “No dancing unless I’m alone in my room or it’s pitch-black dark.”
“Don’t be silly. I think it sounds wonderful.”
I want to say, “Then you do it,” but that’ll get me in trouble.
If you don’t want to do something, say, “Hmm. I’ll think about it” and maybe the asker will forget the whole bad idea.
“Hmm. I’ll think about it.” I lean forward, looking between the front seats, until I see the driveway next door, a long strip of rain-black tar, empty.
I fall back against my seat.
All afternoon I try to keep too busy to check my watch every fifteen minutes, but by four o’clock I can’t stand waiting in my room anymore. I take my sketchbook and head for the porch where there’s a good view of the neighbor’s driveway. As I open the front door, I hear Mom’s voice from somewhere down the hallway: “Please stop asking me, David! Dad’ll pick you up at five o’clock, and that’s the last time I’m saying it!”
I rush outside to our porch swing, worried Mom’s next words will be “Why don’t you find Catherine and see what she’s doing?”
I draw to the steady patter of rain on the roof and cars gushing through puddles on the road.
At quarter to five, a slow splashing makes me look up. A minivan passes through a puddle and into the driveway next door.
I pull my feet up onto the swing, watching over the top of my sketchbook. A woman gets out of the van and runs for the porch, her purse held over her short hair. From the passenger side, a girl climbs out. Tall with straight brown hair falling past her elbows, she’s not fat or skinny, a perfect between. She doesn’t run — just walks, like the rain doesn’t bother her at all.
Sitting here thinking about what happened with Jason and seeing Ryan, I figure today might be a bad-luck day, and I should let all that bad luck run out overnight before I try something else big. Plus, I haven’t baked anything yet and I want my introducing day to be perfect, not me standing on her porch, dripping wet, handing her soggy cookies.
The girl follows her mother inside without once looking over to my house.
Our front door opens. “Let’s go to the video store,” David says, holding his umbrella under his arm. He hops onto the swing with me, squiggling my pencil line. “Seven minutes.”
“Sometimes Dad’s late.”
Dad always has an excuse: traffic, last-minute
customers at the pharmacy who’ve run out of their prescriptions and can’t wait until morning, a salesman stopping by with drug samples. But I think even if things went just right, Dad would still be late. It’s part of him, like his brown hair or his glasses or his name tag and lab coat. I gave up expecting Dad to be on time years ago, but David thinks everything a person says is the truth.
Dad works all the extra hours he can, even on Saturdays, so Mom can afford to work part-time at home. She used to have an office downtown, but David got kicked out of day care, so now she runs her tax-preparation business from our spare bedroom. The good part of having Mom home is she’s around to talk to and can take me places, but the bad part is David has to come wherever we go, and sometimes I have to babysit while she meets with clients or makes phone calls.
She says it doesn’t sound professional when she has to put her hand over the phone and yell, “David! Put those pants back on!”
David checks his watch. “Six minutes and thirty-three seconds.”
In exactly six minutes and thirty-three seconds, there’s going to be a scene. I know it as sure as I know the window next door is open, and David’s scream will travel from my porch, across our yard, and through that open window.
A red sports car zooms by on the road, puddle-spraying our fence. “Let’s count cars,” I suggest. “There’s one.”
He glances up. It’s not easy to sidetrack David, especially when it involves the video store, but he does like to count cars.
A truck rolls by.
“Two!” Raising his arm, David holds it out so he can see both the road and his watch. “And five minutes six seconds.”
“Well, maybe five minutes.”
“Three cars! And four minutes fifty-eight seconds.”
I give up. We count cars: four, five, six.
And he counts minutes: three, two, one.
“Remember the rule.” I flip to the back of my sketchbook and show him.
Late doesn’t mean not coming.
Our new neighbor’s front door opens.
“Ten! Nine!” David shouts the seconds, like an announcer at a rocket launch.