“Here’s what we need to determine,” Mo said. She held up a sheet of paper and began reading. “‘What are Julius’s strengths? Which of his behaviors are causing the most problems? How does he learn best? What does he enjoy and how can those activities be used at home and school?’”
“Hmmm,” Quinn said, pretending to contemplate these questions while she helped herself to another scoop of Chunky Monkey. “Guinness World Records. Guinness World Records. Guinness World Records. And … uhhh … Guinness World Records.”
“Q,” Mo said.
“Am I wrong?”
Quinn gestured with her spoon toward the living room, where Julius was watching an old DVD of Guinness World Records Primetime that he’d seen so many times the whole family had it memorized.
“Does this man have the world’s biggest mouth?” Quinn spoke into her spoon, making her voice deep and booming like the announcer’s. “It’s Jim Purol versus one hundred fifty straws in a Guinness Record attempt that will make you gag!”
“She has a point,” Quinn’s dad said, taking a bite of Chunky Monkey. “Puer obsessi.”
“He is not a boy obsessed,” Mo said. “He is a boy for whom routine is critically important. Guinness World Records are a part of his routine.”
“Fair enough,” Quinn’s dad said. “But when does routine”—he paused to scratch quote marks in the air with his fingers—“become so limiting that a person can’t enter the real world?”
Mo shook her head. “We’ve talked about this, Phil. The real world for Julius and the real world for us are two different things. The real world for Julius is a confusing mess of sounds and sights and people and places. He needs structure. Order. Predictability. When he opens up the same book every morning, he knows exactly what to expect. When he turns on the same DVD every night after dinner, he knows exactly what to expect.”
“I understand,” Quinn’s dad said, “but are we doing him a disservice by not teaching him other ways to cope? By not expanding his horizons?”
“Not expanding his horizons?” Mo’s eyebrows shot up. “We just moved our son all the way across the country. We’ve altered his physical environment, his social environment, everything he has ever known. We’ve thrown him into chaos.”
“Whose idea was that?” Quinn’s dad said. Not unkindly. Quinn’s dad was always kind.
“Believe me,” Mo said, “if a school like the Cove existed in Boulder, we would still be in Boulder. But it doesn’t. So we aren’t. We are in Gulls Head, Massachusetts. And I would like for us to take advantage of the exceptional resources we now have at our disposal to help Julius.”
“Fair enough,” Quinn’s dad said.
“Q?” Mo said. “Are you with us?”
“I’m with you.”
Quinn’s dad reached out, ruffled the top of Quinn’s head. There was nothing there to ruffle, but his hand was warm.
“Okay,” Mo said. “Let’s try this again.”
She held up the sheet of paper. “How can we provide a predictable routine for Julius that will incorporate his new house, new town, and new school?”
* * *
At night, Quinn had her own routine. She would never tell anyone, not in a million years, but here it was:
First, she would turn out all the lights in her room. Next, she would sit on her bed in the dark, running her fingers over every square inch of her scalp, like a newly blind person trying to read braille. Were there any raised dots yet?
The next thing Quinn would do was sing. She knew it was stupid, which was why she would never tell anyone, but thinking about her bald head always made her think about the Frog and Toad story she’d loved when she was little, where Toad wants to grow a garden. He plants a bunch of flower seeds in his backyard. When they don’t grow right away, he starts shouting at them. Frog tells Toad to leave the seeds alone, to let the sun and rain do their work, but Toad refuses to listen to logic. He tries everything he can think of to make the garden grow. He reads stories to his seeds. He plays music to his seeds. He sings to his seeds.
The song Quinn sang to her bald head was even stupider than the fact that she was singing at all. “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. Her dad would appreciate the song choice. Phil was a huge Bon Jovi fan. He was, in fact, the reason Quinn knew all the lyrics, not just to “Livin’ on a Prayer,” but to every song on the Slippery When Wet album. But her dad still wouldn’t get why Quinn was singing to her bald head. No one would get it.
So she sang very softly. So softly she could barely hear herself.
