by Cynthia Lord
“And the worst part,” I whisper so Mom can’t overhear, “David thinks Ryan’s his friend. He doesn’t understand Ryan’s only making fun of him.” I add the words fast. Cruel. Tease. Embarrassed. “And I get stuck making it better when it all goes wrong.” Hate. Unfair.
Beside me, little yellow-white sand grains cling to the wheel of Jason’s wheelchair. I wipe them away a few at a time and watch them disappear, too tiny to see fall.
“So I felt like that.” I touch Murky. “Stuck at the bottom of the pond, only this time the mud wasn’t letting go.”
Sometimes. Jason hesitates, his fingers held in the air over his book. I. Wish. Die.
“Don’t say that!”
Mrs. Morehouse startles. “What’s wrong?”
I look from Jason’s finger on Secret. to Mrs. Morehouse sitting forward in her chair. “He just surprised me, that’s all.” I flip through his pages to find words. I. Would. Miss. You.
Jason smiles.
But. Why? Wish. Die.
He shrugs. No. Word. Frustrating. Most.
I roll one last sand grain, perfect and sharp, between my finger and thumb.
I. Am. He turns the page in his book and points to Incomplete.
“No you’re not. But I know what you mean. Sometimes I don’t feel whole, either.” I find an empty pocket for Torn. “I feel like I’m ripping in half. One half wanting to run away and be a regular person with my friends, but my other half is scared to leave David because he can’t make it on his own.”
Make. Word. Please.
I open my backpack and reach for a blank card. “What do you need?”
Leg. Go. Very much. Fast.
“Run?”
He nods and I scribble the letters, leaning forward, rushing across the top of the card.
Jason taps, Sometimes. Asleep. I. Dream. I. Can. Run.
“Really?”
He nods. How? Does. It. Feel. To. Run.
“Strong.” I struggle for the right words. “And fast and in a weird way — weightless. Like if you could go fast enough, you’d fly. It’s an amazing, free feeling.” I squeeze my toes, imagining the slap of my sneakers on the sidewalk. “Is that how it feels in your dreams?”
No. He looks away from me, his lips pressed together.
How could I bring these words to comfort myself when they put that hurt in his face? “I could push you around the parking lot, really fast,” I joke. “That’d be close to running.”
Jason taps, Okay.
My smile freezes. “Okay?”
Sure. Why not?
Out the window, a man in a gray sweatshirt walks down the gift shop steps. A woman opens the door to Elliot’s Antiques, and a family comes out of the restaurant, laughing. Between the rows of parked cars, a seagull struts, looking side to side.
“Because there are cars out there, and tourists,” I say. “And seagulls!”
You. Can. Watch out!!! For. Car. Jason smiles. Bird. Will. Move.
“I don’t think —”
Tell. Mom. I’ll be right back. He stops his finger on Please.
I pull in a shaky breath. “Mrs. Morehouse? Jason and I are going out in the parking lot for a few minutes. We’re going for a run.” I say the last part extra quiet.
“A what?” She looks up from her magazine.
“A run.” I step behind Jason’s wheelchair and push. It rolls smoothly, easier than I expected across the carpet.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Mrs. Morehouse asks as we pass her.
I can’t see what Jason taps, but she moves to open the door. “Be careful, Catherine.” She fixes me with a stern look.
I grip the wheelchair handles as we go down the ramp, my muscles tight as rope. My palms feel slick, but I don’t dare relax even one finger, afraid he’ll roll from me.
At the bottom of the ramp, we both let go a relieved sigh. I turn the wheelchair to face the parking lot. “If this gets too wild, lift your hand and I’ll know to stop, okay?”
Jason nods. Run.
I jog, more a fast walk than a run. Jason’s head and shoulders shake as I bump him over cracks in the tar. There’s so much to watch out for: holes and rocks and sand near the side of the building.
I stop beside the Dumpster. “Sorry this is such a bouncy ride. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Run. Fast.
I start again, pushing Jason’s chair ahead of me. I run past the fire hydrant and around the parking sign, keeping a lookout for cars pulling into or out of the parking lot. Every few feet I shoot a lightning-quick glance at Jason’s hands.
