Rules by Cynthia Lord Page B

, tucked between the two storefronts, and climb the wide staircase.
    I love this place: the jumble of old, glittery broaches in the glass case, the worn pots and dishes and frayed baskets on the bookshelves. I can’t help stopping at the display of old bottles. If I had lots of money, I’d buy that ruby one for my bedroom windowsill. With sunlight shining through, I bet it’s beautiful.
    “Can I help you?” Elliot stands up, behind his desk. His desktop is buried with piles of papers and used books.
    Elliot is thin and old and always stooped, like he got tired of having to duck his head, so he does it always now.
    “I’m looking for a guitar.”
    I knew I couldn’t afford a new one at a department store or music store, and I don’t know if I can even afford an Elliot guitar, but I have to find out.
    He steps away from his desk and over boxes to reach me in the aisle. “I have a couple.” He adjusts his glasses on his sharp nose.
    I follow him through the maze of old chairs and tables covered with tools to the instruments. There’s a saxophone in an open case, looking dull against the black velvet. An organ is pushed against the wall, and next to that are three snare drums stacked one on top of the other. Four guitars rest against the side of the drums.
    Elliot shows them to me, and I can almost afford the cheapest acoustic one. It’s scratched and dusty, which is good news for me.
    Most places the price is the price, but sometimes Elliot will “take an offer,” especially if it’s something he’s had a long time and would like to get rid of. I show him my money.
    “That’s all I have.”
    “All right,” he says, and I own a guitar.
    Carrying it down the stairs, I worry that Jason will see me in the parking lot with the guitar, so I race to our car and quickly put it in the backseat.
    In the waiting room, I take out the words I made:
Seagull. Wharf. Park. Sailboat. Pathway. Bench. Together.
I made these cards extra special, the pictures detailed and beautiful. I want to remember the good parts of our walk, not the part with me on the ground, hiding from Kristi, hoping Jason won’t notice.
    When they arrive, Mrs. Morehouse looks to Jason’s finger stabbing his communication book. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me, young man!”
    Jason whirrs up beside me.
Hi. Catherine. Time. 1:00. My birthday party.
    “Great! I’ll be there.” I reach toward an empty pocket in his communication book with
Seagull.
but Jason grabs my arm to stop me.
Your. Brother. Can. Come.
    “To your party?” David would love to go, but it’ll be harder for me if he does. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He’ll want to watch your TV, and he’ll need to know if your cellar door’s closed, and —”
    OK. With. Me.
    Jason looks like he means it, so I suggest, “Maybe he could come at the end and have a piece of cake?”
    Jason nods.
Your. Neighbor. Friend. Can. Come. Too.
    “I’m sure Kristi’s busy with Ryan on Saturday, but thanks for inviting her.” I show him my cards. “Look, I made you words from the park.”
    Awesome!
He smiles.
Mom. Bought. New. Book. For. More. Words.
    I put
Seagull.
in a pocket. “That’s good, because you’re almost out of room in this one.”
    In fact, by the time I’m done,
Together.
has to go on the final page of his communication book. It sits by itself, a picture of the bench with two people sitting on it.
    Where? Wheelchair.
Jason pulls his brows together.
    “I imagined you without it. Like in your dream where you can run.”
    Want. Wheelchair. In. Picture.
    “I just thought —”
    Take. It. Out.
Jason looks away, frowning.
    I remove the card. “I remembered your dream. I thought you might like that.”
    “Is everything all right?” Mrs. Morehouse asks. I look over to see her staring at us. “Jason?” she asks. “Do you need something?”
    He puts his hand over the wheelchair joystick and whirrs through the waiting room, down the corridor.
    “I don’t think Jennifer’s