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mother’s high heels announce her approach. Sam has never understood why his mother wears shoes that make walking harder than it already is. She is leaning over him now, and he longs to reach out and hug her. He doesn’t want to let her go until he has told her every detail of his day at school.
    “I’m glad to hear you liked school,” his mother says softly into his ear.
    Just once, Sam wishes that his mother would ask him a question. But tonight, she does the next best thing. She looks out his window.
    “You’re always watching that basketball court.” His mother squeezes his shoulder too hard. He knows that she means it as a sign of affection, but this hurts. “Sometimes, I wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”
    Her shoes tap, slide and glide as she heads toward her bedroom. Sam tries to decipher the unfamiliar pattern. Finally, he understands. His mother isn’t walking. She’s dancing.
    “Time for dinner,” Miss Perkins says. She waves a plate of mashed potatoes and pureed green beans before his nose.
    Sam hates green beans, but it’s hard not to eat them when Miss Perkins controls the spoon. As he swallows the disgusting green mash, he listens to his mother talk on the phone. She is pacing their small apartment, and her voice cuts in and out. “I’ve been really busy, lately, Celeste. The law firm has a new client, Mr. Jordache…”
    Sam has only met Celeste McGregor once. She is a mousy woman who brought his mother a stack of movie magazines when she came to visit. His mother’s many friends come and go from his life like shadows.
    “He’s promised to take me dancing…,” his mother says into the phone. “You’re always saying that I’m too young to give up on my life. Well, I’m starting to agree with you.”
    While Sam keeps a watchful eye on the court, he pays attention to the rise and fall of his mother’s voice rather than to her words. He’s waiting for Mickey.
    Maybe it’s because Sam saw Mickey up close today, but for the first time he imagines Mickey away from the basketball court. He imagines Mickey living in an apartment about the size of Sam’s. But Sam’s apartment is generally quiet. What would it feel like to live with an adult who shouted all the time? Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Sort of like being chained to a wheelchair.
    Sam’s disappointed. The court stays empty. Mickey doesn’t come out tonight.

Chapter Seven

    At nine p.m. that night, Sam is lying on his bed which is low to the floor. His body feels heavy like it always does when he is settled for the night and doesn’t need to make the effort to move for another eight hours. Higher than his bed, his table and chair are the only other pieces of furniture. Sam likes rooms which are nearly empty. It’s easier to get around in his chair.
    The shuffle of house shoes stops, and Sam’s heart flip-flops when the light floods through the open door.
    Although his mother is a small woman, the end of his bed sinks with her weight. Her dark hair, not yet rolled onto orange juice cans, falls to her shoulders in waves. His own curly hair and long dark eyelashes are the reason that people say, “You look just like your beautiful mother.”
    “Hi, MMom,” Sam greets her.
    “Hi, Sam,” she answers softly. She has her hand behind her back. “I just wanted to tell you that I am so happy that you had a good day at school.”
    “GGGood,” Sam says, meaning: yes, today was a good day.
    “I’m proud of you, more proud than you’ll ever know.”
    Sam feels his chest expand.
    “When I came home from school on my first day, my father gave me a pony,” his mother says.
    This is a familiar story. As Sam repeats the pony’s name in his head: Peter, he experiences the sadness that he always does when he thinks of his grandparents who he rarely sees and hardly knows.
    “Peter,” his mother says. “My mother braided Peter’s tail with a green ribbon. For a joke, my father put a Teddy bear on Peter’s