He doesn’t pick them up, just holds tightly to his communication book. So I make the first turn, running faster. Clouds of seagulls take to the air in front of us, quarreling and shrieking.
Running hard now, my feet pound the tar, the flap of seagull wings as loud as my breath in my ears. People are looking, but I try not to see them as real, just statues to run past.
At the final turn, I see Mrs. Morehouse standing in the entrance to the parking lot, her palm out like a traffic cop, keeping cars from pulling in.
I dash past the mailbox, the EXIT HERE sign, past Mrs. Morehouse.
Leaning into it, faster, harder, my feet slap the pavement, until it comes — that weightless, near-to-flying fastness. “Do you feel it?” I yell to the back of Jason’s head.
But if he answers, it’s only in his head.
I run all the way to the clinic ramp. “How was that?”
Awesome!
I bend over to steady my breath. When I straighten up, I see not only is everyone in the waiting room standing at the clinic windows watching us, but a family on the sidewalk is staring, shopping bags in hand. And in several of the restaurant windows surrounding the parking lot, people have stopped eating to watch. Most of them have their mouths dropped open.
Jason waves.
A man in one of the restaurants gives a thumbs-up, and everyone in the waiting room cheers, Carol holding her baby high so he can see.
“One more time?” I ask Jason.
He grins. Excellent!
And we’re off! Past the windows and the Dumpster, around the parking sign. Seagulls billowing into the air at every turn.
Strong, flying-fast, and free, we run.
Though my legs are tired, I run faster up my driveway, trying to put every feeling into words for Jason’s cards. Fierce, hard — my sneakers slap the tar — swift, brisk. I take off across the lawn (squishy, springy), but as I round the far corner of the house, my feet slow to a walk.
Dad is kneeling in our garden, his back to me. Watching him, I think of Kristi at her dad’s for the weekend and Melissa in California with hers. Part of me wants to run up and hug Dad from behind or cover his eyes with my hands, like I did when I was little. “Guess who?” I’d say and he’d guess everyone but me — even though we both knew he was pretending because he’d give impossible answers like “Queen Elizabeth” or “Little Bo Peep.”
Before I can decide what to do, Dad spots me.
“Look, Cath.” He twists a ripe tomato from the vine and holds it out to me. “Isn’t this beautiful? I’m sure not many people have ripe tomatoes yet.”
I walk over and take it from him. “I bet we’re the first.”
Dad’s always proud we have tomatoes before anyone else. That’s because he starts the seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill while snow’s still deep on the ground.
I study the tomato closely, drawing it in my mind. It’s so smooth I’d need dense color, layered until not even a flicker of white paper showed through. Alone, each of my colored pencils would be too bright, but blended, I could make it look real. “People usually think tomatoes are red,” I say, “but they’re more red-orange with yellow-orange streaks. And there’s even the smallest hint of purple here in the creases.”
“Purple?” He looks over, his forehead lined with concern. “Is it mold?”
It feels stupid to be jealous of a tomato, but sometimes I think Dad
likes them more than he likes David and me. “No, it’s just a shadow.”
“Oh, good.” Dad turns a frilly leaf to check the underside. Standing above him, I’m startled to see more gray hair than brown on the top of Dad’s head. When did that happen?
“Have you heard from Melissa lately?” he asks.
“I got a postcard last week. Her father took her to Disneyland.” I roll my tomato between my hands, the prickly stem poking into my palm. “Maybe you and I could do something special, too? Just us?”
He sighs like it’s the millionth thing I’ve asked him for today, instead of the first. “You know we can’t afford something like that.”
“I don’t mean Disneyland. Just something, me and you.”
Dad smiles, but it’s a worn-out smile that doesn’t light his eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve been dealing with doctors and customers and staff all week. I really need to stay home today and be quiet a while.”
Watching him pick another tomato, I mouth words at the back of his head: “But what about me?”
“Maybe we could cook spaghetti tonight?” He places his tomato with the others in his basket. “These would make a great sauce.”