“Tommy used to work on the docks.”
CHAPTER
5
IN A WEIRD WAY, Quinn had Paige and Tara to thank for her basketball skills. In seventh grade she had been an okay-but-not-great shooting guard. In eighth grade, when Paige and Tara began “running late” in the mornings and needed to get rides, Quinn began walking to school alone. She would dribble her basketball—crossovers, in-and-outs, hesitations—stopping at Canyon Park to sink ten free throws before she would let herself move on.
Once Quinn got in the habit, she didn’t want to stop. So here was what she planned to do on the second morning of her new life: dribble her new basketball to her new school, stopping at her new court to sink ten free throws before she would let herself move on.
This time, Mo didn’t even argue about dropping Quinn off. Mo was too busy coaxing Julius into the car. She was using her new approach: positive reinforcement. Personally, Quinn thought it was insulting to her brother’s intelligence to give him a smiley face sticker for putting on his seat belt, but she kept that opinion to herself. She was just happy to be gliding down the street on her skateboard, basketball in her hands, ten pieces of Walker brand 3M wig tape on her head.
Bounce, cross, bounce, cross, bounce, cross.
The salt air filled her lungs. Until two weeks ago, Quinn had never smelled this smell. She had never seen the ocean. The Colorado River, yes. The Blue Mesa Reservoir, yes. But never the ocean.
Now Gulls Head Beach was just a few blocks from Quinn’s house. She’d found the court when she was out exploring. It was really just an extension of the beach parking lot. One hoop, nothing fancy, but with a great view of the water.
Quinn skidded to a stop on the sand. She checked her watch. Seven minutes to make ten free throws. No problem.
She left her skateboard and backpack on the ground and dribbled over to the foul line.
Bounce, bounce, catch. Bounce, bounce, catch.
One thing Quinn had learned from her coach back in Colorado was that every shooter has a different routine when she steps up to the foul line. Quinn’s routine was two dribbles, hold. Two dribbles, hold. Then she would lift the ball in her right hand, make an L with her elbow, and lock her eyes on the rim.
As soon as she released the ball, Quinn knew someone was watching. She felt that prickle on the back of her neck. After she made the shot she glanced over her shoulder and saw Nick Strout. He was maybe fifteen feet away, sitting in his wheelchair. Black shorts. Red shirt. Wet hair.
A crazy question popped into Quinn’s head then. Not Where did he come from? but How does he take a shower? Did he use some kind of seat? Did his mom help him?
“Hi,” Quinn said, because she certainly wasn’t about to ask Nick Strout how he took a shower.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.
“Do you live over there?” she asked, cocking her head at the row of houses across the street.
Nick didn’t answer.
Quinn stood there, waiting for a response.
Nothing.
Fine. If he wasn’t going to talk, she would keep shooting. Nine free throws to go.
Bounce, bounce, catch. Bounce, bounce, catch. Elbow. Eyes. Release. Swish.
Bounce, bounce, catch. Bounce, bounce, catch. Elbow. Eyes. Release. Swish.
Bounce, bounce, catch. Bounce, bounce, catch. Elbow. Eyes. Release. Swish.
“Nice shot!”
Thi
s time when Quinn turned around it wasn’t Nick she saw, it was Tommy. Tommy Strout, junior, driving a car so ugly and beat-up Quinn almost laughed. There was rust everywhere. There was duct tape holding up the fender.
“Yo, Nicky!” Tommy called out the window. “Mom said to come get you and take you to school.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Nick said. He puffed out his chest, but his damp hair was curling up around his ears like wings, which, Quinn thought, ruined the tough-guy effect.
“I’m not your babysitter,” Tommy said. “I’m your chauffeur.”
He didn’t have the Boston accent, Quinn realized. He said his Rs the way you were supposed to.
Nick muttered something Quinn didn’t catch.
“You gonna introduce me or what?” Tommy said.
Nick ignored the question. He rolled his wheelchair around to the other side of the car.
