words like “I didn’t mean to.”
There’s a gazillion words and phrases I could choose, and none of them seem worth one of my two last cards.
So I push the blank cards aside and draw pictures for the others. Drawing a guinea pig is easy. I sketch an oval, fat and compact, add black eyes, tiny rounded ears, tucked-under feet, and a mess of every-which-way hair. A furry baked potato.
The other words are harder. What does “awesome” look like? A smiley face? A sunrise? A double hot-fudge sundae?
My door creaks open a couple inches. A brown eye peeks through the crack.
David never remembers to knock. It irritates me so much I taped this rule right above my doorknob.
This is Catherine’s room. David must knock!
“No toys in the fish tank,” he says.
I pull forward one of my two blank cards and write in big block letters an unbendable, sharp-cornered David-word:
RULE.
By the time I get to the living room, David’s already crouched in front of the fish tank, his smiling face reflected in the glass. Out the window behind the aquarium, I see Mom in the yard talking to the mailman.
And in the fish tank, one of my old Barbie dolls sits on the gravel, her arm raised in a friendly wave, as though she’s spotted Ken across the living room and is inviting him to join her.
And don’t forget the scuba equipment, darling!
Barbie’s pink-lipstick smile beams through the water, her long hair floating around her like a tangle of white-blond kelp. The goldfish nibble at it, and Barbie, Queen of the Fishes, waves cheerfully.
The goldfish are used to David dropping strange beings into their tank. They always swim over to check out the newest arrival and try to eat it. When that doesn’t work, they accept it, along with their usual plastic plants and little castle.
“Remember the rule.” I flip open the top of the aquarium. “No toys in the fish tank.”
David nods, but I’m not fooled. He may not buy into the fish tank rule, but he’s got this one down pat:
If you want someone to leave you alone, agree with her.
“You can only put things in here that belong,” I explain. “Like stuff you buy at a pet store. That’s all that goes in the fish tank.”
David leans in for a closer view as I pull Barbie up through the water. “‘“Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,” said Frog.’” He glances to me, hopeful.
Mom says David’ll never learn to talk right if we keep letting him borrow words, but his face is so full of please? I say, “‘“You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?” asked Toad.’”
Water from Barbie’s hair trickles down my arm as I hold her over the fish tank, waiting for the dripping to stop.
Through the window, I notice Mom’s gone and the girl next door is in her yard with Ryan Deschaine. He points at my house, and the girl spins around.
She waves.
I drop Barbie to wave back.
“No toys in the fish tank!” David cries. “It’s wet!”
“It’s okay,” I say out of the corner of my smile. “It was an accident. I’ll get her back out.”
Ryan keeps talking, his hands moving like he’s explaining something. I hope he isn’t saying things about me — especially not how I yelled at him when he called David a retard on the bus.
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
There’s a gazillion words and phrases I could choose, and none of them seem worth one of my two last cards.
So I push the blank cards aside and draw pictures for the others. Drawing a guinea pig is easy. I sketch an oval, fat and compact, add black eyes, tiny rounded ears, tucked-under feet, and a mess of every-which-way hair. A furry baked potato.
The other words are harder. What does “awesome” look like? A smiley face? A sunrise? A double hot-fudge sundae?
My door creaks open a couple inches. A brown eye peeks through the crack.
David never remembers to knock. It irritates me so much I taped this rule right above my doorknob.
This is Catherine’s room. David must knock!
“No toys in the fish tank,” he says.
I pull forward one of my two blank cards and write in big block letters an unbendable, sharp-cornered David-word:
RULE.
By the time I get to the living room, David’s already crouched in front of the fish tank, his smiling face reflected in the glass. Out the window behind the aquarium, I see Mom in the yard talking to the mailman.
And in the fish tank, one of my old Barbie dolls sits on the gravel, her arm raised in a friendly wave, as though she’s spotted Ken across the living room and is inviting him to join her.
And don’t forget the scuba equipment, darling!
Barbie’s pink-lipstick smile beams through the water, her long hair floating around her like a tangle of white-blond kelp. The goldfish nibble at it, and Barbie, Queen of the Fishes, waves cheerfully.
The goldfish are used to David dropping strange beings into their tank. They always swim over to check out the newest arrival and try to eat it. When that doesn’t work, they accept it, along with their usual plastic plants and little castle.
“Remember the rule.” I flip open the top of the aquarium. “No toys in the fish tank.”
David nods, but I’m not fooled. He may not buy into the fish tank rule, but he’s got this one down pat:
If you want someone to leave you alone, agree with her.
“You can only put things in here that belong,” I explain. “Like stuff you buy at a pet store. That’s all that goes in the fish tank.”
David leans in for a closer view as I pull Barbie up through the water. “‘“Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,” said Frog.’” He glances to me, hopeful.
Mom says David’ll never learn to talk right if we keep letting him borrow words, but his face is so full of please? I say, “‘“You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?” asked Toad.’”
Water from Barbie’s hair trickles down my arm as I hold her over the fish tank, waiting for the dripping to stop.
Through the window, I notice Mom’s gone and the girl next door is in her yard with Ryan Deschaine. He points at my house, and the girl spins around.
She waves.
I drop Barbie to wave back.
“No toys in the fish tank!” David cries. “It’s wet!”
“It’s okay,” I say out of the corner of my smile. “It was an accident. I’ll get her back out.”
Ryan keeps talking, his hands moving like he’s explaining something. I hope he isn’t saying things about me — especially not how I yelled at him when he called David a retard on the bus.
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
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