Authors: Karen Kingsbury
W
HAT
R
EADERS
A
RE
S
AYING ABOUT
K
AREN
K
INGSBURY’S
B
OOKS
T
RACY
H
ARRIS ADJUSTED HER BLUE
W
ALMART APRON AND
checked her watch. Five minutes until her shift was up. She stood a little straighter, ignoring the dull ache in her back. A smiling young mom steered her cart into Tracy’s checkout lane. The customer’s attention was completely taken by her toddler-age son swinging his legs from his seat in the top of the cart. Tracy let her gaze linger on the little boy, the familiar way he had about him. Then she glanced at the cart. Not too many items. This would be her last customer of the day.
“Play with me when we get home, okay, Mommy?”
The boy was maybe three, three and a half. He had sandy brown hair and he held tight to a bright yellow and blue Nerf football. His face shone, full of life.
The woman used one hand to unload her shopping cart, while she placed the other gently alongside the boy’s chubby cheek. “It’s a deal.” She leaned close and touched her forehead to his. “But you have to eat your vegetables first.”
“Mommy…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I like cookies. Daddy says he likes cookies.”
“I’ll bet he does.” She chuckled lightly, freely —the unfettered laugh of a woman whose child was healthy and vibrant and whole.
The sound of their joy splashed a sunbeam across Tracy’s afternoon. She waited until the woman turned happy eyes in her direction. “Your son … he’s darling.”
“Thanks.” She blew at a wisp of her bangs. “He never stops talking.”
Holden used to be like that,
Tracy thought. She stuffed the memory into its heart’s hiding place and found her smile. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “All except the extra three hours I need each day, but that’s okay.” She lifted the last items from her cart onto the belt. “Walmart’s good … but that’s a lot to ask of any store.”
As she entered her credit card information, the woman chatted about finding the right cabinet knobs for the cupboards they were building in their garage, and the perfect set of sheets for their guest bedroom. All the while, her son ran a sort of color commentary. “Sheets, mommy!” The boy looked right at his mother, straight into her eyes. Clear, sharp eyes the way Holden’s used to look. The child pointed at the bedding. “Pretty sheets for Grandma!”
“Yes, baby.” She grinned and the two locked eyes. Tracy tried not to stare. The boy was exactly like Holden used to be.
“Cocoa Pebbles!” He raised the football over his head and giggled as two boxes of cereal slid past him toward the register. He was bright and alert, aware of every nuance his mother made, taking stock of each item she lifted from the cart. He tucked the football close against his middle. “Football after lunch, Mommy! I can jump so high … higher than you!”
“Really?” Again she laughed. “That’ll be something to see!” She snagged the ball from him, then playfully tossed it in the air, caught it, and handed it back to him. “I don’t know, baby. Your mom’s a pretty good jumper.”
“I’m a good jumper too!” Again he held both arms straight up, clinging to the ball with one hand. “Touchdown, Falcons! See that, Mommy? That’s a touchdown.”
“Why don’t you sing your touchdown song?” She finished
the transaction, and the receipt began to print. “You love that one, remember?”
“Yay! The touchdown song!” The child swung his arms in a sort of sitting-down dance move. “Touchdown, touchdown, All the peopo’ in the town, come to watch the Falcons play, and shout, ‘We wanna touchdown!’” He celebrated the song for a few seconds before starting again.
As he sang, he made eye contact with his mom and held it. Eye contact. That was the hardest part about watching the customer and her son. Eye contact that shut out the world and allowed a momentary connection for just the two of them. Something Tracy missed most about Holden. The way it felt to see into his soul and know that at the very same time he was seeing into hers. Tracy let her eyes linger. Watching them was like watching home movies, the way she and Holden had played together a lifetime ago. Whatever had happened to Holden, no matter what exactly triggered the change, there had been a time when they played. When Holden laughed and sang and looked her in the eyes every time they were together.
As the woman collected her receipt, Tracy tried to stay in the moment. Young moms with little boys were always the toughest. The woman set two of her bags into her cart. “Glad there wasn’t a line. My housekeeper needs to be paid.” She flashed an exasperated smile. “I can’t clean to save my life.”
Housekeepers and home improvement projects … a talkative child and a happy home. Tracy couldn’t relate, but she smiled anyway. “Have a good day.”
“Thanks.” The woman grabbed the last of the bags and set them in her cart.
“Down, Mommy!” Her little boy waved the football at her. “Please, down!”
“Okay.” She swept her son into her arms and kissed his cheek. He returned the kiss and squirmed free. The woman set him
down beside her, took hold of his hand, and shot Tracy a wary smile. “Demanding little guy, huh?”
At least he tells you what he wants,
Tracy thought. She kept her tone cheerful. “That’s the age, I guess.”
“For sure.” They started for the front door, the little boy skipping at the woman’s side. She waved at Tracy. “Have a great day.”
“You too.” Tracy wanted to ask the woman if her son was up to date on his immunizations.
Don’t get them all at once,
she wanted to tell her.
They still use mercury in them.
But this wasn’t the time or place and no one knew for sure about the mercury, anyway.
As she watched them go, Tracy wondered about the woman. She probably lived here in Roswell or in Dunwoody, even. Maybe Johns Creek. One of the suburbs of Atlanta. Somewhere with a big house and a manicured yard and a normal life. The life Tracy had planned to have back when Holden was three.
That was fifteen years ago.
