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Ms. Browning plucked the metal bird from his hands, returned it to its perch on her desk and sat down. She crossed her arms. “We have. This summer at the church picnic.”
He remembered that picnic as a rather boring affair, all happy community fried chicken and potato salad. Nice, if you liked that sort of thing, which he didn’t.
“Mr. Jones, if you—”
“Max,” he corrected.
“Max,” she relented. “I want to state one thing right off. This is a serious time commitment, and I’m sure you’re very busy. If you don’t have the time to give Simon the attention he needs, I’ll completely understand.”
“Hang on.” Max felt his stomach tighten at the low expectation expressed in her words. “I’m willing to make the time. Only I’m not really sure how you go about making freshman year of high school not hard, if you know what I mean. That’s sort of how it goes, isn’t it?”
“I’d like to think we can do better than that. A senior boy—Jason Kikowitz—has made Simon a target of sorts, and it’s going to take more than a stack of detention slips to set things right.”
“Kikowitz?” Max chuckled; the name brought up an instant vision of a thick-necked linebacker with a crew cut and four like-size friends. “Why do the thugs always have names like Kikowitz?”
She didn’t seem to appreciate his commentary. “I want Simon to learn the right way to stand up for himself while I get Mr. Kikowitz to change his thinking.”
“Only Simon can’t stand up for himself, can he? Wheelchair. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?” People always talked around the wheelchair—the elephant in the room—and Max liked to make them face it outright. It made everything easier after that, even if it took an off-color joke to get there.
She flushed and broke eye contact. “It’s part of the problem, yes.”
“It’s lots of the problem, I’d guess. Look, I’m in a chair. I get that. It’s part of who I am now, and pretending I’m just like you isn’t going to help anyone. It doesn’t bug me, so don’t let it bug you. I can take you out dancing if I wanted to, so I should be able to help this Simon kid hold his own.”
“You cannot take me out dancing.”
It was clear she wasn’t the type to like a joke. “Well, not in the usual sense, but there’s a guy in Chicago building an exoskeleton thingy that—”
“This is not a social meeting. Are we clear?”
She really did know how to suck all the fun out of a room.
“Crystal clear, Ms. Browning.” She was too stiff to even match his invitation to use first names. He’d have to work on that. “What is it, exactly, that you think Simon needs?”
“Well, I’d have to say social confidence. He’s led a fairly sheltered life because of his condition, but he’s brilliant...”
“The geeks always are.”
She sat back in her chair. “Can you at least try to do this on a professional level?”
Max made a show of folding his hands obediently in his lap. “Okay, Counselor Browning. Simon needs some base-level social skills and maybe enough confidence to know high school is survivable. Have I got it?”
She seemed to appreciate that. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“And you’re thinking you need something just a little out of the ordinary to solve the problem, right?”
“Well, I...”
“Hey, you called me, not the nice bland people from social services.”
That probably wasn’t a smart crack to make to someone in guidance counseling. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, well, the nice, appropriate people from social services were not available. This isn’t how I normally operate. It’s only fair to tell you you’re not my first choice.”
Max could only smile. “Alternative. Well, I’d have to say that’s exactly my specialty.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_33b5d504-34d9-5cf6-855a-0168d218910c)
Max hadn’t really expected Appropriate Ms. Browning to go for the idea of a pickup basketball game—especially one with the twist he had in mind—but she surprised him by agreeing to book the school auxiliary gym. Two days later, Max found himself whistling as his basketball made a perfect arc, rolled dramatically around the rim and then settled obediently through the net. “Jones nails it from behind the line with seconds to spare.”
His sister, JJ, palmed a ball against one hip. “Nice shot.”
Max turned to face her. “Let me see you do one.”
JJ nodded and dribbled the ball, getting ready to best her little brother. “No,” Max corrected. “From the chair.” He pointed toward the three armless, low-backed sports wheelchairs that sat against the wall. He’d decided even before he was out of the parking lot the other day that the best way to meet Simon Williams was a pickup game of wheelchair basketball. The boys-against-girls element, with he and Simon facing JJ and Heather Browning? Well, that had been a brilliant afterthought.
