Rules: Pages 50–88

I look around my bedroom for ideas: from the checkered rug on my floor to the calendar of Georgia O’Keeffe flower paintings Dad bought me at the art museum he took me to last summer.

On the next shelf are paint bottles and stacks of paper, everything from thick watercolor paper to filmy sheets of jewel-colored tissue paper.

Between my desk and my bed is a long window with gauzy purple curtains that let daylight through, even when the curtains are closed, and on the windowsill is a row of tiny colored bottles I bought one day at Elliot’s Antiques: sunlit purple, green, and gold.

On the other side of my desk hangs my bulletin board, covered with drawings and little paintings: a pencil-gray castle I started but never finished, a monkey painted on an emerald tissue-paper rain forest, a colored-pencil cartoon from three years ago of my guinea pigs dancing — I still like it, even if it’s old and I can do better now.

David never remembers to knock. It irritates me so much I taped this rule right above my doorknob.

I need some new colored pencils. My crimson and indigo are only about two inches long now, and I’d love more greens.

I need some new colored pencils. My crimson and indigo are only about two inches long now, and I’d love more greens.

David runs in a tight circle, flailing his arms, his mouth wide in another ear-piercing howl.

Carol, the receptionist explains something on the phone, and Jason’s mother and Mrs. Frost discuss good restaurants that accommodate wheelchairs.

“And I thought you might want ‘gross.’ This lady I drew is eating cereal. But do you see this white thing on the spoon? It’s a maggot.”

Seeing her up close, I know Kristi will be popular. Not only for her straight brown hair, parted off-center, shining down to her elbows. Or because she looks just right, even wearing frayed jean shorts and a T-shirt.

I pry the cassette from David’s fingers, knowing it’ll be faster to deal with the tape than the tears filling his eyes.

A tiny cowboy stands bowlegged on the gravel at the bottom of the fish tank, one hand poised to grab his pistol, the other holding the end of a lasso hovering in a loop above his head.

Git back here, ya pesky varmint!

He doesn’t look for all the red barn pieces or the daisies in the field or the glimmers of sunlit water. Left to right, top to bottom, that’s his puzzle rule.