No matter. Here was that smile coming at Quinn, slow and sweet and lopsided. Here was a hand, reaching out the window. “Hey. I’m Tom.”
Quinn walked over, clutching the basketball to her hip. She was glad she wasn’t wearing yesterday’s sandals. She was wearing her Converse low-tops with a pair of semi-nice white shorts and a purple T-shirt with a scoop neck.
“Quinn,” she said.
They shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Quinn.”
She nodded. Because his skin was warm and his grip was strong, and she was finding words difficult to come by.
“You play?” He jutted his chin at the basketball.
She nodded.
“Cool.” Then, “You a freshman?”
She nodded again.
“Need a ride?”
“That’s okay.” Quinn’s voice sounded almost normal, which she was glad about. She pointed to her skateboard, lying in the sand. “I’ve got a ride.”
Tommy smiled. “Nice wheels.”
“Thanks.” She glanced through the window. More duct tape. Pink fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview. “You, too.”
From the other side of the car Nick muttered something else.
“’Scuse me, Quinn,” Tommy said. He opened the driver’s side door.
As soon as she realized what was happening—Tommy was helping Nick out of his wheelchair and into the backseat—she averted her eyes. Look away, her brain said. Don’t stare.
“I should go,” she said, bending down to grab her skateboard. She’d only made four free throws, not ten, but she knew it was time.
“Nice meeting you, Quinn,” Tommy said.
“You, too.”
She didn’t glance back once. When Tommy Strout’s junk heap of a car passed her on the street, he honked and Quinn waved. Nick was staring straight ahead. His wheelchair was sticking half out of the trunk, like a loose tooth.
* * *
In PE, Ivy, Carmen, and Lissa were hunched together on a wrestling mat, looking at something.
“Quinn,” Carmen said when she noticed Quinn leaning against the wall. “Check this out.”
“What is it?” Quinn said.
“Tommy Strout,” Ivy said, holding up her phone. “In the flesh.”
Quinn walked over for a closer look. There was Tommy, all right, in the same shorts and muscle shirt he’d been wearing at the beach earlier, holding Nick’s wheelchair in the air like a heavyweight champion.
“I took it this morning,” Ivy said. “Right outside, when he was dropping Nick off.”
“How nice is he, driving his brother to school?” Lissa said.
“So nice.”
“Zoom in,” Carmen said.
Ivy zoomed in on the screen, and the wheelchair disappeared. Now it was just Tommy from behind.
“Look at his arms,” Lissa said softly. “He is so built.”
“Forget his arms,” Carmen said. “Look at his butt. You can see the outline right through his shorts.”
“Ew,” Lissa said.
“Why ew? He has a great gluteus maximus.”
“He has a great everything,” Ivy said. She cocked her head at Quinn. “Don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Quinn said. “Except for his car.”
“What do you know about his cah?”
“He offered me a ride this morning.”
“What?” Ivy’s voice dropped.
Three sets of eyes were staring at Quinn.
“Are you serious?” Lissa said.
“Yeah.”
“Ladies!” Mr. Fenner shouted across the gym. “Less gabbing, more stretching!”
Carmen stuck out a leg and bent over. “You’re messing with us.”
Quinn pulled a knee to her chin. “I’m not.”
“Tommy Strout offered you a ride to school.”
“Yeah. We met at the beach.”
“Bull,” Ivy said.
Quinn felt a churning in her stomach. She felt like she was back in Paige’s basement on that One Stupid Night, trying to defend herself.
“I swear,” she said. “I’m not making this up.”
“We need details,” Ivy said, just as Mr. Fenner blew his whistle.
“Ten laps, people! Now!”
They got up off the wrestling mat.
“Start at the beginning,” Carmen said.
So Quinn started at the beginning. She told them how she’d decided to ride her skateboard to school. How she stopped off at Gulls Head Beach. How she was minding her own business, shooting free throws—
“Wait,” Lissa said, slowing to a jog. “You play basketball?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, on a team?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. She hadn’t quit. Even after that One Stupid Night, when her own teammates started treating her like she had the Ebola virus, blood squirting out of her eyeballs, she kept playing.
