"Rules," Vocabulary from Chapters 1-4

July 30, 2014
Put yourself in 12 year old Catherine's shoes when you read Cynthia Lord's Newberry Honor novel "Rules."

Learn these word lists for the novel: Chapters 1-4, Chapters 5-9, Chapters 10-14, Chapters 15-22
Still, I refuse to grab my jacket from the peg inside the front door.
David’ll say, loud enough for the whole store to hear, “Rated PG-thirteen for language and some violence! Crude humor!”
Dad says, “No one cares, Catherine. Don’t be so sensitive,” but he’s wrong.
Sometimes I wish someone would invent a pill so David’d wake up one morning without autism, like someone waking from a long coma, and he’d say, “Jeez, Catherine, where have I been?”
occupational therapy
“You’re going to occupational therapy,” I tell David, “at the clinic.”
I haven’t been to the clinic since my last school vacation, but I recognize the waiting-room people because their appointments are nearly the same time as David’s every week.
Down syndrome
She leans down, handing her baby with Down syndrome chunky plastic blocks from the toy basket.
But Jason’s mother fidgets—crossing her legs, picking up magazines, putting them down
I don’t know what’s wrong with Jason, and it doesn’t seem polite to ask.
Reddish brown waves of hair sweep over Jason’s brow. A few wayward strands dangle near his eyes.
I’ll draw his eyes downcast, looking at his book.
"Just because he can’t talk,” she says, “don’t assume he doesn’t mind!”
If I had one, I’d throw it over my head and run out the door and across the parking lot and the street, all the way through the waterfront park to the wharf, and board the first boat I saw going somewhere, anywhere else.
His therapist pouts, her finger tapping his communication book.
“I have a couple of errands,” she tells the receptionist.
Mom slides her elbow over in a “here’s your chance, Catherine” nudge.
I pick up my palest-yellow pencil and add a dot to my drawing, gleaming in a window.
Colored pencils fall off my lap, scattering and rolling across the floor, but I don’t bother with them.
I told him Ryan was joking, but that made it worse, because David laughed and laughed in that twisted position, and Ryan mimicked David, tipping his own head way over, laughing.
I draw to the steady patter of rain on the roof and cars gushing through puddles on the road.
It’s not easy to sidetrack David, especially when it involves the video store, but he does like to count cars.
David shouts the seconds, like an announcer at a rocket launch.
I jump up to stop his hands, flapping now like two fierce and angry birds.
His speech therapist smiles, striding into the waiting room.
The therapist turns to Mrs. Morehouse and adds, “It’s time for evaluations.

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