He gives me a wave, but as he starts to walk away something occurs to me. “Hey, Teddy?” I call out, and he spins around again. “This might sound weird, but…did you send Leo a puppy?”
His face splits into one of his trademark grins. “Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, as if the answer should be obvious, “it’s what he said he wanted.”
“Yeah, when he wastwelve.”
Teddy’s smile widens. “Exactly.”
I shake my head, amused.
“See you later, Al E. Gator,” he says, waving over his shoulder.
It’s been years, but even so, my response comes automatically: “I’ll be there, Ted E. Bear.”
When he’s gone I head back in to Caleb, who is huddled over the book, his finger moving haltingly across the page. “Good so far?” I ask, and he points to the worddormitory.I say it out loud for him, but he still looks confused.
“What’s a dorm-i-tory?” he asks, testing the sound of it.
“Well, it’s a place where a lot of people sleep.”
“But why does Sophie have to sleep there?” he asks, his eyes still on the page. “Where are her parents?”
“I think,” I say cautiously, “that this dormitory is an orphanage.”
“For orphans?” he asks in a small voice.
I nod.
“Like me.”
“And me,” I say. Caleb looks over sharply, his face screwed up like he isn’t sure whether to believe me, like he’s trying to figure out whether I belong in the category of adults who pander to him or the category who tell the truth.
“You?” he asks, and I nod again.
“Yes.”
“You’re an orphan?”
The word still has a sting to it, even after all this time. But I try not to let it show, because Caleb doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to see that it still takes so much work to seem like a normal person, to maintain a hard enough shell around all that’s gone soft inside you.
“Yes,” I say, looking him square in the eye. “I am.”
“Your mom died?”
I nod.
“And your dad?”
I nod again, and he considers me a moment.
“Mine too,” he says, suddenly matter-of-fact. “It sucks.”
I can’t help laughing. “I totally agree.”
For a few seconds we just look at each other. Then he turns back to the book, moving his finger to the next word on the page, then the one after that, murmuring them aloud in his slow and deliberate way. But I can’t seem to focus on the story. I glance over at the far wall, where rows of posters hang above a low bookshelf. Some of them are just puppies and kittens sitting beside stacks of books, but others are more motivational. They’re mostly clichés:FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!andDON’T BE AFRAID TO COLOR OUTSIDE THE LINES!andYOU HAVE TO BELIEVE IN YOURSELF TO SUCCEED!
