Rules

by Cynthia Lord

  But her wave didn’t seem like a making-fun wave, it seemed more of a “hi.”

  “Wet!”

  Glancing to David, I see his pants wadded at his feet. I jump in front of the window to pull the curtains closed. “David, go find Mom. Now!”

  I have a pants rule, too.

  Pantless brothers are not my problem.

  On Saturday I find Mom in the kitchen pressing raw hamburger into patties. “I was thinking we should invite the new neighbors to our barbeque,” she says. “This could be a nice chance to introduce ourselves.”

  “Great!” I watch her hands shape another hamburger and know I’d better choose my next words carefully. “What about David?”

  “What about him?”

  “Sometimes he forgets the rule about chewing with his mouth closed or he drinks from someone else’s soda. Or —”

  “They live next door, Catherine.” Mom looks over the top of her glasses at me. “You can’t pretend he doesn’t exist.”

  I trace a line on the linoleum with my toe. “I know but it’s hard enough to make new friends without worrying he’ll do something embarrassing. I just want it to be nice today, a fun cookout with nothing going wrong.”

  “Dad and I’ll watch him.”

  That’s actually the worst possible answer. It’s only a teeny step from both parents watching to neither watching — each thinking the other’s in charge. “Maybe you could make a schedule? And take turns?”

  “We’ll both watch him.” She pounds the hamburger with the palm of her left hand to flatten it. “Why don’t you run over and invite the neighbors now, so I’ll know how much food to prepare?”

  “What time should I say?”

  “Tell them lunch will be at one, though they’re welcome to come early.” She tears waxed paper from the roll and covers the layer of hamburgers.

  Heading for the hallway, I remember what I came into the kitchen to ask. “Can we go to the mall later? I need some new colored pencils. My crimson and indigo are only about two inches long now, and I’d love more greens.”

  “Maybe you could earn them by doing extra baby-sitting?”

  I grit my teeth to keep from snapping, “If David wanted them, you’d buy them.” But there’s no point, because I already know her answer: “That’s different.”

  She’s right. It is different and here’s how: Everyone expects a tiny bit from him and a huge lot from me.

  In the hallway I bounce between worrying things could go wrong (what if David spills something on his shorts and takes them off in front of everyone?) and hoping things go right (the girl next door might really like me). Before I open the front door, I close my eyes and wish: Just this once, let it be easy.

  Outside, Dad is pitching a tennis ball to David on the front lawn. “Here it comes!”

  David swings too late and the ball thumps against the side of the porch. “All done? Let’s watch TV?”

  “Like I said, you have to try ten times before you can watch TV.” Dad picks another tennis ball from the pile on the grass at his feet. “We have five balls left. Catherine, tell him when to swing.”

  David and I sigh together. He lifts the plastic bat and moves his feet apart.

  “Swing!” I yell as the ball comes close.

  David misses anyway. “You need a bigger ball,” I tell Dad. “He’d have a better chance.”

  “It’d help if we had a catcher,” he replies. “Want to play?”

  I look across the fence pickets to the woman in her lawn chair, reading. “No, thanks. Mom said I could invite the family next door to our cookout, and she’s waiting to hear if they’re coming.”

  Dad bends to grab the next ball from the pile.

  “And you’ll be in charge of David.” It’s only half the truth, but if Dad thinks he’s in charge, he won’t wait for Mom to do something.

  “All right,” he says. “Elbows up. Get ready to swing, David.”

  Walking to the fence, I notice the woman is younger than Mom, with short, brown hair and sunglasses so dark I can’t see her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  She sets her paperback facedown on her lap. “Hello.”

  “Hi. I live next door.” I cringe at how stupid I sound. Of course I live next door! Why else would I be talking over our fence to her?

  She smiles. “My daughter, Kristi, will be excited to meet you. She’s with her dad this weekend, but I’ll send her over to introduce herself when she gets back.”

  My heart drops. She’s not home. “That’d be great. My mom was wondering —?”

  David shrieks.

  I turn to see the plastic bat flying through the air. David runs in a tight circle, flailing his arms, his mouth wide in another ear-piercing howl.

