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
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
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