House Rules Read Free

and I go food shopping.
    It‘s part of his routine, which means we rarely stray from it. Anything new has to be introduced early on and prepared for whether that‘s a dentist appointment or a vacation or a transfer student joining his math class midyear. I knew that he‘d have his faux crime scene completely cleaned up before eleven o‘clock, because that‘s when the Free Sample Lady sets up her table in the front of the Townsend Food Co-op. She recognizes Jacob by sight now and usually gives him two mini egg rolls or bruschetta rounds or whatever else she‘s plying that week.
    Theo‘s not back, so I‘ve left him a note although he knows the schedule as well as I do. By the time I grab my coat and purse, Jacob is already sitting in the backseat. He likes it there, because he can spread out. He doesn‘t have a driver‘s license, although we argue about it regularly, since he‘s eighteen and was eligible to get his license two years ago. He knows all the mechanical workings of a traffic light, and could probably take one apart and put it back together, but I am not entirely convinced that in a situation where there were several other cars zooming by in different directions, he‘d be able to remember whether to stop or go at any given intersection.
    What do you have left for homework? I ask, as we pull out of the driveway.
    Stupid English.
    English isn‘t stupid, I say.
    Well, my English teacher is. He makes a face. Mr. Franklin assigned an essay about our favorite subject, and I wanted to write about lunch, but he won‘t let me.
    Why not?
    He says lunch isn‘t a subject.
    I glance at him. It isn‘t.
    Well, Jacob says, it‘s not a predicate, either. Shouldn‘t he know that?
    I stifle a smile. Jacob‘s literal reading of the world can be, depending on the circumstances, either very funny or very frustrating. In the rearview mirror, I see him press his thumb against the car window. It‘s too cold for fingerprints, I say offhandedly a fact he‘s taught me.
    But do you know why ?
    Um. I look at him. Evidence breaks down when it‘s below freezing?
    Cold constricts the sweat pores, Jacob says, so excretions are reduced, and that means matter won‘t stick to the surface and leave a latent print on the glass.
    That was my second guess, I joke.
    I used to call him my little genius, because even when he was small he‘d spew forth an explanation like that one. I remember once, when he was four, he was reading the sign for a doctor‘s office when the postman walked by. The guy couldn‘t stop staring, but then again, it‘s not every day you hear a preschooler pronounce the word gastroenterology, clear as a bell.
    I pull into the parking lot. I ignore a perfectly good parking spot because it happens to be next to a shiny orange car, and Jacob doesn‘t like the color orange. I can feel him draw in his breath and hold it until we drive past. We get out of the car, and Jacob runs for a cart; then we walk inside.
    The spot that the Free Sample Lady usually occupies is empty.
    Jacob, I say immediately, it‘s not a big deal.
    He looks at his watch. It‘s eleven-fifteen. She comes at eleven and leaves at twelve.
    Something must have happened.
    Bunion surgery, calls an employee, who is stacking packages of carrots within earshot. She‘ll be back in four weeks.
    Jacob‘s hand begins to flap against his leg. I glance around the store, mentally calculating whether it would cause more of a scene to try to get Jacob out of here before the stimming turns into a full-blown breakdown or whether I can talk him through this. You know how Mrs. Pinham had to leave school for three weeks when she got shingles, and she couldn‘t tell you beforehand? This is the same thing.
    But it‘s eleven-fifteen, Jacob says.
    Mrs. Pinham got better, right? And everything went back to normal.
    By now, the carrot man is staring at us. And why shouldn‘t he? Jacob looks like a totally normal young man. He‘s clearly intelligent. But having his