  As Mom dashes down the porch steps, Dad calls to her, “It’s all right! It’s just a bee.”

  I can’t see our new neighbor’s eyes behind her sunglasses, but her lips aren’t smiling. I want to sink behind the fence and hide, but it wouldn’t do any good. She’d still see me between the slats. “Oh, look at the time,” I say, checking my watch. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  “’Bye,” the woman says. “I’ll tell Kristi you stopped over.”

  Hurrying for the house, I pass Mom sitting cross-legged on the grass with David thrashing in her arms. David’s so big he doesn’t fit on Mom’s lap anymore, and they look twisted, an awkward tangle of elbows and knees, arms and legs.

  Dad picks up the plastic bat. “Don’t baby him,” he says to Mom. “The bee didn’t even land on him.”

  His back already to her, Dad doesn’t see Mom’s lowered eyebrows.

  “He can’t help being afraid!” she snaps. “Why can’t you comfort him? It shouldn’t always have to be me.”

  “You’re the one who ran out of the house!” Dad shoots back.

  I glance to the fence, hoping the lady next door can’t hear them. She’s reading, her book held high to block the sun.

  “Shh,” Mom soothes David. “It’s all right. A bee won’t hurt you unless you bother him.”

  I want to yell at her, “It’s not that easy!” David can’t even figure out what’ll bother me. I kick a tennis ball out of my way and watch it skitter across the grass and bounce against the steps.

  Dad bends to pick up the tennis ball. As I run up the porch steps, he asks wearily, “Did you invite our new neighbors?”

  “They’re busy,” I lie, closing the front door behind me.

  In front of me, Mom holds David’s hand as we walk up the ramp to the clinic. “It’s warm enough for the park today,” I say, glancing across the parking lot to the strip of sun-sparkled ocean gleaming between Coastal Marine Supply and Otis’s Hardware. “After I give Jason his words, can we go?”

  “If David’s doing well,” Mom says.

  I watch the back of David’s head and repeat in my mind: Do well today. Do well today.

  Inside, I sit on the waiting room couch, watching out the window. As soon as I see Jason’s mother’s van drive into the parking lot, I unload my backpack: word cards, sketchbook, colored pencils, CD player, and headphones.

  “If you hadn’t insisted on changing your shirt, we wouldn’t be late,” Mrs. Morehouse says, pushing Jason’s wheelchair into the waiting room. “And I had to stop for gas.”

  “Hi, Jason.” I hold the cards secret between my palms, waiting while his mother moves his wheelchair up beside me. She walks over to her regular chair near Mrs. Frost, settling in with a magazine.

  I whisper to Jason, “I picked some words about me, and a few words I thought you should have.”

  But when I open my hands, Awesome! seems too flashy and bold for his book, and I feel silly for bringing it.

  Jason looks at me, ready.

  I wince, sliding the card into an empty pocket in his communication book. “I drew fireworks, but my first choice for ‘awesome’ would’ve been this.” I offer my CD player to him.

  Jason doesn’t take it. He sits there, his Adam’s apple rolling as he swallows. Help. O
n.

  I flash a look to his mother. “It isn’t far,” she’s saying to Mrs. Frost. “Forty minutes or so.”

  Maybe I can do this myself? I pull the headphones wide, hoping to drop them over Jason’s ears, but as my hands come close, his hair tickles the underside of my wrist and surrounds my fingers. I hold my breath to keep from yanking my hands away as I position the headphones. Placing the CD player on his communication book, I push PLAY.

  Jason startles.

  “Sorry!” I roll the volume way down.

  Music. Loud. More.

  “Everything all right, Catherine?” Mrs. Morehouse asks.

  “I think so.” I roll the volume up until faint, stringy guitar music slips past the headphones into the waiting room.

  Jason’s jaw tightens. Like. Guitar.

  “Me, too.” I don’t know if he can hear me with the headphones on, so I find Me, too. in his book and tap it.

  Jason’s head sways slightly to the music.

  Waiting for the song to finish, I run my thumb along an edge of my word cards. Mom talks to Carol, the receptionist explains something on the phone, and Jason’s mother and Mrs. Frost discuss good restaurants that accommodate wheelchairs. Outside, a family wearing bright sweatshirts walks by the window, the father stopping to take a picture.

