Free The Next Thing on My List by Jill Smolinski Page B

into?’
    ‘ I’ m joking. Sweetie, when you were that age, I’ d have loved it if a caring adult took you out to do fun activities. Maybe you would have been open to that. Lord knows I tried to get you to try new things.’
    ‘ You did? I don’ t remember that. Like what?’
    ‘ Oh, you know, learning to play an instrument or taking up a sport.’
    ‘ Bob did enough of that for both of us,’  I grumbled jealously. My brother-eleven months older than me-had so many activities on his college applications that he had to cut a few for space.
    ‘ He did always prefer to keep busy,’  my mom agreed, as usual turning a deaf ear to the sibling rivalry brewing. ‘ But you know what I always appreciated about you?’
    ‘ What?’
    ‘ I loved how you seemed content being who you were. Didn’ t always have to go running around proving things. Of course, you could have watched less TV. But-’
    ‘ You thought I was content?’
    ‘ Absolutely. From the day you were born. Your brother cried and fussed so much as a baby. I had to entertain him almost every minute of the day. But you-we hardly ever had to pick you up. You’ d lie there in your crib for hours at a time, gurgling away. Staring at the ceiling& happy as can be.’

    THE AFTERNOON HAZE refused to lift. Even at five o’ clock when Rose Morales and I pulled up to Deedee’ s house, the sky continued to cast its gloomy spell. Luckily, the homes in the neighborhood were painted in intense yellows, pinks, and blues, so they practically generated their own light.
    Where Deedee lived was almost tiny enough-yard and all-to fit inside my apartment. It sat mere yards from the entrance to the Marina Freeway. Even though cars roared by, a group of boys attempted to play a game of soccer on the street. I felt a twinge of rent-controlled guilt knowing that they probably paid twice what I did.
    Rose put her Honda Civic in park and rolled up her window. The plan was to visit with Deedee and her mother for a few minutes. The mother didn’ t speak any English, so Rose would serve as interpreter. Then Rose and I would take Deedee to the Sizzler for dinner.
    ‘ Anything else I should know?’  I asked before getting out of the car. Frankly, I was nervous about meeting a blind woman who didn’ t speak the same language as me. What were we going to do-feel each other hello? I supposed we could chat about burritos or huevos con queso, my command of Spanish being limited to food words.

    Reading my worries, Rose assured me, ‘ It’ ll be fine. Maria is a kind woman, and you and Deedee are going to hit it off. If for any reason you don’ t, you’ ll let me know. We’ ll find you another match. It’ s that simple.’
    We walked to the house, and Rose rang the doorbell. After a moment, a boy answered the door. He was about ten years old, with a wide mouth and a haircut that looked as if it might have been self-inflicted. He left us there, shouting in Spanish. A bit later, a girl I assumed was Deedee came to the door and told us to come in.

    The house was sparse and neat, and as soon as Deedee’ s mom came bustling up to meet us-short, broad, and dressed in a pink terry sweat-suit-I understood why neatness mattered. I’ d have never known she couldn’ t see if Rose hadn’ t tipped me off. She clearly knew the lay of the land. If my own mom had been relying on Bob and me to pick up our things so she wouldn’ t trip, she’ d have been falling and breaking a hip every other day.
    Rose did introductions all around, and we took a seat in the living room. Deedee’ s actual name was Deanna Garcia Alvarez. The boy who’ d met us at the door was her brother, Ricky. And I hadn’ t needed to worry about an uncomfortable silence. Rose chattered away happily in English and Spanish, expertly soliciting answers from the rest of us about a series of benign topics from home decorating to taking the bus to the fact that Deedee has made honor roll every semester so far in high