Before I can answer, Mom yells, “It’s three o’clock.”
Dad frowns at his watch. “I’d really like to finish up here first,” he calls to her. “I’m almost done.”
In the kitchen doorway, Mom crosses her arms over her stomach. “David has his shoes on already, and I have paperwork to do for my meeting on Monday.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad shouts.
The sound of Mom slamming the kitchen door makes me cringe. I’m torn between wanting to yell at him for choosing tomatoes over Mom and wanting to cry that he’s choosing David over me. “Maybe we could go to the mall?”
“You heard Mom, I have to take David to the video store. Do you want to come with us?”
“No, thanks. Maybe we could do something afterward?”
“Someday soon,” he says. “I promise.”
I drop my tomato in his basket with the others. I know he’s just promising to stop me from asking again. Walking away I turn once to check if Dad’s watching me go. Look for me. Staring at the back of his head, I imagine him turning left and right, searching.
He picks another tomato.
Monday morning my heart jumps to see the minivan in the driveway next door when I wake up. I get dressed and eat my breakfast in little bites so if Kristi calls I won’t answer with a mouthful of cereal.
At nine o’clock the phone rings. “I’ll get it!” I yell in the direction of the kitchen where Mom and David are still having breakfast.
Please don’t let it be one of Mom’s clients. Or Dad calling from work. I wait two more rings so it won’t seem like I was waiting next to the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Catherine? It’s Kristi.”
I mouth “yes!” to keep from squealing. “Hi.”
“I was wondering if you want to do something? I don’t have to be at the community center until noon.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
“Could we hang out at your house? Mine is crazy today,” Kristi says. “Mom forgot to tell me the plumber was coming, and now I can’t even have a shower.”
I’d like to say, “You can shower at my house” to be nice, but with David home, the embarrassment chances are too risky. “Want to go swimming?”
“There’s a pool?”
“It’s a pond, but it’s not far. There’s a raft and a little beach that anyone can use.”
She hesitates so long, I ask, “Are you still there?”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
In my bedroom I tug open the top drawer of my bureau to pick a bathing suit. The blue one-piece is good for swimming but not pretty. I love the purple-and-white bikini that looks like batik, but the top slides when I dive. So I’m left with the last suit: green with gold flowers, swimmable and not ugly.
Though I’m hurrying, I take a couple of seconds to stroke on cherry lip gloss and pink eye shadow, and comb my hair. Maybe I’ll try my hair loose today, parted a little on the side.
With jean shorts over my bathing suit, my favorite beach towel draped around my neck, sunscreen lathered, and flip-flops on, I’m ready.
Mom’s still in the kitchen with David. Kneeling beside a pile of wet paper towels, she’s cleaning a milk puddle from the linoleum. At the table David swings his legs, eating his cereal.
“Kristi and I are going to the pond,” I say. “I’ll be back by lunch.”
Mom looks up from the spilled milk. “I’m heading to the store. Would you like me to drop you girls off on the way?”
“No, thanks. We’ll walk.”
She gathers the wet paper towels. “David, when you’re finished, get your shoes on. We need to go to the grocery store and buy something for lunch.”
He looks up from his bowl of cereal at the table, milk drops clinging to his chin. “And a video?”
“Okay, but just this time.”
David bolts from his seat, pushing past me to drop his bowl in the sink. “Watch out, Frog!” he cries, bits of cereal splashing on the counter.
“Say ‘Excuse me, Catherine.’” When he doesn’t say it, Mom gets up to block the doorway. “Excuse me, Catherine,” she repeats, looking over her glasses at David.
The doorbell rings.
“See you later!” I squeeze past David and under Mom’s arm. Though my name’s part of the conversation, it’s got nothing to do with me.
I race down the hallway to the front door, but as soon as I see Kristi, I wish I’d picked the purple-and-white bikini. She looks pretty in a long T-shirt and sandals, her hair hanging over her shoulder in a single braid. “Can I borrow a beach towel?” she asks. “I couldn’t find mine.”
