Ian.
They sat together in the arbor and pushed the world out for a time that seemed interminable. The solitude and quiet of the place enhanced their senses. Every sound and movement seemed choreographed, as if nature was making its own story for them.
Eventually Linda said, “There’s no sense in running from the problem. Let’s get started back.” Ian seemed to be ensconced in the world around him and was oblivious to her words. There’s something unique about him. When he looks at something it always seems as if it’s for the first time—like a baby. “Ian?” He turned and looked at her. They both rose from the grass and began walking.
Ian felt a connection with Linda that seemed to be growing stronger. I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t really know Linda, but she’s been so nice to me. “Will I be able to stay?” Ian asked.
“Maybe for just a little while longer. I would like for you to stay, but you must go back to your parents. It was wrong of me to let you stay this long,” she said. They walked by the uniform houses on the block. Some children were playing on the front lawn of a bright-red house that sat two doors down from Linda’s home. Linda waved at the children and then said to Ian, “Why don’t you go play with those kids while I try to smooth things over with Grant.”
“OK.” Ian ran over to them. She watched him leave her side and thought of how she would miss him when he left. I wish that he could stay. If only he were my child… But she divested herself of those thoughts as she entered her home; focus would be required in order to win the battle ahead.
“Hello? Are you here?” Linda called. She heard Grant mutter something from the den. She walked in and found him typing away at the computer.
“So are you going to call or should I?” he said, assuming she came to her senses.
“No. And I expect you to treat him with more respect.”
“Why?” Grant asked.
She exploded with a fury in her voice that he had never heard before. “Because he is a person like anyone else! And I’ll do the calling when I’m good and ready.”
He looked at her and blinked, and she saw fear in his eyes.
“Fine,” Grant said. The word was one octave above a whisper.
Ian approached the two youngsters who looked to be around his age. They were seated on the ground and playing with various piles of connecting blocks, organized according to size. A waif of a girl with blonde ringlets and glasses was making what appeared to be a fleet of ships. Ian watched as she made a fastidious inspection of the one in her hand before placing it beside the pile of completed ones. The boy, who had dark-brown hair and blue eyes, was fumbling with a stubborn block, which for some reason would not adhere to his airplane.
“Hi, I’m Ian,” he said.
The children regarded him for a moment and then went back to their play. While he had not received an invitation, they hadn’t rebuffed him either, so he decided to sit down. He began arranging the blocks in rows of threes and continued to do this until the girl piped up, “You’re not doing it right. You have to build something.” Ian ignored the criticism and continued his pattern.
“She’s right, you know. The whole point is to make something,” he said with eyes downcast. “You must be new here. I’m Robbie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ian replied.
“Likewise,” Robbie said.
“I’m Cynthia,” the girl said pointedly. Just then, a boy with curly, light-brown hair came walking by with his face in a book.
“Look who it is. Little Randy Bakerfield, Little Randy Bakerfield. Always got your nose buried in some dumb book,” Cynthia teased.
The boy buried his nose deeper in the book—which hardly seemed possible—and continued on his way.
“Boy, he makes me mad. He always thinks he’s better than everyone else,” Cynthia said. She punctuated the last two words with punches to the ground. “I’d like to rip him limb from
They sat together in the arbor and pushed the world out for a time that seemed interminable. The solitude and quiet of the place enhanced their senses. Every sound and movement seemed choreographed, as if nature was making its own story for them.
Eventually Linda said, “There’s no sense in running from the problem. Let’s get started back.” Ian seemed to be ensconced in the world around him and was oblivious to her words. There’s something unique about him. When he looks at something it always seems as if it’s for the first time—like a baby. “Ian?” He turned and looked at her. They both rose from the grass and began walking.
Ian felt a connection with Linda that seemed to be growing stronger. I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t really know Linda, but she’s been so nice to me. “Will I be able to stay?” Ian asked.
“Maybe for just a little while longer. I would like for you to stay, but you must go back to your parents. It was wrong of me to let you stay this long,” she said. They walked by the uniform houses on the block. Some children were playing on the front lawn of a bright-red house that sat two doors down from Linda’s home. Linda waved at the children and then said to Ian, “Why don’t you go play with those kids while I try to smooth things over with Grant.”
“OK.” Ian ran over to them. She watched him leave her side and thought of how she would miss him when he left. I wish that he could stay. If only he were my child… But she divested herself of those thoughts as she entered her home; focus would be required in order to win the battle ahead.
“Hello? Are you here?” Linda called. She heard Grant mutter something from the den. She walked in and found him typing away at the computer.
“So are you going to call or should I?” he said, assuming she came to her senses.
“No. And I expect you to treat him with more respect.”
“Why?” Grant asked.
She exploded with a fury in her voice that he had never heard before. “Because he is a person like anyone else! And I’ll do the calling when I’m good and ready.”
He looked at her and blinked, and she saw fear in his eyes.
“Fine,” Grant said. The word was one octave above a whisper.
Ian approached the two youngsters who looked to be around his age. They were seated on the ground and playing with various piles of connecting blocks, organized according to size. A waif of a girl with blonde ringlets and glasses was making what appeared to be a fleet of ships. Ian watched as she made a fastidious inspection of the one in her hand before placing it beside the pile of completed ones. The boy, who had dark-brown hair and blue eyes, was fumbling with a stubborn block, which for some reason would not adhere to his airplane.
“Hi, I’m Ian,” he said.
The children regarded him for a moment and then went back to their play. While he had not received an invitation, they hadn’t rebuffed him either, so he decided to sit down. He began arranging the blocks in rows of threes and continued to do this until the girl piped up, “You’re not doing it right. You have to build something.” Ian ignored the criticism and continued his pattern.
“She’s right, you know. The whole point is to make something,” he said with eyes downcast. “You must be new here. I’m Robbie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ian replied.
“Likewise,” Robbie said.
“I’m Cynthia,” the girl said pointedly. Just then, a boy with curly, light-brown hair came walking by with his face in a book.
“Look who it is. Little Randy Bakerfield, Little Randy Bakerfield. Always got your nose buried in some dumb book,” Cynthia teased.
The boy buried his nose deeper in the book—which hardly seemed possible—and continued on his way.
“Boy, he makes me mad. He always thinks he’s better than everyone else,” Cynthia said. She punctuated the last two words with punches to the ground. “I’d like to rip him limb from
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