My head against the car window, I cross my legs and arms, folding the ache inside. Beside me, David holds his hands over his ears.

“Did David do something to upset you?” Mom asks.

Unbelievable! I look up to the rearview mirror. “You were supposed to watch him! You promised!”

“I could see him,” she says. “He wasn’t doing any harm.”

“He was opening doors!”

“So what? He opened one door.” Her eyes flash to mine in the mirror. “For goodness’ sakes, Jason’s family understands.”

“Understands what? That we’re as different as they are? Is that supposed to make it okay?”

“Shh,” Mom says, her eyes moving to David.

I look at him, wishing he’d take his hands off his ears and say, “It’s going to be all right, Catherine. Don’t worry,” or “I’ll try harder next time,” or even “I’m sorry.”

But he only sits, rocking gently, a faraway smile on his face.

“Do you want me to call Mrs. Morehouse and apologize?” Mom asks.

“It’s too late.” I turn to stare unfocused out the window, the side of the road becoming a sand-colored smear. “Jason asked me to the community center dance. When I said no, he asked if I was embarrassed about him.”

“Are you?” Mom asks.

“No … well … the rest of the world isn’t like the clinic. Other places, people stare. Or they hurry away, and I know what they’re thinking. ‘Oh, isn’t that too bad,’ or ‘What’s wrong with that kid?’ or ‘Whew, I’m glad that’s not me.’ I get so sick of it.”

“Just because other people think something, that doesn’t make it true.”

Maybe there’s some truth in that, but it’s unsatisfying, bitter-tasting truth. I glance at David. “It doesn’t make it easy, either.”

“No, it doesn’t make it easy.”

David stops rocking and gives me a fleeting look. “I’m sorry, Frog.”

For once, Mom doesn’t correct him.

At home Mom says she has to drop paperwork off at a few clients’ houses. “You can both come or you can babysit David.”

“I’ll babysit.” I’ve had enough of David at other people’s houses for one day. I dump a puzzle on the living room floor, glad for the simple right and wrong of a single, perfect fit.

“Where’s the sky, Frog?” David asks, beside me.

I hunt for sky-blue and cloud-white pieces. First, the top-left corner, then another straight-edged piece of blue. I hold up a cloud. “I think this is next.”

David’s hand shoots out, grabs the piece from my fingers, and snaps it in place.

Piece by piece, the sky appears, a put-together line of blue and white. Reaching the top-right corner, David hunts for the second row of pieces, sharp-pointed roofs and the tops of trees.

I leave him leaning over the puzzle, his hair falling forward as he picks up pieces and discards them, one after one.

In my room I open my sketchbook to the page with ‘guilty,’ ‘complicated,’ ‘hidden,’ and ‘weak.’

Out the window, Kristi’s driveway is empty, and I don’t even care. I miss Melissa. I miss how she goes swimming at the pond with me and isn’t afraid. I miss how we build mazes and guinea-pig playgrounds on my floor for Cinnamon and Nutmeg. I miss being myself with my friend and not having to try so hard.

If she were home, I could tell Melissa everything about Jason and Kristi and she wouldn’t laugh unless I did.

“Fix it?” David stands behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Next time, don’t forget to knock.” I hold out my hand and feel a cassette dropped on my palm. But when I look, there are two long lines of tape hanging down, snapped.

David folds my fingers around his cassette. “You can fix it?”

“No.”

He puts his hand over his ears. “Don’t worry. You can fix it.”

“You don’t get it. I can’t fix it!” I throw the cassette. It clangs, hitting the bottom of my trash can.

“Fix it!” David screams.

“When someone is upset, it’s not a good time to bring up your own problems!” I scream back. “Why don’t you understand? No toys in the fish tank! Chew with your mouth closed! Don’t open or close doors at other people’s houses!”

David drops to the floor and wraps his arms over his knees. “Trash goes in the garbage can,” he says, between sobs. “That’s the rule.”

He’s crying so hard, his whole body shakes. I get David’s cassette from the trash, but it’s too broken. “I can’t fix it.”

Tears fill my eyes. I walk over and kneel beside him. Circling his knees and shoulders with my arms, I lay my chin on David’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Toad.”

Each phone ring sounds like a long breath in my ear. One ring-breath. Please be home. Beside me, David leans against my arm.

Two rings. Please listen.

Three. Please —

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Catherine.”

When Mrs. Morehouse doesn’t say anything, for a split second I think about hanging up, but somehow I squeeze the words around the lump in my throat. “Can I talk to Jason?”

Mrs. Morehouse pauses. “Just a minute.”

Waiting, my heart throbs: please, please, please.

“Catherine?” Mrs. Morehouse says. “He doesn’t want to come to the phone.”

“Would you tell him something for me? Would you tell him I’m sorry, and I’d like to invite him to the dance tonight.”

She sighs. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be there in an hour. Please tell him I really want him to come.” I give her the details, even though she won’t even promise to tell him.

Hanging up, I say to David, “Now we’re calling Dad.”

The pharmacy worker who answers the phone tells me Dad’s busy, but I say it’s an emergency.

“Catherine! What’s wrong?” Dad asks.

“You need to come home,” I say. “But on the way, you need to stop at the mall and buy a cassette of Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel. It’s very important. Are you writing this down?”

“Catherine, I have to —”

“We matter, too!” I snap. “You need to buy Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel and a new cassette player and come home now.”

“Of course you matter, just give me a few —”

I hang up.

After changing into my favorite jean skirt and black tank top, I sit on the front porch with David, brushing my hair and watching the road.

Twenty-three cars later, Dad drives in the driveway.

“Come on, David.” I take his hand. “I’m going to a dance.”