explain, but both Kristi and Ryan are watching me. “Occupational therapy. David works on writing, jumping, stuff like that.”
Ryan turns to David. “You can’t jump?”
If we were at the bus stop, I’d already be yelling. But Kristi’s forehead is creased in concern. “Of course, he can —”
“Jump!” Ryan says.
David jumps up and down.
“Stop it,” I tell him.
Up and down, David jumps, staring at the pack of gum in Ryan’s hand. Up and down.
“Stop!” I grab David’s arm, but he won’t stop jumping. He lands hard on my foot as I’m reaching into my pocket, fumbling for my piece of gum.
“Ryan, give him some gum,” Kristi says.
“It’s a miracle!” Ryan holds a piece of gum out to David. “You’re cured!”
But when David opens the wrapper, there’s nothing inside. He head-butts his face into my shirt. “It’s gone!”
“You jerk!” I scream at Ryan so loud, David bursts into tears. “Get out of my yard and take your stupid gum with you.”
“It was just a joke.” Ryan pulls another piece of gum from his pack, but David has his arms wrapped so tight around me, he can’t take it.
“He can have mine,” I snap.
“We should go, Kris,” Ryan says. “I have to get home.”
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” Kristi says, her face white. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.” I pull David up our porch steps and into the house, not stopping until the front door bangs closed behind me. “MOM!”
Through the window, I watch Ryan gesturing, like he’s explaining something. Probably telling Kristi all the bad things I’ve ever said to him and leaving out all the reasons why.
Kristi nods, and that tiny “yes” bleeds the fight out of me.
“Gum?” David asks.
I study the hair on the top of his head. How can his outside look so normal and his inside be so broken? Like an apple, red perfect on the outside, but mushy brown at the first bite.
“Can I have a turn?”
I pull the gum out of my pocket and put it on the perfect top of David’s head.
He takes it off his hair. I watch him unwrap it and stuff the gum in his mouth, dropping the wrapper on the floor.
“Trash goes in the garbage can,” I say. “That’s the rule.”
“I’m sorry, Frog.”
I turn away, but David’s hand holding the wrapper comes into my view. “I’m sorry, Frog?” he says, panic edging his voice.
David gets scared when people don’t answer him, and the first tiny pinpricks poke me, little guilty jabs whispering, “He’s doing the best he can.”
And I brace myself for the ka-boom , sure to follow. The full guilt avalanche, thundering down the mountainside, sweeping away houses, knocking me flat.
I take the wrapper. “Okay, Toad.”
“Catherine!” Mom says. “He needs to speak his own words, but he won’t if you keep encouraging him to echo.”
Unfairness punches me in the stomach. “You let him ruin everything!” I say. “It’s always about him!”
“He needs more from me. Stop overreacting.”
I run to my room, slamming my bedroom door so hard Nutmeg and Cinnamon dart to the far corner of their cage.
Grabbing my sketchbook, I flip to a blank page and write words, bearing down so hard the letters cut into the page.
‘Unfair.’ ‘Cruel.’ ‘Hate.’ ‘Ruined.’ ‘Murky.’ ‘Tease.’ ‘Embarrassed.’
My hands tremble as I write. They shake so much, it doesn’t look like my handwriting. I try to rob the words of their weight by concentrating on the letters. Nice, sharp T, round O.
‘TORN.’
But I’m not fooling myself. I know the power these words hold. I drop my forehead on my arms.
My door creaks, but my head is too heavy to lift. “Go away,” I say.
A cassette comes into the dark space between my arm and face. “I’m sorry, Frog,” David says.
I do what will send him away. Around and around and around, I spin the cassette on my finger.
David leans against my arm.
“I wish it had been Kristi without Ryan,” I say. “Everything would’ve
Ryan turns to David. “You can’t jump?”
If we were at the bus stop, I’d already be yelling. But Kristi’s forehead is creased in concern. “Of course, he can —”
“Jump!” Ryan says.
David jumps up and down.
“Stop it,” I tell him.
Up and down, David jumps, staring at the pack of gum in Ryan’s hand. Up and down.
“Stop!” I grab David’s arm, but he won’t stop jumping. He lands hard on my foot as I’m reaching into my pocket, fumbling for my piece of gum.
“Ryan, give him some gum,” Kristi says.
“It’s a miracle!” Ryan holds a piece of gum out to David. “You’re cured!”
But when David opens the wrapper, there’s nothing inside. He head-butts his face into my shirt. “It’s gone!”
“You jerk!” I scream at Ryan so loud, David bursts into tears. “Get out of my yard and take your stupid gum with you.”
“It was just a joke.” Ryan pulls another piece of gum from his pack, but David has his arms wrapped so tight around me, he can’t take it.
“He can have mine,” I snap.
“We should go, Kris,” Ryan says. “I have to get home.”
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” Kristi says, her face white. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.” I pull David up our porch steps and into the house, not stopping until the front door bangs closed behind me. “MOM!”
Through the window, I watch Ryan gesturing, like he’s explaining something. Probably telling Kristi all the bad things I’ve ever said to him and leaving out all the reasons why.
Kristi nods, and that tiny “yes” bleeds the fight out of me.
“Gum?” David asks.
I study the hair on the top of his head. How can his outside look so normal and his inside be so broken? Like an apple, red perfect on the outside, but mushy brown at the first bite.
“Can I have a turn?”
I pull the gum out of my pocket and put it on the perfect top of David’s head.
He takes it off his hair. I watch him unwrap it and stuff the gum in his mouth, dropping the wrapper on the floor.
“Trash goes in the garbage can,” I say. “That’s the rule.”
“I’m sorry, Frog.”
I turn away, but David’s hand holding the wrapper comes into my view. “I’m sorry, Frog?” he says, panic edging his voice.
David gets scared when people don’t answer him, and the first tiny pinpricks poke me, little guilty jabs whispering, “He’s doing the best he can.”
And I brace myself for the ka-boom , sure to follow. The full guilt avalanche, thundering down the mountainside, sweeping away houses, knocking me flat.
I take the wrapper. “Okay, Toad.”
“Catherine!” Mom says. “He needs to speak his own words, but he won’t if you keep encouraging him to echo.”
Unfairness punches me in the stomach. “You let him ruin everything!” I say. “It’s always about him!”
“He needs more from me. Stop overreacting.”
I run to my room, slamming my bedroom door so hard Nutmeg and Cinnamon dart to the far corner of their cage.
Grabbing my sketchbook, I flip to a blank page and write words, bearing down so hard the letters cut into the page.
‘Unfair.’ ‘Cruel.’ ‘Hate.’ ‘Ruined.’ ‘Murky.’ ‘Tease.’ ‘Embarrassed.’
My hands tremble as I write. They shake so much, it doesn’t look like my handwriting. I try to rob the words of their weight by concentrating on the letters. Nice, sharp T, round O.
‘TORN.’
But I’m not fooling myself. I know the power these words hold. I drop my forehead on my arms.
My door creaks, but my head is too heavy to lift. “Go away,” I say.
A cassette comes into the dark space between my arm and face. “I’m sorry, Frog,” David says.
I do what will send him away. Around and around and around, I spin the cassette on my finger.
David leans against my arm.
“I wish it had been Kristi without Ryan,” I say. “Everything would’ve
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