“Sure, I’ll go grab one.”
When I come back to the living room with my second-favorite beach towel, Kristi giggles. “There’s a duck in your fish tank.”
Behind her, the aquarium cover juts out at a crooked angle. In the tank David’s rubber duck bobs along the surface, a goldfish mouthing his tail.
“Come on.” I fake a smile, handing her the towel. “Let’s go.”
Outside the air smells summery, of mown grass and warm tar, and from somewhere high in the trees I hear a woodpecker rapping.
David is gone with Mom and I’m free, walking down the road with Kristi.
“I’ve never been swimming in a pond,” Kristi says, “only in pools and the ocean.”
“It’s fun.” I make sure to keep in step with Kristi. “Much warmer than the ocean — at least in Maine. It’s gooey at the bottom when you’re out a ways, but that’s only old pine needles and leaves. Once you get in, you probably won’t notice a big difference from a pool.”
She doesn’t look so sure.
Approaching the corner, I can’t believe how ordinary the bus stop looks in the summer, only another bend of sidewalk. Kristi slows, staring at Ryan’s empty yard.
Was I her second choice?
“Are there fish in here?” Kristi asks, kicking her sandals off on the sand.
I follow her gaze out across the pond to the fringe of pine and white birch trees on the other shore. “Only minnows come near the shore.”
On our side of the pond there’s a strip of sandy beach, but the far side has a steep, scooped-out bank, tangled with bushes and the roots of trees. “Once I overheard Ryan tell someone that there’s a big fish that lives under the raft,” I say, still smarting from Kristi’s long look at his house. “But I’ve never seen it, so he might be lying.”
Kristi wraps her fingers around her braid. “Is it deep?”
“Over my head, but not so deep I can’t swim down and touch. Sometimes we dare each other to bring back muck from the bottom.”
Her knuckles whiten on her braid.
“But we don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Good.” She walks to the shore, pulling off her T-shirt. Seeing
her candy-red bikini, I wish again I’d worn my purple-and-white one, even if I had to hold the top when I dove.
I undo my shorts. “I like your bathing suit.”
“I wanted to wear the new one my aunt gave me. But I think it’s with my laundry at Dad’s.” Kristi points her foot, skimming the water with her toes.
Standing in the pond, my ankles look crooked, cut by the water’s surface. I study the waterline’s ripple of distortion, wanting to capture it in my sketchbook.
“That’s a bad part of living in two places.” Kristi shudders, stepping into the pond with me. “I never have what I need at the right house. And Mom doesn’t get it. This morning she kept saying, ‘Just wear another bathing suit.’ like it didn’t matter.”
Watching her adjust the straps of her bikini top, I want to tell her I know how it feels to be split down the middle, too. Pulled between the regular world of school and friends, and David’s world where none of the same things matter. And how I don’t belong completely in either world, but —
When someone is upset, it’s not a good time to bring up your own problems.
Kristi takes a step farther into the water. “I hate this bathing suit. The straps are always falling down.”
I’m in water to my knees now. “I know what you mean. The top of my favorite bikini doesn’t fit perfect, and it slides. It’s never shown anything, but …”
Kristi smiles. “I had a bathing suit like that once. It drove me crazy.”
Stepping deeper, the cold tingles my thighs. I rub the goose bumps on my arms. “It’s always chilly at first, but you’ll get used to it. I promise.”
“Catherine, I’m sorry about the other day with the gum.”
I turn, but she’s not looking at me. Chin down, Kristi skims her fingertips across the surface of the water.
“David doesn’t get jokes sometimes.” The water feels warmer on my legs and I take another step.
“Ryan didn’t mean to upset him. He told me so.”
He didn’t mean to upset you. The tiny waves created from Kristi’s hands moving the water make a freezing tickle on my stomach.
“He said —”
“The bottom gets gooey here,” I say to change the subject. “If you dive in now, you don’t have to feel it.” Plunging forward, my chest and shoulders scream with the shock of cold. I go under, breaststroking, kicking hard, until my lungs ache and I can’t stay under one second more.