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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. On.
    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