Rules

“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.

  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 t
he 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.

  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. I. 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 gar
dener 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. I. Just. Like. Music. He scowls. And. You. Ramming the joystick forward, Jason whirrs out of the kitchen, past David opening a cupboard door.