JJ paused for a moment, shot Max the look years of sibling rivalry had perfected and sauntered over to the chair. After settling in, she wheeled toward him in a wobbly line, smirking. “Not so hard.”
“Really?” Max teased, rocking back to pop a wheelie in his chair. “I’ve been waiting to smoke you on the court for months.”
She laughed, trying to bounce the ball until it got away from her. “Just like you smoked me on the ski slope?”
Max shot over to scoop up the ball and passed it back to her. “Worse. Okay, try a shot.”
JJ missed by a mile. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
Max grabbed the ball, dribbled up to the basket and sunk another one in. “Actually, this is going to be a lot more fun than I thought. Me and Simon should wipe the floor with you girls.”
“Simon and I” came Heather’s voice from the gym door. “And don’t get too confident. You will get a fair fight from us ladies.”
Max groaned, JJ smirked and the kid who had to be Simon Williams had the good sense to look a little baffled by whatever he’d just gotten himself into. The boy was spindly thin and a bit pale. His glasses sat a little crooked on his face, and a 1970s haircut didn’t help his overall lack of style. Still, his sharp blue eyes and goofy grin made him oddly likable.
Max caught the kid’s eye and lamented, “Teacher types.”
“Yeah.” The boy’s response was noncommittal and soft. He’d expected the boy’s smile to widen, but it had all but disappeared.
Shy, skinny and unsure of himself—Max remembered the years when he used to eat kids like this for breakfast. It wasn’t a comfortable memory. He wheeled over to Simon and pointed to the line of chairs. “Can you transfer into that sports chair by yourself? I guessed on your size but I think it’s close enough.” Heather had given him some basic medical info on Simon’s cerebral palsy—a condition that mostly left his legs too unstable to support him for more than a few steps.
“Uh-huh.” Again, a small voice lacking any stitch of confidence. Max began to wonder if the kid had ever played any sport, ever. He looked as if his family hardly let him outside in the sunshine. Max pretended to be adjusting his gloves while he watched Simon slowly maneuver from his larger daily chair to the smaller, lower sports chair. It was a relief to see that he could do it by himself. The kid’s steps were gangly and poorly controlled, but while Max had met other cerebral palsy patients with very spastic movements all over their bodies, Simon’s seemed to be confined to his legs. He had the upper-body control to have some fun in a sports chair, yet he looked as if he’d never seen one. If he’d never known speed, this chair would be a barrel of fun. Somehow, he doubted this kid had ever seen much fun.
Whose fault was that? His shy personality? Or overprotective parents? Well, that drought was going to end today. The thought of introducing the boy to agility sparked a faint foreign glow of satisfaction that caught Max up short.
JJ noticed his reaction. She raised an eyebrow in inquiry as Simon finished settling himself into his seat. “What?”
“I think I just got a bit of an Alex rush.” Max knew he’d regret admitting that to his sister. His boss—Alex Cushman, JJ’s husband—was always going on and on about the charge he got from taking people out of their comfort zones into new adventures.
“Not all about the new toys anymore?” Her tone was teasing, but JJ’s eyes were warm. That girl was so stuck on her new husband it was like a nonstop valentine to be with either one of them.
“No, it’s still about the new toys.” Max popped another wheelie and executed a tight circle around his sister. He turned his attention back to Simon, now sitting next to a delightfully baffled Heather as the two of them explored the gear. “What do you think?”
“They’re crooked,” Simon offered in a sheepish voice as he pointed to the wheels. Unlike the straight-up-and-down wheels of his daily chair, this chair’s wheels tilted toward the middle.
“Nah, they’re cambered. Gives you stability and agility. You can turn fast on these. Try it.”