Now Holden didn’t laugh with her or talk to her or reach for her hand. She couldn’t play with him or chat through a meal with him, and she didn’t know what it felt like to be wrapped in his grown-up arms for a hug. She had no idea how or what he was feeling. Her only son never ran to her—his face lit up—and shared something about his day or his homework or his dreams for the future. Holden never sang, never played sports, never brought a friend home from school.
He never made eye contact.
Holden was autistic.
I
F THE FIRST DAY WAS ANY INDICATION, THIS YEAR WAS GOING
to be the best ever.
Quarterback Jake Collins worked his way through the crowded hallway of Fulton High School’s math building until he reached the meeting spot near the stairs. A group of his buddies from the football team were already there. At the same time, a couple of blonde freshmen girls walked past and giggled, flashing flirty eyes in his direction. Jake raised his brow and winked at his buddies.
Outside the brick building, the sun shone across Johns Creek, streaming through the windows and warming the cold hallways, making the river of kids squint as they passed by.
“The gang’s all here!” Jake thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and swapped a laugh with the guys gathered around him. He looked back at the blonde girls now halfway down the hall. “Hotties everywhere.”
“Gotta love the Fulton girls.” Sam Sanders elbowed him in the ribs. Sam had been Jake’s go-to guy for the past three years, one of the top receivers in the Atlanta area and Jake’s best friend.
“Dude, they’re gonna love
us
this year.” He fist-pounded Sam. “State titles, baby. All the way. Everything we touch is gonna be gold.”
“Triple threat. No class has ever done it!” Sam nodded big. “Football … basketball … track!” He strutted in a small circle, arms raised.
Jake laughed. “Girls fallin at our feet.” He high-fived Sam,
and the two of them chuckled, eyeing another pair of girls. “Even more than usual.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Sam nodded at a pretty brunette, one of the two passing by. “Best Georgia peaches in the state.”
They had six minutes to get to class, but that didn’t mean anything to Jake and his boys. If the group of them made a blockade in the hallway, so what? The other kids would walk around them. Jake didn’t care. This was their school. They could block the hallway if they wanted to.
“Look!” Rudy Brown, another football player, laughed and pointed to an overweight kid in a wheelchair a dozen yards down the hallway. Two teachers worked to maneuver him through a classroom door. “What? He’s too fat to walk?” Rudy raised his voice louder than the noise around them. Rudy was six-five, three hundred pounds. Strongest offensive lineman in the county. He was being recruited by a dozen Division I college programs.
“Hey!” Jake scowled at his teammate. “Not the wheelchair kids. They can’t help it.”
“Yeah.” Sam kicked the big guy’s shin. “Have a heart.”
Commotion at the end of the hall caught Jake’s attention, and he turned toward it. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and realized who it was. “Well, I’ll be …” He chuckled. “I thought Harris graduated.”
“Who?” Sam scowled, searching the crowded sun-streaked hallway.
“That Holden Harris guy.” Jake crossed his arms and watched Holden as he struggled closer. “Freak.” Jake snickered. “Pretty face … you know, the queer boy.”
Holden was doing that weird thing he always did when he walked to class. Hands folded, knuckles close to his chin, flapping his elbows straight out to either side. Every few steps he stopped and his eyes darted to some random spot on the ceiling. Jake sneered at him. “Freak.”
Sam made a face. “Why does he do that?”
“Cause he’s a sissy.” Rudy chuckled. “Nothing wrong with him, ’cept that.”
“Leader of the short bus.” Jake laughed louder, and the others standing with him did the same.
Holden Harris didn’t look like a special-needs kid. That’s what bugged Jake. It was the part that really got under his skin. Holden looked perfectly normal. No, he looked better than normal. Like some Abercrombie poster kid. A pretty boy with a football player’s build. Not only that, but the kid had crazy blue eyes. Eyes that made the hottest girls turn and stare—even when Holden acted like an idiot, the way he always did.
“Let’s welcome him back.” Jake motioned to his teammates, and they walked that direction.
“Hey, pretty boy,” one of them cried out in a mock highpitched voice. Several of the kids crowding the hall between the football players and Holden looked alarmed. They scurried to get out of the way.
Sam waved big with as much sarcasm as he could pull off. “Hey, freak … welcome back to school!”
Holden didn’t seem to hear. He stopped short, clearly frustrating the kids walking behind him, and he pressed his fingers to his ears. After a few seconds, he lowered his hands and shot strange glances just above the kids passing by. Never right at them. Like he was counting them in or something.
“What’s he, the welcome committee?” Jake shook his head, disgusted.
“Yeah, maybe he’ll run for class president.” Sam chuckled.
“Sure. President of
Special
Activities?” Rudy gave Sam a shove. “Get it?
Special
activities?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Sam laughed harder and punched a few of the other players standing with them. “They don’t get more
special
than that weirdo.”
Jake let the others do the talking for a minute. Holden walked toward them, and as he did, he started the wing-flapping thing again. Folded hands tucked near his chin, elbows straight out and flapping at his sides.
“Maybe he thinks he can fly.” Rudy sneered. He shifted so that the group of football players pretty well blocked the entire hallway. “Hey, pretty boy,” he shouted. “You gonna fly home to
Mama?”
Holden was only a few feet away, and he must’ve heard that because he lifted his chin and faced them—not exactly at them, but in their direction. His arms fell to his sides and he stopped short. Jake and his boys took up practically the whole width of the hallway, so Holden couldn’t get by.
“Hey, freak.” Sam gave Holden’s shoulder a shove. “Why you act so weird?”
Jake waited a few seconds. “Freako, say something!” He pushed the kid’s other shoulder. “You can hear us … I know you can hear.”