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“Glib?” I repeated.
“Slick. Easy.”
“I know what glib means. I’m just hurt you think of me that way.”
“Look at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You’re essentially making fun of the topic.”
“Just trying to keep it entertaining for my reader. I wouldn’t want to bore him.”
“I want you to take this seriously.”
“I did! I mean, for the most part. Come on! It’s a perfectly fine essay and you know it.”
“It’s not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “What’s this book you reference here? The Smith Saga? I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s because I made it up.” I gri
He groaned. “I should have guessed. That quotation is too perfect. You can’t do that on the actual test. It’s dishonest.”
“The teacher who ran the SAT workshop at school said we could. She said that the readers don’t have time to check all the references so we should just make some up if we can’t think of anything.”
“That’s a really bad idea,” he said. “If she’s wrong and someone does look it up, you’re going to be docked a ton.”
“Says you.”
He shoved the laptop away. “If you’re not even going to listen to anything I say—”
“Relax.” I touched his arm. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I promise I won’t do that on the real test.”
“Good.” He moved his arm away. “I want to help you do well on this. But you have to actually work with me a little bit.”
“I will. I’m going to be a good student for the rest of the evening, okay? We can even do the most miserable math problems and I won’t complain.”
“Thank you.” He held his hand out, palm up. “May I put your cell phone away again?”
“Only if you’ll put yours away, too. I want your undivided attention.”
“Deal.” He took the two phones and left them on the counter side by side.
It was easier to dodge work and get us off track when Heather was around, which she was for our Sunday session. Heather was always willing to talk about something—anything—other than what we were supposed to be doing, and while George had no problem telling me to shut up and get back to work, he wasn’t so blunt with her. In fact, he was nicer to her than he was to me in general—gentle when she got frustrated, patient when she was slow, quick to reassure her and build up her confidence. When she got an answer wrong, he always found something encouraging to say about it—like that she was on the right path or had “some good ideas.” When I got something wrong, he just told me to be more careful and to try harder.
After he snapped at me for not paying attention, I called him on it. “Why are you so much nicer to her than to me?”
“I’m not.”
I appealed to Heather. “Isn’t he?”
“He’s nice to both of us,” she said. “Just in different ways. He knows you’re smarter than me so he expects more from you.”
“Ellie’s not smarter than you,” George said. “She’s just more confident than you. We need to build up your confidence.”
“And tear mine down?” I asked.
“Someone’s got to.”
“See?” I said. “That was mean.”
He ignored that and pointed to the multiple-choice answers on the screen in front of us. “A, B, C, or D, Ellie? And tell me why.”
“B.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because it’s right.”
He let out an aggrieved sigh. “Fine. How about the next one? Try to be systematic: eliminate the obviously wrong ones and narrow your choices down before jumping to a—”
“It’s C.”
“You need to slow down or you’re going to get tricked into picking the wrong answer.”
“But it is C,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said wearily. “It’s C.”
“Wait, why isn’t it B?” asked Heather.
fourteen
The Friday before the SATs, Mom ordered me to stay home to study and get a good night’s sleep.
I said sweetly, “Exactly how much studying did you do for the SATs?”
“I wish I’d had your opportunities! It’s a luxury to get tutoring for the SATs. It’s a luxury to go to college. It’s a luxury—”
“To have someone else do your hair and makeup?” I suggested, because she was waiting for Roger to come.
She shrugged. “So we’re both a little spoiled these days.”
“Where are you guys going tonight anyway?”
“It’s an autism fund-raiser.”
I had been idly clicking through some Facebook photos of a friend, but now I glanced up at her. “Really? How’d Luke get involved with that?”
“He didn’t. I was looking at their website and read that this thing was coming up and I offered to come with Luke. They were thrilled. As you can imagine.”
“Why were you on their site?”
She leaned against the counter and threaded her slim fingers together. “I was looking for some information. I’ve been wondering about Jacob.”
“Seriously?” That made me feel a little sick to my stomach. Jacob couldn’t have autism, could he? He was just a late talker. With some weird habits.
“Yeah. A lot of it fits: the late talking, the rigidity, the way he stares off into space. . . . I want to take him to someone to get diagnosed, but Luke already thinks I’m being over-the-top with the speech therapy and I can’t face plunging into something this big without his support. So I’m still trying to figure it all out.”
“You don’t really think he’s autistic, do you?” I tried to picture what that meant. Someone silent, rocking in the corner, ignoring the world? That wasn’t Jacob. He loved being held and listening to music and watching videos.
“I don’t know. I don’t want him to be. I want someone to tell me I’m wrong. But he’s still barely talking, even with the speech therapy.”
I stood up and hugged her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Jacob’s still really little. He just needs time.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But something doesn’t feel right to me.”
“He’s a late bloomer. Like the lion in that book you used to read to me when I was little.”
“You loved that book. You used to ask for it every night—you could ask for it. You were talking so much by Jacob’s age.”
I stepped back with an exaggerated toss of my head. “Well, I’m extraordinary. You can’t judge Jacob by me. That’s not fair.” I was hoping to make her laugh, but her smile was sad.
Roger showed up a couple of hours later—I guess his car had been repaired—and made Mom look fancy; then he left, and Mom and Luke got picked up by a limousine.
Mom had asked Lorena to babysit so I’d be free to study. Lorena made chicken and rice for di
The speech therapist he was now seeing a couple times a week said we should get him to say words whenever possible, and had suggested a few she knew he could do. So I made him say “more” before each click. It sounded kind of like “mah” when he said it, but it was close enough. The second he’d say, “Mah,” I’d click my glass against his and cry out, “Cheers!” or “Skol!” or a couple of times “Cheese—I mean, cheers!” which totally cracked him up. I started laughing because he was laughing—Jacob’s laugh was like bubbles and puppies; you couldn’t resist it.
Mom couldn’t be right: no way was this happy, adorable kid autistic.
Eventually Lorena whisked him away for his bedtime bath and I settled down to work on some practice SAT questions. But I kept checking my phone for texts. I wasn’t expecting any—I just didn’t feel like studying.
The doorbell rang, which meant it had to be someone who already knew the gate code. I ran into the foyer and opened the front door.
“If you’re checking up on whether or not I’m studying, I am,” I told George, who was standing on the front step with a bag in his hand.