Max watched as Simon, JJ and Heather made circles in their chairs. Slow, careful circles. Max growled and came up behind JJ to give her a hefty shove. She shot forward, yelping, and then managed to turn herself around in a respectably quick U-turn. “Cut that out, Max!”
“Quit being snails, the lot of you. These things are made for speed. Use ’em!” He angled up next to Simon, who looked as if someone needed to give him permission to keep breathing. “Race ya.”
“Huh?”
“First one to the end of the gym and back gets ice cream.”
Simon just looked at him. Who’d been keeping this poor kid under glass? Max chose to ignore the uncertainty written on the boy’s face and pretend his silence was a bargaining tactic.
“Okay, then, two ice creams and you get a three-second lead,” he conceded. Max allowed himself a sly wink at the guidance counselor. “Ms. Browning said she’d buy.”
“I never...”
Simon started pushing on his wheels. Max whooped. “One...two...three!”
* * *
A sweaty, crazy hour later, Heather had fed every dollar bill and coin she had into the school vending machine as she, Max, JJ and Simon sat on the school’s front steps eating ice cream.
“There’s a whole basketball league,” Max explained to Simon. “And hockey. I’ve even seen a ski team.” She watched Max look Simon up and down. “You’re kinda skinny for the hockey thing, but I saw the way you shot today. Wouldn’t take long for you to hold your own pretty nicely on the court.”
“You outshot me,” JJ offered, licking chocolate off her fingers.
“I’ve always had a chair.” Simon said it as if it was a weak excuse. The embarrassed tone in his voice burrowed into Heather’s heart and made her want to send Jason Kikowitz to Mars.
A red van pulled up, and Heather saw Brian Williams wave his hand out the driver’s side window.
“My dad’s here,” Simon said, tossing his last wrapper into the trash bin and angling toward the wheelchair ramp. At the top of the incline, he paused. “Thanks, Mr. Jones. That was fun.”
“Max,” Max corrected, making a funny face. “Nobody calls me Mr. Jones. Want to go sailing next week?”
Heather watched Simon’s response. His eyes lit up for a moment, then darkened a bit as he heard the door click open and the whrrr of the lift extending out of his parents’ van. “I don’t think my folks would go for it.” Simon’s lack of optimism stung. Heather knew that despite his spot on the Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department—or maybe because of it—Simon’s dad was a highly protective father. She’d had a highly protective dad herself—she’d had her own share of medical challenges in high school—but even she had reservations about how far Brian Williams went to keep his son away from any kind of risk.
Max had caught the boy’s disappointment. He waved at the van. “They’ll say yes. Can I come meet them?”
“Um...maybe next time,” Simon said, quickly darting down the ramp.
“Hey, slow down there, Speedy!” Simon’s dad called as the lift platform rattled onto the ground. “Watch that crack there or your wheel might get stuck. You’ve got to take your time on ramps, remember?”
Heather heard Max mutter a few unkind words under his breath. JJ got to her feet. “Speaking of speed, my shift starts in half an hour and I’ve got to run home first.” She gave Heather a hug, then pecked her brother on the cheek and snatched up the sweatshirt she’d been sitting on. “Dinner still on for next Thursday?”
“You bet,” Max said, still staring as Simon was swallowed up by the van’s mechanism. His irritation jutted out in all directions, sharp and prickly. “Does he know how much he’s holding Simon back?” Max nearly growled. “Have you talked to him about it?”
“Hey,” she said. “Cut the dad a little slack here, will you?”
“You know what half of Simon’s problem is?” Max jutted a finger at the van as it pulled away. “That. I was trying to figure out what made Simon such a walking ball of shy and I just got my answer.”
Heather swallowed her own frustration. People were shy for lots of reasons, not just fatherly protectiveness. “So after two hours with the boy, you’ve got him all figured out? Is that it?”
“It doesn’t take a PhD in counseling to figure out they keep that kid under lock and key. He’s afraid of his own shadow, and somebody had to teach him that.”
“Aren’t you coming down awfully hard on someone you hardly even know?”