  Tourists! I check my watch. If I hurry, Mom and I’ll still have time to go to the park.

  I feel a nudge on my arm.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t noticed the song was over. Sliding my index finger under the top of the headphones, I pull gently. “See that tourist family out the window?” I ask, putting my CD player away. “I think they’re a good-luck sign that summer’s here.” I hunt through my stack of cards to find the word I want good luck for the most. The last card I made, the one with a drawing of a girl’s hand raised in a “hi” wave. Friend.

  “I have a new neighbor who’s my age,” I say. “I haven’t met her yet, but I’m hoping she’s nice.”

  He smiles. Catherine. Friend.

  “I do have friends — my best friend is Melissa — but no one that lives near me. My neighborhood is mostly old people and families with little kids. Well, except the boy who lives on the corner. He’s my age, but he —” Stinks a big one!!!

  I put that card as far from my name as possible. “You’ll have to be careful when you use this one. The last time I yelled this, I had to sit in the front seat of the bus.”

  No. I mean. Catherine. My. Friend.

  My lips feel dry. I lick them, though Mom always tells me not to. “Sure,” I say, even if I think of us more as clinic friends than always friends. Seeing Jason’s finger on the word, I wonder why he didn’t already have it.

  “And this is a guinea pig.” I wait for his hand to move. “I have two of these at home. Their names are Cinnamon and Nutmeg, and I’ll put ‘guinea pig’ right here next to ‘sandwich,’ because eating is what they like best.” I slide the card into the pocket. “And I thought you might want ‘gross.’ This lady I drew is eating cereal. But do you see this white thing on the spoon? It’s a maggot.”

  Jason curls his upper lip.

  “It’s even worse, because it’s half a maggot!” I add the card to his book. “And this word I picked for my brother, David.”

  My other cards have the word printed small at the top, but the tall block letters of RULE. fill the card. “David loves rules, so I use those to teach him.”

  What? RULE.

  I usually don’t share my rule collection with anyone but David, but Jason’s different. “David doesn’t learn from watching other people, so I have to teach him everything.” I open my sketchbook to my Rules for David, figuring it’s easier to show than explain.

  Take your shoes off at the doctor, but at the dentist leave them on.

  If you want to get out of answering something, pretend you didn’t hear.

  If someone is holding something you want, ask if you can have a turn.

  “David has his own rules, too,” I say, “but those rules don’t make sense to anyone but him.”

  What? Those. RULE.

  I sigh. “David’s got lots. One is, the cellar door always has to be shut. Even if I’m only going downstairs to grab something, he’ll race over and shut the door. Once he even locked it and I got stuck down there with a whole bunch of spiders until Mom heard me yelling.

  “And the worst part, it’s not just our house. David’ll hunt through other people’s houses, too.” I can’t help seeing it in my mind: David running down Melissa’s hallway, and Melissa’s mother saying kindly, “Don’t worry, Catherine, it’s fine. David, that’s the closet. That’s the bathroom.”

  Jason nods. Brother. Me, too. Matt.

  “Is he younger than you?”

  No. Five. Years. Older.

  “Oh, you’re lucky then! You never have to babysit.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them back. Of course he couldn’t babysit. “Um.”

  When you say something stupid, gloss over it with superfast talking and maybe no one’ll notice.

  “The next word is ‘drawing.’ I picked it because it’s one of my favorite things to do.” Looking for a good empty pocket, it hits me — he can’t draw.

  But Jason’s already seen the word, so there’s nothing to do but slide the card into a pocket beneath my name.

  What? Guinea pig. Eat.

  “Huh?”

  What? Guinea pig. Jason waits for me to say each word before he taps the next. Eat.

  “What do guinea pigs eat?”

  Yes.

  “Oh. Mostly they eat pellets from the pet store, but they’ll eat almost anything. Once I left a library book too close to their cage and they ate off half the cover. That was hard to explain to the librarian, let me tell you.”

  Jason laughs, a sharp bark like a Canada goose. His mother looks up from her magazine as I scan the room and see everyone watching us.

