Before I climb into bed, I circle the date on my calendar when Melissa will be home. I have so much to tell her, not the least of which is I danced with a boy who isn’t even related to me, and I liked it.

And on Tuesday, I’m not bringing my backpack to the clinic, only me. If Jason needs a word I’ll make it, but I’ll wait for him to ask.

I lift my shade and imagine a beam flashing from Kristi’s dark window, counting dashes and dots.

A-r-e y-o-u t-h-e-r-e?

But there is no light. Her window stays dark, only the streetlamps and the stars shine, white brightness.

The tiniest knock comes, and my door creaks open. David stands framed in the light from the living room. “No toys in the fish tank.”

I slide my slippers on and follow.

In the aquarium a toy wizard stands on the gravel, his wand raised, mid-spell. Standing beside the castle, he’s so big only his pointy shoe would fit through the tiny castle door.

Oops! Wrong spell!

And instead of a fierce dragon to slay, a huge, curious goldfish mouths the end of the wizard’s hat.

I can’t help but laugh.

“‘“What are you laughing at, Frog?”’” David asks, worried lines cutting his forehead.

I touch the tiny frog stamp on his hand and show him mine. “‘“I am laughing at you, Toad,” said Frog, “because you do look funny in your bathing suit.”’”

David smiles. “‘“Of course I do,” said Toad. Then he picked up his clothes and went home.’”

“The end.”

Tomorrow I’m going to tell Mom she has a point about David needing his own words, but other things matter, too. Like sharing something small and special, just my brother and me.

Kneeling beside David, our arms touching, our faces reflect side by side, in the glass.

I let that be enough.