“Simon’s not sick. Okay, his legs don’t work so hot, but I get how that goes. He could be so much stronger than he is. He could be doing so much more.”
It needed saying. “He’s not you, Max. Not everyone needs to come at this full throttle.” When that just made him frown, Heather tried a different tack. “What were you like in high school?”
“A whole lot different than that. Even as a freshman.”
“I can imagine that.”
Max shook out the mane of shaggy dirty-blond hair that gave him such a rugged look. He was tanned and muscular—the furthest thing imaginable from Simon’s pale, thin features—with mischievous eyes and a smile Heather expected made girls swoon back in high school. She found his not-quite-yet-cleaned-up-bad-boy persona as infuriating as it was intriguing. Max Jones just didn’t add up the way he ought to, and she didn’t know what to do with that.
Max tossed an ice-cream wrapper into the trash bin with all the precision he’d shown on the basketball court. “Truth is,” he said, his voice losing the edge it had held a moment ago, “I was a lot closer to the Kikowitzes of the world than to geeky kids like Simon.” He shot Heather a guilty glance. “Let’s just say I’ve shoved my share of kids into lockers. And, okay, I’m not especially proud of it, but I think I’d rather be that than go through life like Simon.”
Heather tried to picture a teenage Max prowling the halls of GFHS, picking on kids and collecting detention slips. It didn’t take much imagination. “Football team? Motorcycles?”
He laughed, and Heather reminded herself how such charming smiles shouldn’t always be trusted. Sometimes those dashing ways covered some pretty devastating weaknesses. “No,” he corrected her. “Basketball and my dad’s old Thunderbird. Well, before I rolled it my junior year, that is.”
“You were a terror in high school.” She nodded over to the black car with flames and the HTWELZ2 license plate. “It boggles the mind.”
“Very funny. You have no idea how much work it takes to make a car like that look so cool. No way was I going to drive around in some suburban-housewife minivan.” He looked at her, hard. “I’m still the guy I was, and if people can’t take that it comes in a wheeled version now, it’s their problem.”
It was an admirable thought, but his words came with such a defiant edge that Heather wondered how many times a week Max chewed someone’s head off for an ill-phrased remark or just plain ignorance about life with a disability. Bitterness did that to some men. “Maybe that’s just it. Maybe Simon hasn’t figured out who he is yet. I had no idea who I was in high school—I just bumbled around most of the time trying to stay out of the sights of all those mean cheerleader types.” She borrowed Max’s measurement. “I suppose I’d say I was a lot closer to Simon than thugs like Kikowitz.”
“Thugs like me?” Again the disarming smile, the penitent hoodlum with his hand over his heart.
“I don’t know too many thugs who would round up a bunch of wheelchairs to play basketball with a geeky kid and two hapless ladies.” She was going to say girls, but hadn’t she chided Max for the label earlier?
“Don’t call my sister hapless. She was in the army, you know.” He wheeled a careless arc around the front walkway, ending up a foot or two closer to her than his earlier position. “So let me guess—4-H Club? Junior Librarians of America? Church choir?” He did not list them with any admiration—that was certain.
“Art, mostly. I kept to myself a lot. And not choir, but church youth group.”
“I knew it.” Max executed a spin while he rolled his head back. “One of those.”
“Hey, cut that out. I had a...good time in high school.” That was at least partially true. Some of high school had been great, but she’d learned her sophomore year what Simon already knew: high school wasn’t kind to sick or injured kids.
Max stopped his maneuvers. “No, you didn’t.”
Heather froze.
“Girls who had awesome times in high school do not come back as guidance counselors. You want to help people. And you want to help people because you don’t want anyone to go through what you did.”
“Where do you get off making assumptions like that?”
Max threw his hands in the air. “Hey, don’t get all up about it. Do you know how many physical therapists I’ve had since my accident? How many counselors and docs? Pretty soon it gets easy to recognize the type, that’s all.”
