All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook by Leslie Connor Page B

with your mom?”
    Short. That’s what I think but not what I say. “I was really glad to see her.”
    â€œI’ll bet.”
    â€œShe gave me her clock. I put it next to the lamp.”
    â€œOh, nice . . . on the suitcase.” She says this with the kind of nod that lets me know she is picturing everything in place inside the closet. “Gosh. Have you been missing a clock all this time? You can ask for things. I’m good at finding stuff.” She grins at me. Then she says, “Something tells me you have the clock you really want.”
    I nod. “I just like that one because . . .” Why do I like it? It’s an ordinary clock. I could tell her that it’s because the clock has been around a long time. Or that I used to call it my pet turtle when I was little because of the way it folds into its own shell.
    â€œWell, it’s familiar to you,” Mrs. Samuels says. “You’vegot precious little in that room that feels that way. There’s no denying.”
    We listen to the burgers sizzle and pop. I toe the patio. Mrs. Samuels swings her foot. The wind rushes through the trees and turns the leaves inside out. It seems okay with her if we just sit like this. When it’s time to turn the burgers, she offers me the spatula and says, “Want to do the honors?”
    And I do. Zoey comes outside, and the three of us sit in the breeze while the burgers finish. I think all of us are wondering if hailstones will fall.
    At the VanLeer table, I pick up my burger and give it a good look. I have never eaten one quite like this—with the onion. What would Eggy-Mon say?
    â€œA patty grilled nice, with a thick onion slice?” Or maybe he’d be creative. “A patty flipped twice with a fat crying slice?” I’m thinking that I stink at poetry, but I like trying anyway. I like doing this Blue River thing.
    â€œPerry? Is that a grin I see?” VanLeer is looking at me.
    Zoey flaps a hand at him as if she wants him to leave me alone. I think about mentioning the food poetry to the VanLeers. Then I think not. Not while Mr. VanLeer is here. He could say something that would take the good part out of it. I’m seeking to understand him.
    I guess any new intake would say it: Some things, I get pretty quickly. Others are more work.

chapter twenty-nine
PICTIONARY THIS
    W hile I am seeking to understand and helping to put dishes in the dishwasher, I learn that Saturday night is game night at the VanLeer house. Zoey says, “Pfft. We talk about it more than we do it. Playing with three people is dull.”
    I say, “Well, maybe with me as a fourth . . .”
    â€œYeah . . .” Zoey points back and forth between us and announces, “Yeah! Okay, Perry and I are a team.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Mr. VanLeer nods.
    Mrs. Samuels says, “Uh-oh. We’re going to get trounced.”
    Zoey gets out a game called Pictionary. She’s on a mission, pulling out cards and pens and papers. “Have you played before, Perry? I’m psyched. We’re going to wipe the floor with them.”
    I haven’t played the game from a box. But when Zoey explains it I know that it is the same game we play on thedry-erase board in the common. I tell her, “No worries. We’ve got this.”
    We gather at a little square table in the VanLeer family room. Adults sit on the couch. Zoey and I are on big floor pillows. It’s not long before we’re laughing our heads off.
    I smile as I draw a bloopy round head with two eyes and a tiny O mouth.
    Zoey wiggles when she guesses. “Head. Face. Kiss?”
    I draw just a few dots coming from the mouth and she shouts. “Spit! Spit! It’s spit! Oh, sorry, I think I just spit a little.”
    â€œAw, beautiful,” says her mom. Zoey falls over laughing. I pull her back up by one arm. She’s like a rag doll.
    â€œOkay, okay. Our point. Tom, you’re up. Mom