Rules

  The girl steps onto her porch.

  “Eight! Seven!”

  I scramble to cover his mouth, but David jumps off the porch swing. A car’s coming. Please let it be Dad.

  “Six! Five!” David yells, and the girl next door glances our way. “Four! Three! Two! ONE!”

  I peek over, but the girl isn’t glancing now; she’s staring right at us.

  “Seven cars!” David screams as the car goes past. “‘“The whole world is covered with buttons, and not one of them is mine!”’”

  I jump up to stop his hands, flapping now like two fierce and angry birds.

  “Is he okay?” the girl calls. “I could help you look for it.”

  Look for it?

  “Do you need help finding his button?” she asks.

  “Oh! No, thanks!” I struggle to hold David down. The truth is, I wouldn’t know where to begin explaining, especially hollering from my porch to hers.

  Talking to David can be like a treasure hunt. You have to look underneath the words to figure out what he’s trying to say. It helps if you know his conversation rules:

  Don’t use two words when one will do.

  If you don’t have the words you need, borrow someone else’s.

  If you need to borrow words, Arnold Lobel wrote some good ones.

  That button line comes from a story in one of David’s favorite books, Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad Are Friends. In the story Toad keeps finding buttons — big ones, little ones, square ones — but none of the buttons he finds is the right button. Like none of the passing cars is Dad’s.

  But that would take too much explaining, and the girl is already going back inside her house.

  No cookies.

  No trading “hi” or “my name is.”

  No flashlight discussion or even a “nice to meet you.” Her first-ever words to me were, “Is he okay?”

  “I’ll pick you up at five o’clock,” David whispers. A tear gleams like a tiny pearl on David’s eyelashes.

  My grip on him softens. “Dad’s still coming,” I say. “Late doesn’t mean not coming.”

  But those words don’t help. So I reach over, wipe away his tear with the side of my thumb, and say the only words I know will calm him: “‘“Frog, you are looking quite green.”’”

  David sniffles. “‘“But I always look green,” said Frog. “I am a frog.”’”

  I pause, pretending I don’t remember what comes next, though I can do the entire book word for word, by heart.

  “‘“Today you look very green, even for a frog,” said Toad.’” David looks at me.

  I nod. “Even for a frog.”

  David and I sit on the swing until Dad pulls into the driveway. “Ready to go, sport?” he calls, though David is already running down the steps, headed for the car.

  I watch David trying to get into the car without closing his umbrella.

  “I’m sorry I’m late!” Dad waves to me. “Mrs. Jesland came in at the last minute and needed her heart pills. Want to come, Catherine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I check my watch. Five forty-two.

  Wednesday morning I made cookies. But when I rang the doorbell next door, and rang it again, no one answered. Mom said there’s a lot to do when you move, and I should let our new neighbors get unpacked, anyway. This morning I wanted to try again, but the minivan was already gone when I went outside.

  On the drive to the clinic, I try not to let my hopes run loose, but they rush with the water under the bridges. I hope the girl next door loves swimming because we have a pond a few streets away from my house (and now, hers!). I hope she’s not allergic to guinea pigs since I have two. I hope she’s a little bit shy and likes to draw and read, and I hope she doesn’t think it’s babyish to send Morse code messages.

  At the clinic Mom says it’s still too cold for the park. I draw sailboats bobbing on summer waves while Mom reads aloud a scene where a spell goes wrong for Harry. I catch Mrs. Frost smiling at us, and I think she’s listening, too.

  The bell above the clinic door jangles and Mom looks up from the pages. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she says to Jason’s mother. “Hi, Jason.”

  Jason doesn’t move his head, but his eyes turn to me. “Ahhh!”

  I flinch. I know Jason can’t help it, but sometimes, the sounds he makes are loud and creepy.

  Jason raps his communication book.

  “My son wants to thank you for the picture you gave him,” Mrs. Morehouse says to me. “In fact, he asked me to hang it on his wall.”

  Jason’s mouth drops open.

  I give Jason my I-hate-when-my-mom-does-that-too eye roll.

