Rules (12 page)

My head against the car window, I cross my legs and arms, folding the ache inside. Beside me, David holds his hands over his ears.

“Did David do something to upset you?” Mom asks.

Unbelievable! I look up to the rearview mirror. “You were supposed to watch him! You promised!”

“I could see him,” she says. “He wasn’t doing any harm.”

“He was opening doors!”

“So what? He opened one door.” Her eyes flash to mine in the mirror. “For goodness’ sakes, Jason’s family understands.”

“Understands what? That we’re as different as they are? Is that supposed to make it okay?”

“Shh,” Mom says, her eyes moving to David.

I look at him, wishing he’d take his hands off his ears and say, “It’s going to be all right, Catherine. Don’t worry,” or “I’ll try harder next time,” or even “I’m sorry.”

But he only sits, rocking gently, a faraway smile on his face.

“Do you want me to call Mrs. Morehouse and apologize?” Mom asks.

“It’s too late.” I turn to stare unfocused out the window, the side of the road becoming a sand-colored smear. “Jason asked me to the community center dance. When I said no, he asked if I was embarrassed about him.”

“Are you?” Mom asks.

“No … well … the rest of the world isn’t like the clinic. Other places, people stare. Or they hurry away, and I know what they’re thinking. ‘Oh, isn’t that too bad,’ or ‘What’s wrong with that kid?’ or ‘Whew, I’m glad that’s not me.’ I get so sick of it.”

“Just because other people think something, that doesn’t make it true.”

Maybe there’s some truth in that, but it’s unsatisfying, bitter-tasting truth. I glance at David. “It doesn’t make it easy, either.”

“No, it doesn’t make it easy.”

David stops rocking and gives me a fleeting look. “I’m sorry, Frog.”

For once, Mom doesn’t correct him.

At home Mom says she has to drop paperwork off at a few clients’ houses. “You can both come or you can babysit David.”

“I’ll babysit.” I’ve had enough of David at other people’s houses for one day. I dump a puzzle on the living room floor, glad for the simple right and wrong of a single, perfect fit.

“Where’s the sky, Frog?” David asks, beside me.

I hunt for sky-blue and cloud-white pieces. First, the top-left corner, then another straight-edged piece of blue. I hold up a cloud. “I think this is next.”

David’s hand shoots out, grabs the piece from my fingers, and snaps it in place.

Piece by piece, the sky appears, a put-together line of blue and white. Reaching the top-right corner, David hunts for the second row of pieces, sharp-pointed roofs and the tops of trees.

I leave him leaning over the puzzle, his hair falling forward as he picks up pieces and discards them, one after one.

In my room I open my sketchbook to the page with ‘guilty,’ ‘complicated,’ ‘hidden,’ and ‘weak.’

Out the window, Kristi’s driveway is empty, and I don’t even care. I miss Melissa. I miss how she goes swimming at the pond with me and isn’t afraid. I miss how we build mazes and guinea-pig playgrounds on my floor for Cinnamon and Nutmeg. I miss being myself with my friend and not having to try so hard.

If she were home, I could tell Melissa everything about Jason and Kristi and she wouldn’t laugh unless I did.

“Fix it?” David stands behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Next time, don’t forget to knock.” I hold out my hand and feel a cassette dropped on my palm. But when I look, there are two long lines of tape hanging down, snapped.

David folds my fingers around his cassette. “You can fix it?”

“No.”

He puts his hand over his ears. “Don’t worry. You can fix it.”

“You don’t get it. I can’t fix it!” I throw the cassette. It clangs, hitting the bottom of my trash can.

“Fix it!” David screams.

“When someone is upset, it’s not a good time to bring up your own problems!” I scream back. “Why don’t you understand? No toys in the fish tank! Chew with your mouth closed! Don’t open or close doors at other people’s houses!”

David drops to the floor and wraps his arms over his knees. “Trash goes in the garbage can,” he says, between sobs. “That’s the rule.”

He’s crying so hard, his whole body shakes. I get David’s cassette from the trash, but it’s too broken. “I can’t fix it.”

Tears fill my eyes. I walk over and kneel beside him. Circling his knees and shoulders with my arms, I lay my chin on David’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Toad.”

Each phone ring sounds like a long breath in my ear. One ring-breath.
Please be home.
Beside me, David leans against my arm.

Two rings.
Please listen.

Three.
Please
—

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Catherine.”

When Mrs. Morehouse doesn’t say anything, for a split second I think about hanging up, but somehow I squeeze the words around the lump in my throat. “Can I talk to Jason?”

Mrs. Morehouse pauses. “Just a minute.”

Waiting, my heart throbs:
please, please, please.

“Catherine?” Mrs. Morehouse says. “He doesn’t want to come to the phone.”

“Would you tell him something for me? Would you tell him I’m sorry, and I’d like to invite him to the dance tonight.”

