Free Rules by Cynthia Lord Page B

one finger, afraid he’ll roll from me.
    At the bottom of the ramp, we both let go a relieved sigh. I turn the wheelchair to face the parking lot. “If this gets too wild, lift your hand and I’ll know to stop, okay?”
    Jason nods.
Run.
    I jog, more a fast walk than a run. Jason’s head and shoulders shake as I bump him over cracks in the tar. There’s so much to watch out for: holes and rocks and sand near the side of the building.
    I stop beside the Dumpster. “Sorry this is such a bouncy ride. Are you sure you want to do this?”
    Run. Fast.
    I start again, pushing Jason’s chair ahead of me. I run past the fire hydrant and around the parking sign, keeping a lookout for cars pulling into or out of the parking lot. Every few feet I shoot a lightning-quick glance at Jason’s hands.
    He doesn’t pick them up, just holds tightly to his communication book. So I make the first turn, running faster. Clouds of seagulls take to the air in front of us, quarreling and shrieking.
    Running hard now, my feet pound the tar, the flap of seagull wings as loud as my breath in my ears. People are looking, but I try not to see them as real, just statues to run past.
    At the final turn, I see Mrs. Morehouse standing in the entrance to the parking lot, her palm out like a traffic cop, keeping cars from pulling in.
    I dash past the mailbox, the EXIT HERE sign, past Mrs. Morehouse.
    Leaning into it, faster, harder, my feet slap the pavement, until it comes — that weightless, near-to-flying fastness. “Do you feel it?” I yell to the back of Jason’s head.
    But if he answers, it’s only in his head.
    I run all the way to the clinic ramp. “How was that?”
    Awesome!
    I bend over to steady my breath. When I straighten up, I see not only is everyone in the waiting room standing at the clinic windows watching us, but a family on the sidewalk is staring, shopping bags in hand. And in several of the restaurant windows surrounding the parking lot, people have stopped eating to watch. Most of them have their mouths dropped open.
    Jason waves.
    A man in one of the restaurants gives a thumbs-up, and everyone in the waiting room cheers, Carol holding her baby high so he can see.
    “One more time?” I ask Jason.
    He grins.
Excellent!
    And we’re off! Past the windows and the Dumpster, around the parking sign. Seagulls billowing into the air at every turn.
    Strong, flying-fast, and free, we run.

Though my legs are tired, I run faster up my driveway, trying to put every feeling into words for Jason’s cards. Fierce, hard — my sneakers slap the tar — swift, brisk. I take off across the lawn (squishy, springy), but as I round the far corner of the house, my feet slow to a walk.
    Dad is kneeling in our garden, his back to me. Watching him, I think of Kristi at her dad’s for the weekend and Melissa in California with hers. Part of me wants to run up and hug Dad from behind or cover his eyes with my hands, like I did when I was little. “Guess who?” I’d say and he’d guess everyone but me — even though we both knew he was pretending because he’d give impossible answers like “Queen Elizabeth” or “Little Bo Peep.”
    Before I can decide what to do, Dad spots me.
    “Look, Cath.” He twists a ripe tomato from the vine and holds it out to me. “Isn’t this beautiful? I’m sure not many people have ripe tomatoes yet.”
    I walk over and take it from him. “I bet we’re the first.”
    Dad’s always proud we have tomatoes before anyone else. That’s because he starts the seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill while snow’s still deep on the ground.
    I study the tomato closely, drawing it in my mind. It’s so smooth I’d need dense color, layered until not even a flicker of white paper showed through. Alone, each of my colored pencils would be too bright, but blended, I could make it look real. “People usually think tomatoes are red,” I say, “but they’re more red-orange with yellow-orange streaks. And there’s