Page 99 of Summer Reading

“No,” Moira said. She stared at me. “Her.”

My nerves were pulled so taut I thought they’d snap. I thought about bluffing. I could pretend I didn’t have my glasses or that there was something in my eye, but I didn’t. Instead, I handed the paper back to her.

“I can’t,” I said. “Not without time to study it properly.”

She blinked at me. I suspected her fame had created a bubble of assuredness for Moira Reynolds where she seldom if ever heard the word no. She hadn’t a clue what to do with my refusal.

“Why?” she asked.

“Reading isn’t my thing,” I said.

She gaped at me. “You can’t read?”

I shrugged. I didn’t have to explain my dyslexia to a woman who refused to answer basic questions from her own son. My life was not hers to judge.

She started to laugh. “Oh, that’s rich,” she said. She turned to Ben. “You’ve had your nose in a book since you were a toddler and you’re with her, a woman who can’t read?”

“Moira, stop,” Ben ordered. His voice was sharp, a siren not to take another step forward.

She ignored him and laughed even harder. I felt my old friend shame sling its arm around my shoulders and squeeze me in a half hug that left me feeling cheap, dirty, and less than. I couldn’t even look at Ben.

“Tell me,” Moira said. “How do you amuse yourself—reality television? Or are you a celebrity stalker?”

I knew I should clarify that not reading wasn’t a personal preference, but in that moment I disliked her so intensely I couldn’t even speak.

“Moira, enough!” Ben snapped. He stepped between her and me as if his physical presence could protect me from her words. I glanced past him at Moira. She was glaring at him, with her fists clenched and jaw tight.

“It’s all right, Ben,” I said.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “You don’t know anything about Samantha. How dare you mock her? She happens to have dyslexia.”

“Ignorant by circumstance or by choice,” Moira scoffed. “What’s the difference?”

Ouch!That stung.

I saw Ben’s shoulders stiffen. Fury was radiating off him in hot waves and I reached for his hand. Not that I thought he would do anything, but I wanted to give him an anchor if he needed it.

“There’s a big difference,” he said. “Much like the difference between being a kind, generous, and loving person and being a mean, stingy, and hateful one.”

Moira’s head snapped back as if he’d slapped her. Through gritted teeth, she hissed, “Get out!”

“Let’s go, Ben,” I said. “We’re wasting our time here.” I turned to leave, pulling one hundred and ninety pounds of furious male with me.

At the door, I paused. I remembered Ben had told me that my neurodiversity allowed me to see things others couldn’t, so I took a last look at her piece and said, “I don’t need to read your artist’s statement to grasp the concept of your piece. I’ll tell you exactly what it represents.”

“Oh?” Moira’s eyebrows went up in disdain.

“It’s an overpriced collection of junkyard scraps cobbled together in a provocative shape by a woman who can’t form an emotional attachment to another human being.” I swept my arm at the sculpture. “This represents a woman so closed off to the world she can’teven acknowledge the personal pain she’s in, and she’s being consumed by it.”

Moira’s face was impassive.

“How’d I do?” I asked. I didn’t wait to hear her answer.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The door slammed shut behind us and I half expected Moira to make an appearance, but she didn’t. Ben looked numb. I wondered if I had offended him by insulting his mother. I knew their relationship was strained, but she was still his mother and there were boundaries. I mean, I could make fun of my dad’s midlife crisis, but I’d put a hurt on anyone outside of the family who did the same.

“I’m sorry,” I said. We crossed the driveway and stopped beside my car. “I shouldn’t have criticized her sculpture.”

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