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
“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
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