  He smiles and taps his book.

  “Jason is wondering if he could have your name in his book?” Mrs. Morehouse watches his hand move card to card. “So he can talk to you. Would you mind, Catherine?”

  It seems weird to think of my name in some boy’s communication book, but I don’t know how I could say no, so I say, “Okay.”

  She takes a little card and a pen from her purse. Watching her, I wonder how that’d feel, to have to wait for someone to make a word before I could use it. And to have all my words lying out in the open, complete strangers able to walk by and see everything that mattered to me, without even knowing my name.

  Jason grimaces at the card.

  “Well, you know I can’t draw,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “Do you want me to put her name without a picture?”

  “I could draw it.” Jeez! Where’d that come from? Just popped out of my mouth without checking with my brain first.

  “That’d be great.” Mrs. Morehouse pulls another blank card from her purse. “If you draw on this, it’ll fit in his book.”

  On my way past Jason’s wheelchair, I study a page of his communication book so my card’ll match his others. About two inches square, each card has a simple black-and-white line drawing and the word or phrase printed along the top. His book has clear vinyl pages, like an album for trading cards, only with smaller pockets to fit the word cards.

  Back at my spot on the couch, I ask Mom if I can borrow the little makeup mirror from her purse. I lay the mirror and the card on my sketchbook to give me something firm underneath while I draw.

  Two inches wide, two inches high: a white block, waiting for me to appear inside. But how should I look? Like my school picture, with just-combed hair and my say-cheese smile? Or like I do at home, with ponytail hair and wearing my favorite purple T-shirt? I can’t decide, so I do the easy part first and write “Catherine” at the top in tiny, neat letters.

  I might not be the world’s best artist, but I can draw better than the stick figures and line drawings on Jason’s other cards, all perfect circles and ruler-straight lines. I choose a peach-colored pencil and study my face in the mirror. I draw the slow curve of my right cheek, sweeping down to my too-pointy chin, up my other cheek, over the top of my head, and back to where my line began.

  I draw how I usually look: brown ponytail, blue-gray eyes, wearing my purple T-shirt. Not a perfect circle or ruler-straight line anywhere.

  Besides, Jason probably wouldn’t recognize the school-picture me, anyway.

  But when Mrs. Morehouse tries to slide my card into one of the little clear pockets in Jason’s book, it’s the tiniest bit too big. “I’ll take a sliver off the side,” she says, heading for the receptionist’s desk. “Let me get some scissors.”

  Beside me, Jason taps.

  “Excuse me!” I call to Mrs. Morehouse’s back. “He wants something!”

  She doesn’t even turn around. “Would you see what it is?”

  I’m scared I won’t understand Jason, but she’s already chatting with the receptionist. Holding my breath, I peer down at his finger pointing to —

  Thank you.

  “Oh.” I let go my breath. “You’re welcome.”

  Mrs. Morehouse trims my word to fit his book, and Jason lets out a loud “Ahhh!”

  He says it so loud, Mrs. Frost turns down her h
earing aid.

  Jason slaps, Good job.

  My name stands out, colorful and detailed among the black-and-white plainness of his other cards. Sandwich. Pizza. Soda. Drink. Eat. More. Good. Nice. Bad. Sad. Happy. Mad. Van. Want. Go. I’m sorry. No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Make. Tell. Help. Wait. Baseball. Book. Music. Guitar. Piano. Like. Please. Thank you. Me, too. Okay. Hi. Good-bye. Boy. Girl. Man. Woman. Picture. Word. Good job. What? Who? Why? and many more, all the way to Catherine.

  I long to pull his cards out and add red to the van, yellow to the happy face, and thick purple jelly between the slices of bread in the sandwich. I want to show Jason I’m sorry for not-looking at him the same embarrassed way I hate people not-looking at David. But how? “If you ever want me to make you more words,” I say, “just ask.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Morehouse says, adjusting her earring. “But there’s no need. These cards are part of a speech program we use, and it comes with a whole book of words. I can copy whatever he needs from there.”

  Jason shoots his mother a what? look. Yes. More. Picture.