She sighs. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be there in an hour. Please tell him I really want him to come.” I give her the details, even though she won’t even promise to tell him.

Hanging up, I say to David, “Now we’re calling Dad.”

The pharmacy worker who answers the phone tells me Dad’s busy, but I say it’s an emergency.

“Catherine! What’s wrong?” Dad asks.

“You need to come home,” I say. “But on the way, you need to stop at the mall and buy a cassette of
Frog and Toad Together
by Arnold Lobel. It’s very important. Are you writing this down?”

“Catherine, I have to —”

“We matter, too!” I snap. “You need to buy
Frog and Toad Together
by Arnold Lobel and a new cassette player and come home
now
.”

“Of course you matter, just give me a few —”

I hang up.

After changing into my favorite jean skirt and black tank top, I sit on the front porch with David, brushing my hair and watching the road.

Twenty-three cars later, Dad drives in the driveway.

“Come on, David.” I take his hand. “I’m going to a dance.”

I hear music. The double doors to the town community center are propped wide open, a rectangle of yellow light spread on the sidewalk.

David jumps into the box of light. He waves his fingers in excitement, watching his shadow.

“Catherine, next time, you need to plan better,” Dad says. “I can’t leave work for something like this.”

I watch David jumping, his shadow hands fluttering. “You take David to the video store every time he has OT.”

“That’s different.”

“Different because it’s
him
?”

Dad huffs, turning to me. “David needs —”

“I
know
what he needs! Believe me!” I push my way past Dad, not even caring that I’m yelling. “Maybe he
does
need you more than me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need anything at all!”

“Go inside?” David asks as I step on his shadow.

“Ask Dad. He’s in charge.” My throat is raw. Looking ahead to the community center, I’ve never felt so alone.

I hear footsteps coming up behind me. “Cath?”

“I have to matter, too,” I say. “As much as work and your garden and even as much as David. I need you, too.”

I feel his arm go around me, turning me to face his shoulder. “You matter,” Dad says, holding me.

Even though strangers glance at us as they pass, I hold him tight. “Would you stay until I know if Jason’s coming?”

“Sure.”

My forehead pressed into the hollow of Dad’s shoulder, his shirt smells sickly sweet, like cherry cough syrup from the pharmacy, but I don’t care. “And can I borrow some money? I spent all mine on Jason’s present.”

Dad digs in his pocket with his free hand. “Here’s extra so you can call me when you’re ready to come home. I’ll come as soon as you call.”

“Go inside?” David asks.

I nod. “I’m ready.”

Inside the doors a woman looks up from the admission table. The poster I made is taped on the wall behind her. “Welcome,” she says, opening her cash box. “Are you here for the dance?”

“My daughter is. My son and I are only here until her friend comes.” Dad pays for all of us, but David doesn’t want his hand stamped.

“Watch. It doesn’t hurt.” I hold my hand out and the lady says, “Would you like a flower or a frog or a dragonfly?”

“A frog, please.”

She presses the stamp onto the back of my hand and I show David. “Look, it’s Frog.”

David holds his hand out to me, and I turn it over so she can stamp the back.

“Something smells good,” Dad says.

“We have a bake sale going on, and there’s popcorn and soda.” The woman points down the hall toward tables piled with brownies and cookies. “Everything is fifty cents or a dollar, but you can’t bring food or drinks in the gym.”

“It’s the rule,” David says.

Ahead there’s a scatter of flyers on the bulletin board, and the doorway to the gym is surrounded with colored streamers and twinkly white Christmas lights.

Dad stops to talk to someone at a long table selling T-shirts with the community center logo on them, and I hear snips of the conversation: “lots of kids,” “lovely night,” “the pharmacy is good.”

Beside me David steps close to the lights, his fingers flickering at his sides, fast as moth wings.

“The lights are beautiful, aren’t they?” I say. “Like hundreds of stars.”

“Like stars,” David says. “Make a wish, Frog.”

I close my eyes and reach in my skirt pocket, fingering the money Dad gave me. From inside the gym, a song starts — a fast, wonderful, bursting-with-life song.

When I open my eyes, David’s staring at me, inches from my face.

Most people say if you tell a wish it won’t come true. But I don’t think wishes work like that. I don’t believe there’s some bad-tempered wish-fairy with a clipboard, checking off whether or not you’ve told.
Oops! You told your wish. No new bike for you!
But it’s a long shot I’ll get my wish, so even if there is a fairy in charge of telling, it won’t matter.

“I wish everyone had the same chances,” I say. “Because it stinks a big one that they don’t. What about you? What did you wish for?”

“Grape soda.”

I can’t help smiling. “You wished for
grape soda
?”

He doesn’t answer, and I pull my hand from my pocket. Taking one of his fluttering hands, I wrap his fingers tightly around a dollar. “Wish granted, Toad.”

He takes off running, and Dad runs after him.

I close my eyes and make a new wish.

I wish the refreshment stand has grape soda.