Alone on the bleachers I run my hands over my knees to wipe the sweat away. In the half-lit gym, the white stripes on the floor and the basketball backboards almost glow. My fingers long for a fat paintbrush to stroke color across the white backboards: bloodred, electric blue, tangerine — blistering colors.

But I have nothing to hold and nothing to do but wait.

I’ve checked all along the sides of the gym, across the dance floor, out in the hallway, even past the little offices holding sports equipment. The lit clock above the EXIT sign barely moves, and I make deals with myself. He’ll come when the minute hand is on the four.

The music blares. I can’t hear my feet tap, but someone must’ve spilled a drink because my sandals catch on something sticky. Worry twines in my chest, and I keep unsticking my feet, in case I need to run out to find Dad and tell him I want to go home, now. I last saw him and David drinking grape sodas on the stairs.

Jason’ll come when the minute hand is on the six.

Watching kids dancing, I flicker my fingers on my knees. Some of the dancers look goofy — one boy reminds me of David, his elbows bent sharply. But there are so many kids, it doesn’t matter. The other dancers make room for him.

I see kids from school I recognize, but no Kristi or Ryan.

My fingers trace a cut in the wood of the bleacher beside me, over and over. I slide my fingers along the groove, feeling every bump.

Jason’ll come when the minute hand is on the eleven.

It’s hot inside the gym from all the kids, and I wish I could get a drink or step outside and breathe some cooler air, but I’m afraid I’ll miss Jason. So I lean back, rest my elbows on the bleacher behind me, and look at the ceiling. I imagine the beams gone, the roof pulled away, only the endless night sky above me, full of stars.

The song ends, and kids fill in the bleachers around me. Some kids turn back to the dance floor as another song begins. It hurts how life goes on, unknowing. All these kids walking by, heading to the dance floor or toward the hallway.

Not even seeing me.

I watch a girl move toward the door. In the bright light from the hallway, she darkens to a shadow, passing the outline of a wheelchair in the doorway.

“Sorry! Excuse me!” I step around knees and feet, trying not to push but wanting to shove past everyone. “I have to get over there.”

As I come closer, Jason looks at me, eyes narrowing. Mrs. Morehouse stands at his side.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “I really wanted to talk to you.”

“I’ll be in the hall where it’s quieter,” Mrs. Morehouse says. “Come get me if you need me.”

“Excuse me,” I call over and over to kids’ backs, making room for us to move down the quiet hallway outside the community center offices. Through the windows, I see the dark outline of grape clusters of basketballs, stacks of pointed traffic cones, and a rack of hockey sticks.

Standing next to Jason, I don’t know what to say to get started. “It’s a nice night out.”

Jason turns his wheelchair to leave.

“Wait!” I reach into my skirt pocket and pull out my first word. Complicated.

Jason lifts his eyebrows.

I kneel to be at his eye level. “I see how kids stare at David and it hurts me, because I know what they’re thinking. Or even worse, they don’t look at him, just around him, like he’s invisible. It makes me mad, because it’s mean and it makes me invisible, too.”

Jason watches my face, but his hand moves to give me room to reach the last empty pockets of his communication book.

Hidden. “I didn’t tell Kristi everything about you. I didn’t tell her about your wheelchair or your communication book. I didn’t know how she’d react. I should’ve because you’re my friend, but it got harder and harder.” I drop my gaze to the tiled floor. “No, that’s an excuse, too. The real truth is I was scared what she might think of me, not you.”

When I look up, Jason is staring toward the dark windows of the community center offices.

“You’re a good friend,” I say, “and I’ve been —” Weak.

“Catherine?”

I knew this moment was coming, but I still feel caught red-handed. Kristi hurries up the hall, wearing white jeans and a bright pink shirt. “I thought you couldn’t come! I’m so happy you changed your mind.”

Beside her, Ryan puts his hand on her arm.

I stand up. “Jason, this is Ryan and my next-door neighbor, Kristi.”

Her smile slips. “Hi.”

“Kristi, this is Jason.”

She glances from Ryan to me to Jason. “Uh, happy birthday.”

Thank you.

Kristi looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

“Jason can’t talk so he uses these cards, and I’ve been making words for him.” I smile at Jason. “He’s my very good —” I tap, Friend.

She looks where I’m pointing, to the card of a girl’s hand waving.

Jason taps, Catherine. Talk. About. You. All the time.

“Really?” Kristi makes a hmm sound. “She could’ve told me more about you.”

Ryan pulls Kristi’s arm. “Come on, Kris.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve told you the truth.”

“Yeah,” she says flatly, not looking at me. “You should’ve. I’ll see you around.”

As they walk away, I open my hand to show Jason my last card. “I have one more.”

He shakes his head. Don’t. Want. It.

I fold Guilty. until it’s so small it won’t fold again.

Jason starts his wheelchair down the hall.

“Wait,” I say, rushing to catch up. “Where are you going?”

Dance. Do you want to come?

“But I don’t —”

Break. Dance. RULE. Jason tips his head down, looking under his eyebrows at me, like he’s expecting me to blast off on a wild, chatty detour. And a detour sits on my tongue like an airplane waiting on the runway. All systems go, cleared for takeoff.

“All right.” I follow him down the hallway and out across the dark gym floor to the very center where there’s a clearing in the kids.

Next to me a girl lifts her arms above her head. One by one the other dancers join her, palms reaching upward, swaying back and forth.

Jason joins them, palms open. Standing there, in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone, I lift my hands and reach for the ceiling, the sky, the stars.

And I dance.