  Mrs. Morehouse sighs. “Are you sure you don’t mind, Catherine?”

  “I’m sure.” I turn the pages of Jason’s communication book, reading through his cards so I don’t repeat the words or phrases he already has. Which shouldn’t be hard, since all his words are boring. But to be polite, I ask his mother what words she suggests I make.

  “Something you like would be nice. Then he could talk to you about it.” She pulls a stack of blank cards from her purse. “Would seven be too many?”

  “Seven’s fine.” Taking the cards, I’m not sure what to do. Go back to the couch? Stay here? Jason turns a page in his communication book, and my insides twist. “Well.” I glance at my watch. “Sorry, I —”

  “HI, JASON!” His speech therapist smiles, striding into the waiting room. “Am I interrupting something?”

  I open my mouth to say no, but she’s already looking past me. “How’s his day been going?”

  Jason taps, Good.

  “He’s been a bit cranky,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “I think he stayed up too late last night watching the Red Sox. It went to extra innings.”

  “Oh? ARE YOU” (points to Jason) “CRANKY?” (gesture plus crabby face).

  Jason sighs. No.

  “Good, because we’re going to have fun today.” The therapist turns to Mrs. Morehouse and adds, “It’s time for evaluations. Why don’t you come with us, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

  Jason tilts his head toward me, his hand moving slyly across his book. Stupid. Speech. Woman.

  I cover my mouth with my hand, so I won’t laugh out loud. Jason makes her sound like a superhero: Speech Woman! Avenger of Adverbs! Protector of Pronouns! Champion of Chitchat!

  “’Bye,” I mumble through my fingers.

  Good-bye. He turns his page back to touch Catherine.

  At home I line Jason’s blank cards on my desk, ready to draw. But choosing words is harder than I thought.

  Seven white squares, full of possibility. I look around my bedroom for ideas: from the checkered rug on my floor to the calendar of Georgia O’Keeffe flower paintings Dad bought me at the art museum he took me to last summer. That’s my dream — to be an artist and have people gasp when they see my paintings, like I do on the first day of each new month. I have a tiny clothespin at the bottom of the calendar pages, so I don’t cheat and peek ahead — I want each month’s flower to be a surprise.

  On my door is a long mirror surrounded with colored sticky-note reminders: my library books are due (Bring fine money!), August 8th is Melissa’s birthday (Remember it takes seven to nine business days for mail to get to California! Plan ahead!), and even a few reminders left over from school (Find lunch card!) (Project due Tuesday!). I kept those up because it’s nice to see them and know they don’t matter anymore.

  On my desk is the little bamboo plant in the blue-swirly dish Melissa gave me for my last birthday, and my computer with the longest, hardest-to-spell password I could think of: “anthropological.” That’s so David won’t figure it out. Across one bookshelf is a row of art supplies in cans: pencils, markers, and paint-brushes. On the next shelf are paint bottles and stacks of paper, everything from thick watercolor paper to filmy sheets of jewel-colored tissue paper. And lots of things I’ve collected: shells, rocks, a tiny glass elephant, a blackened old skeleton key my grandmother found in a chest but which unlocks nothing. I kept it because I like how it feels in my hand, the heart shape of the top and the jagged teeth at the bottom, and because —

  Not everything worth keeping has to be useful.

  Between my desk and my bed is a long window with gauzy purple curtains that let daylight through, even when the curtains are closed, and on the windowsill is a row of tiny colored bottles I bought one day at Elliot’s Antiques: sunlit purple, green, and gold.

  On the other side of my desk hangs my bulletin board, covered with drawings and little paintings: a pencil-gray castle I started but never finished, a monkey painted on an emerald tissue-paper rain forest, a colored-pencil cartoon from three years ago of my guinea pigs dancing — I still like it, even if it’s old and I can do better now.

  Well, there’s something. I pick up my pencil and write on the first cards:

  Drawing.

  Guinea pig.

  Under my window, Nutmeg and Cinnamon purr happily, shuffling through the shavings in their cage. Nutmeg lifts her head, and I look away quick.