  “Uh, but I think carrots are their favorite.” I lean away from Jason. “They can hear me snap a carrot all the way from the kitchen.”

  Jason closes his lips tight. Thank you. Catherine. New. Words.

  “No problem.” I stare at the rows of plain, black-and-white cards and wish that all his cards were colorful. “Would you like me to make more?”

  Awesome! Tell. Mom.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Morehouse? Jason wants me to make him more words.”

  She walks over, and I watch her eyebrows go up as her gaze sweeps Jason’s book. “How many cards would you like?” she asks.

  I don’t know where my voice comes from, but it says, “All of them.”

  She looks surprised but hands me the whole stack. When she’s settled back with her magazine, I slide the blank cards into my shorts pocket. “I’m sorry I drew you that day,” I whisper to Jason.

  Don’t. Like. Picture. Me.

  “I didn’t mean any —”

  “HI, JASON!”

  For the first time, I’m sorry to see his speech therapist stride into the waiting room.

  “How’s his day been going?” she asks his mother.

  “Wonderful,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “In fact, he was so anxious to come to speech today, he even changed his shirt for you.”

  “How nice!” the therapist says. “WE DO HAVE FUN” (two fingers tapping her nose then swinging down to her other hand) “DON’T WE?” (cheesy grin).

  Jason sneaks his hand over his cards. Speech. Woman. Stinks a big one!!!

  I nod and tap, Very much.

  As his therapist pushes his wheelchair toward the corridor, Jason glances back to me.

  “See you Thursday,” I say.

  His therapist’s voice grows softer the farther she goes. I turn to my rule collection and add:

  Some people think they know who you are, when really they don’t.

  On Wednesday morning the minivan is gone from the driveway next door, so I busy myself collecting words and phrases for Jason in the blank spaces of my sketchbook. Words from commercials, conversa
tions, and books run between my doodles and across the backs of my drawings. The driveway remains empty until after dark.

  An hour before OT on Thursday, I lay my sketchbook open on my desk and flip the pages, hunting for the right words and phrases to put on Jason’s cards.

  Why not?

  He already has “why,” but “why not” is pushier — like “why” with a fist on its hip.

  Out my window I see the minivan still parked next door. Why not? Because Mom’s calling clients and Dad’s at work so David’s my responsibility — that’s why.

  “Just for an hour,” Mom said, “until we have to leave for OT. I’ve put on a Thomas the Tank Engine video so he shouldn’t be any trouble.”

  I pull forward two blank cards and scrawl:

  Yeah, right.

  Whatever.

  I know she needs me to babysit sometimes, but I hate when she tells me he shouldn’t be any trouble. Trouble comes quick with David, and “should” doesn’t have anything to do with it. He should remember to flush the toilet, too, but that doesn’t mean it happens.

  When Mom had gone, I took my long mirror off my door and propped it at an angle against one corner of the living room, so I could work at my desk and still see David reflected in the mirror.

  Every few words I make, I glance out my bedroom doorway to the mirror. David stands at the TV, the remote in his hand. He loves rewinding the trains backward up the tracks and speeding them ahead to almost crashing, over and over.

  I turn another sketchbook page and choose among the words written along the edge. Sure. You bet! Excellent! Perfect. Frustrating. Pretty. and Dazzling! to jazz up and stretch the words Jason has in bigger directions, and Joke. so he can be sarcastic if he wants.

  I peek toward the mirror. The TV train steams ahead, billowing smoke, toward the shed. “Watch out!” David repeats, a perfect imitation of the narrator’s voice.

  But at the last second possible before the smash, David hits PAUSE. Jumping in front of the frozen TV picture, he waves the remote in circles, like it’s a magic wand.

  Watch Out!!!

  On the next page is my half-finished portrait of Jason. I pick up a pencil and add the details I couldn’t add in the waiting room: eyelashes, thick eyebrows, and the outline of his thin lips. Part of me wishes I could tear this picture out of my sketchbook and crumple it into a tight ball so I don’t hear his mother’s scolding in my head when I see it, but the rest of me is bothered that it’s —