“Carm plays, too!”
“Pick up the pace, people!” Mr. Fenner hollered.
“You play basketball?” Quinn asked Carmen, picking up the pace.
“Yeah,” Carmen said. “We were pretty good last year, too. Ten and three.”
“Not bad.”
“Tryouts for the freshman team are in Octobah. You should—”
“Hellooo,” Ivy said. “Can we stay focused here?”
“On what?” Lissa said.
“On Tommy offering Quinn a ride?”
“Right,” Quinn said. She returned to the beach. The free-throw line. The pink fuzzy dice hanging from Tommy’s rearview.
“It’s true,” Ivy said—grudgingly, Quinn thought. “He does have those fuzzy dice hanging from his rearview.”
“Lucky!” Lissa squealed. “I can’t believe you got a ride with Tommy Strout.”
“Well, he offered,” Quinn said. “I didn’t actually take it.”
“Get out!”
“You didn’t take the ride?”
“Why wouldn’t you take the ride?”
“I had my skateboard,” Quinn reminded them.
“So?” Ivy said.
“I don’t know. Nick seemed mad or something. I didn’t think he wanted me to get in the car.”
“Nick’s always mad,” Ivy said. “That’s why I broke up with him.”
* * *
“If you want to see what Nick was like before,” Carmen said at lunch, “you need to check out his Instagram.”
“And while you’re at it,” Lissa said, “check out Tommy’s. You’ll wish you took a ride in his cah.”
“Seriously,” Carmen said. “The beach volleyball picture? No shirt?”
“Oh my gawd,” Lissa said. “No shirt.”
“We would show you right now,” Ivy said. “If our stupid school didn’t block Instagram.”
* * *
Quinn was late to sixth period. She didn’t mean to be, but her head was so itchy she’d had no choice. As soon as lunch was over, she hurried to her locker and grabbed her backpack. She locked herself in the farthest bathroom stall and waited until the bell rang. Only when the girls’ ro
om was completely empty did she take Guinevere off, unstick the ten pieces of wig tape, dump a bunch of witch hazel onto a scratchy brown paper towel, rub it all over her head, wait for it to dry, stick on ten new pieces of wig tape, and put Guinevere back on.
It took forever.
“Sorry I’m late,” Quinn said as she walked into study hall. The first person she saw was Nick Strout. He was hard to miss, parked at a larger-than-average desk to the left of the door. His face was so red and sweaty, and his hair was winging out at such ridiculous angles, that it looked like he’d just … well … run a marathon.
Quinn didn’t mean to smile. It happened without her consent. It wasn’t that the thought of a boy with no legs running 26.2 miles was so hilarious. It was that—and this was the truth—sometimes she smiled when she was nervous. Showing up tardy, smelling like witch hazel, wearing a wig that might or might not be on straight, led her to freeze in the doorway, grinning like an idiot.
“No problem,” the study hall monitor said. “Take a seat.”
Of course there was only one empty seat.
Of course it was next to Nick Strout.
Of course she was still smiling.
“What?” he snapped.
“Nothing.”
“Is something funny?”
“What?” Quinn put on her Botox face. “No.”
She looked around the room for someone friendly, but other than Nick and the study hall monitor, no one had even noticed her walk in. Everyone was wearing their earbuds, eyes on their screens.
“The curse of the twenty-first century,” Quinn’s dad liked to say. “The whole world is retreating into their separate pods.” If Quinn’s dad were in charge, they would all be wearing togas, greeting one another in the town square. Salve, Brutus. Salve, Spartacus.
Quinn pictured her own earbuds, wrapped up in a messy ball on her bedside table at home. Crap.
She unzipped her backpack and pulled out her book for English. A Separate Peace. She knew nothing about it, other than that her teacher said it qualified for their realistic-fiction unit.
I went back, Quinn read. Three words, not even the whole sentence, before Nick Strout snorted.
Quinn looked at him. “What?”
“That book blows.”
How We Roll Page 4