  Anytime they catch me watching them, my guinea pigs think I should feed them.

  Picking up the next card, I decide I shouldn’t do just “me” words. That day with the guitar, Jason could’ve used something fiery to say. Something juicier than “sad” or “mad.” A string of words pop to mind, but I don’t want to get in trouble with his mother. So I choose:

  Gross!

  Awesome!

  Stinks a big one!!!

  I’m not going to show these to Mom — especially the last one. I don’t remember seeing exclamation points on any of Jason’s other cards, but “awesome” with a period doesn’t seem right. And if “gross” has one exclamation point, “stinks a big one” needs at least three.

  My pen hovers over the sixth card. I could do another favorite: “raspberry sherbet” or “ice-skating” or “goldfish.” I look past my messy closet —

  Open closet doors carefully. Sometimes things fall out.

  — to the CDs, cassettes, and books lining the shelves near my bed. But Jason already has “book” and “music,” and who knows if he even likes raspberry sherbet.

  I could pick words about the clinic: “hallway” or “bookshelf” or “magazine.” Or I could do funny words like “hoity-toity” or angry ones like “Oh, YEAH?” or hurt words like “I didn’t mean to.”

  There’s a gazillion words and phrases I could choose, and none of them seem worth one of my two last cards.

  So I push the blank cards aside and draw pictures for the others. Drawing a guinea pig is easy. I sketch an oval, fat and compact, add black eyes, tiny rounded ears, tucked-under feet, and a mess of every-which-way hair. A furry baked potato.

  The other words are harder. What does “awesome” look like? A smiley face? A sunrise? A double hot-fudge sundae?

  My door creaks open a couple inches. A brown eye peeks through the crack.

  David never remembers to knock. It irritates me so much I taped this rule right above my doorknob.

  This is Catherine’s room. David must knock!

  “No toys in the fish tank,” he says.

  I pull forward one of my two blank cards and write in big block letters an unbendable, sharp-cornered David-word:

  RULE.

  By the time I get to the living room, David’s already crouched in front of the fish tank, his smiling face reflected in the glass. Out the window behind the aquarium, I see Mom in the yard talking to the mailman.

  And in the fish tank, one of my old Barbie dolls sits on the grav
el, her arm raised in a friendly wave, as though she’s spotted Ken across the living room and is inviting him to join her.

  And don’t forget the scuba equipment, darling!

  Barbie’s pink-lipstick smile beams through the water, her long hair floating around her like a tangle of white-blond kelp. The goldfish nibble at it, and Barbie, Queen of the Fishes, waves cheerfully.

  The goldfish are used to David dropping strange beings into their tank. They always swim over to check out the newest arrival and try to eat it. When that doesn’t work, they accept it, along with their usual plastic plants and little castle.

  “Remember the rule.” I flip open the top of the aquarium. “No toys in the fish tank.”

  David nods, but I’m not fooled. He may not buy into the fish tank rule, but he’s got this one down pat:

  If you want someone to leave you alone, agree with her.

  “You can only put things in here that belong,” I explain. “Like stuff you buy at a pet store. That’s all that goes in the fish tank.”

  David leans in for a closer view as I pull Barbie up through the water. “‘“Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,” said Frog.’” He glances to me, hopeful.

  Mom says David’ll never learn to talk right if we keep letting him borrow words, but his face is so full of please? I say, “‘“You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?” asked Toad.’”

  Water from Barbie’s hair trickles down my arm as I hold her over the fish tank, waiting for the dripping to stop.

  Through the window, I notice Mom’s gone and the girl next door is in her yard with Ryan Deschaine. He points at my house, and the girl spins around.

  She waves.

  I drop Barbie to wave back.

  “No toys in the fish tank!” David cries. “It’s wet!”

  “It’s okay,” I say out of the corner of my smile. “It was an accident. I’ll get her back out.”

  Ryan keeps talking, his hands moving like he’s explaining something. I hope he isn’t saying things about me — especially not how I yelled at him when he called David a retard on the bus.