I felt my heart give a painful lurch in my chest. I realized Beau had spoken to me more than once about his dad, but never about his mom. It never occurred to me that it was because his mom had passed away. All the books and the reading made even more sense now. It was a way he could hold on to his mom. I’d done the same thing when my parents divorced when I was eight. I kept one of my dad’s old checkered ties carefully folded in my dresser.

SORRY, I signed, and then I repeated the word aloud.

The word and the gesture felt inadequate, but I didn’t know what else to do.

FINE, Beau signed, but I wasn’t convinced by the smile he forced onto his face. PAST.

Beau suddenly gave a polite little wave, and I felt myself make a noise of surprise when I looked around and saw Mom standing there in the driveway, tapping the car window with a finger, a delirious smile on her face.

“Well, this is obviously my mother,” I said unnecessarily.

My mother who is home surprisingly early, I didn’t add.

I held tight to my backpack as I stepped out of the car, trying to keep myself anchored. I could tell Mom was getting the wrong impression here and that a full-fledged parental interrogation was about to take place.

After stepping out of the car, Beau introduced himself, shaking Mom’s hand, and my stomach started freefalling when Mom gave a come-follow-me gesture, pointing up at the house.

STOP, I quickly signed to her, hoping Beau wasn’t paying attention. WE GO T-O LIBRARY, NOT STAY.

FINE, Mom signed breezily, and just like my first day of school at Engelmann, she added, BE NICE.

I marched on ahead, itching to grab my laptop and get out of there as quickly as possible. It probably was not the smartest idea to leave Mom behind with Beau, but small sacrifices were occasionally necessary. I waved to Connor who was on the couch watching cartoons, his homework spread out on the coffee table in front of him, and sprinted up the stairs to nab my laptop off my bed and wrap up the charger.

Beau was waiting by the front door, and I tripped off the last step, not because he’d been talking with Mom and Connor, but because he was standing in front of my self-portrait from Ms. Phillips’ class that Mom insisted on hanging in the living room.

I guess I hadn’t minded so much when Beau stumbled across me painting when my self-portrait wasn’t complete, and I’d been messing around with a bunch of colors. But this was different. All in all, I didn’t think the end result was that bad. I’d been pleasantly surprised, and I think Ms. Phillips had been too.