Rules by Cynthia Lord Read Free Book Online

swallow them back. Of course he couldn’t babysit. “Um.”
    When you say something stupid, gloss over it with superfast talking and maybe no one’ll notice.
    “The next word is ‘drawing.’ I picked it because it’s one of my favorite things to do.” Looking for a good empty pocket, it hits me — he can’t draw.
    But Jason’s already seen the word, so there’s nothing to do but slide the card into a pocket beneath my name.
    What? Guinea pig. Eat.
    “Huh?”
    What? Guinea pig.
Jason waits for me to say each word before he taps the next.
Eat.
    “What do guinea pigs eat?”
    Yes.
    “Oh. Mostly they eat pellets from the pet store, but they’ll eat almost anything. Once I left a library book too close to their cage and they ate off half the cover. That was hard to explain to the librarian, let me tell you.”
    Jason laughs, a sharp bark like a Canada goose. His mother looks up from her magazine as I scan the room and see everyone watching us.
    “Uh, but I think carrots are their favorite.” I lean away from Jason. “They can hear me snap a carrot all the way from the kitchen.”
    Jason closes his lips tight.
Thank you. Catherine. New. Words.
    “No problem.” I stare at the rows of plain, black-and-white cards and wish that all his cards were colorful. “Would you like me to make more?”
    Awesome! Tell. Mom.
    “Excuse me, Mrs. Morehouse? Jason wants me to make him more words.”
    She walks over, and I watch her eyebrows go up as her gaze sweeps Jason’s book. “How many cards would you like?” she asks.
    I don’t know where my voice comes from, but it says, “All of them.”
    She looks surprised but hands me the whole stack. When she’s settled back with her magazine, I slide the blank cards into my shorts pocket. “I’m sorry I drew you that day,” I whisper to Jason.
    Don’t. Like. Picture. Me.
    “I didn’t mean any —”
    “HI, JASON!”
    For the first time, I’m sorry to see his speech therapist stride into the waiting room.
    “How’s his day been going?” she asks his mother.
    “Wonderful,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “In fact, he was so anxious to come to speech today, he even changed his shirt for you.”
    “How nice!” the therapist says. “WE DO HAVE FUN” (two fingers tapping her nose then swinging down to her other hand) “DON’T WE?” (cheesy grin).
    Jason sneaks his hand over his cards.
Speech. Woman. Stinks a big one!!!
    I nod and tap,
Very much.
    As his therapist pushes his wheelchair toward the corridor, Jason glances back to me.
    “See you Thursday,” I say.
    His therapist’s voice grows softer the farther she goes. I turn to my rule collection and add:
    Some people think they know who you are, when really they don’t.

On Wednesday morning the minivan is gone from the driveway next door, so I busy myself collecting words and phrases for Jason in the blank spaces of my sketchbook. Words from commercials, conversations, and books run between my doodles and across the backs of my drawings. The driveway remains empty until after dark.
    An hour before OT on Thursday, I lay my sketchbook open on my desk and flip the pages, hunting for the right words and phrases to put on Jason’s cards.
    Why not?
    He already has “why,” but “why not” is pushier — like “why” with a fist on its hip.
    Out my window I see the minivan still parked next door. Why not? Because Mom’s calling clients and Dad’s at work so David’s my responsibility — that’s why.
    “Just for an hour,” Mom said, “until we have to leave for OT. I’ve put on a Thomas the Tank Engine video so he shouldn’t be any trouble.”
    I pull forward two blank cards and scrawl:
    Yeah, right.
    Whatever.
    I know she needs me to babysit sometimes, but I hate when she tells me he shouldn’t be any trouble. Trouble comes quick with David, and “should” doesn’t have anything to do with it. He should remember to flush the toilet, too, but that doesn’t mean it happens.
    When Mom had gone, I took