in his room, Stephen rewound one of the story tapes Robin had given him and read along with a flashlight. It was a silly children’s tale in which rabbits and bears were not flesh and blood but partly human things who wore suits and could talk. As Stephen followed along, the sound of his own voice disturbed him, but he kept at it. He heard the truck in the driveway when Robin came home; he heard her footsteps on the stairs and, later, the sound of the shower running. Once, he had had the ability to hear a single drop of rain on a single green leaf. Now the sounds all ran together, and he had to force himself to concentrate in order to read.
And when, finally, his eyes grew weary, and the words on the page ran together in a jumble, he put his book away. He tried his best to ignore the moonlight. Instead, he concentrated on all the things he must learn, inconsequential things he could forget as soon as they allowed him to go home. How i came before e, except after c; how orange juice was poured into a cup, and bread must always be sliced with a knife. How a book began at the beginning, and ended at the last page; how to sit, motionless, in a chair by the window, while out in the driveway a deer that has wandered down the road chews the new shoots of hollyhocks. How to spend the night in a locked room, when what he wanted was right down the hall.
THREE
EVERY MEMORIAL DAY THE Dixons had their big party. They hung red, white, and blue streamers from the branches of their maple trees and started barbecuing chicken and ribs at noon. Their little poodle, Casper, was locked in the utility closet early in the day to make certain he wouldn’t bother the guests or steal chicken bones off the paper plates. Various neighbors were enlisted to prepare huge tubs of potato salad and cole slaw, and the first of the season’s lemonade was always served, made with real lemons and cold spring water.
This year the Dixons really had something to celebrate. Matthew, whom they’d always worried about—his lack of friends for one thing, his weight for another—was home from his first year at Cornell. Matthew was a sweet-faced, hulking boy who had spent his entire high school career locked in his bedroom with a computer. But now it seemed to have paid off. He’d made dean’s list at Cornell and had been allowed to register for graduate seminars; next fall he’d be teaching a section on computer languages to freshmen. As guests arrived, they fished beers out of a trash barrel filled with ice, then stopped by the barbecue, where Matthew was turning peppery ribs with metal tongs, and they patted him on the back, congratulating him and welcoming him home.
The young people congregated in the rear of the yard, sitting cross-legged on Indian bedspreads, drinking lemonade and beer. The sunlight was honey-colored and thick. Summer was close enough to make everything seem charged, the blades of grass, bare knees, the lazy sound of ice in a paper cup. Lydia Altero, who was seventeen and had brown hair to her waist, sat with her girlfriends and watched Connor duck under the branches of a maple on his way to get himself a drink. He was so tall and so uncomfortable with the neighbors who greeted him that all his movements looked tender and silly. Lydia felt herself grow angry when Josh Torenson bumped into Connor as he approached the rear of the yard and lemonade spilled onto Connor’s white shirt. Without bothering to think what her girlfriends would say, Lydia went over and handed him a paper napkin.
“Josh is an idiot,” she said. She judged people smartly and quickly, and often found herself in a huff. “Lemonade doesn’t stain,” she told Connor.
Connor stared at the napkin as if it were something delivered directly from the moon. Lydia Altero hated him, didn’t she? At least that was what he’d always been led to believe. Because their mothers had been best friends for so long, he and Lydia had always been thrown together, with unpleasant
And when, finally, his eyes grew weary, and the words on the page ran together in a jumble, he put his book away. He tried his best to ignore the moonlight. Instead, he concentrated on all the things he must learn, inconsequential things he could forget as soon as they allowed him to go home. How i came before e, except after c; how orange juice was poured into a cup, and bread must always be sliced with a knife. How a book began at the beginning, and ended at the last page; how to sit, motionless, in a chair by the window, while out in the driveway a deer that has wandered down the road chews the new shoots of hollyhocks. How to spend the night in a locked room, when what he wanted was right down the hall.
THREE
EVERY MEMORIAL DAY THE Dixons had their big party. They hung red, white, and blue streamers from the branches of their maple trees and started barbecuing chicken and ribs at noon. Their little poodle, Casper, was locked in the utility closet early in the day to make certain he wouldn’t bother the guests or steal chicken bones off the paper plates. Various neighbors were enlisted to prepare huge tubs of potato salad and cole slaw, and the first of the season’s lemonade was always served, made with real lemons and cold spring water.
This year the Dixons really had something to celebrate. Matthew, whom they’d always worried about—his lack of friends for one thing, his weight for another—was home from his first year at Cornell. Matthew was a sweet-faced, hulking boy who had spent his entire high school career locked in his bedroom with a computer. But now it seemed to have paid off. He’d made dean’s list at Cornell and had been allowed to register for graduate seminars; next fall he’d be teaching a section on computer languages to freshmen. As guests arrived, they fished beers out of a trash barrel filled with ice, then stopped by the barbecue, where Matthew was turning peppery ribs with metal tongs, and they patted him on the back, congratulating him and welcoming him home.
The young people congregated in the rear of the yard, sitting cross-legged on Indian bedspreads, drinking lemonade and beer. The sunlight was honey-colored and thick. Summer was close enough to make everything seem charged, the blades of grass, bare knees, the lazy sound of ice in a paper cup. Lydia Altero, who was seventeen and had brown hair to her waist, sat with her girlfriends and watched Connor duck under the branches of a maple on his way to get himself a drink. He was so tall and so uncomfortable with the neighbors who greeted him that all his movements looked tender and silly. Lydia felt herself grow angry when Josh Torenson bumped into Connor as he approached the rear of the yard and lemonade spilled onto Connor’s white shirt. Without bothering to think what her girlfriends would say, Lydia went over and handed him a paper napkin.
“Josh is an idiot,” she said. She judged people smartly and quickly, and often found herself in a huff. “Lemonade doesn’t stain,” she told Connor.
Connor stared at the napkin as if it were something delivered directly from the moon. Lydia Altero hated him, didn’t she? At least that was what he’d always been led to believe. Because their mothers had been best friends for so long, he and Lydia had always been thrown together, with unpleasant
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