Something to Sell

CHAPTER ONE Something to Sell Zachary put the flyer beside Mum’s cup before she could take another sip. “Twenty,” he said. Maimuna looked up. “Twenty what?” “Booths. For children.” She moved her cup away from the paper. Across the top, in enormous letters, were the words: YOUNG IDEAS. BIG POSSIBILITIES. His school had reserved a section at the county fair. Twenty booths would be available for pupils who wanted to make something and sell it, with an adult helping. Young entrepreneurs, the flyer called them. Zachary liked the sound of that. “What are you planning to sell?” Mum asked. “That is the problem.” Dad leaned over her shoulder.

“You draw all the time.” “I know.” “And you’re always making things.” “I know.” “So you’ve got somewhere to start.” Zachary imagined nineteen children already having brilliant ideas. “What if somebody takes all the good things?” Dad pulled out a chair. “All the good things?” “You know what I mean.” “Go and make a list,” Mum suggested. “You don’t have to choose straight away.” “And don’t decide an idea is terrible before you’ve written it down,” Dad added. Zachary took the flyer upstairs. He would be very open-minded. Unless the ideas actually were terrible. • • •

His notebook lay open on the bed. THINGS I COULD SELL Below that, he had written: 1. It was an excellent number one. Unfortunately, there was nothing beside it. Zachary tossed a soft ball towards the cushion propped against the wall. Thump. Catch. Perhaps he could sell drawings. But drawings of what? Thump. The ball clipped his glove and rolled under the bed. “My unique.” Cade stood in the doorway, her favourite hat sitting a little crooked. “My unique,” she repeated. “Hello to you too.” He had heard those words all week. At breakfast. In the car. Once during his very important explanation of a video game. “Your unique what?” She pointed beneath the bed. Zachary retrieved the ball. Cade held out her hand. He gave it to her. She tucked it behind her back. “I’m going to need that.” Cade moved it to her other hand and grinned. “You little brat,” he said, laughing. She rolled it back to him, then went down the hallway. At least he had understood that part. • • •

“What does ‘my unique’ mean?” Zachary asked Mum. She glanced towards the hallway. “At school, Cade’s been learning the phrase ‘I’m unique.’ They’re talking about what makes each person themselves.” “And autism?” “Yes. That’s part of who she is.” He knew the word. Sometimes the explanations were easier to remember than to understand. “Is that why I can’t always work out what she’s saying?” “Speaking clearly can be difficult for her. But she still has things to tell us. We need to give her time and notice how she shows us.” “I do try.” “I know.” Mum folded the tea towel. “And I hear you calling her your little brat.” “She hid my ball!” “That sounds like she was enjoying a joke with you.” “She was.” “But sometimes, when you think she’s being difficult, she may be trying to tell you something you haven’t understood. Don’t let a nickname decide what you think is happening.”

Zachary looked towards the door. Sometimes he guessed wrong. Sometimes he asked again and still didn’t understand. “So they say ‘I’m unique,’ and she says ‘My Unique.’” Mum smiled. “Her own version. Quite unique, don’t you think?” Cade passed the kitchen, adjusting her hat. Something clicked. Her words. Her hats. Her birthday. “Hmm,” Zachary said. Mum raised an eyebrow. “That sounds promising.” “I might have an idea.” • • •

Back in his room, he drew a hat. Then a tree, with a sturdy trunk and branches growing in different directions. He filled the branches with green leaves. For the last one, he reached for pink. It stood out. It belonged there too. Underneath, he wrote: My Unique He imagined it stitched onto a soft white hat. One for Cade’s seventh birthday. Perhaps others he could sell at the fair, with a little card explaining the design. He needed a name for the hat project. He remembered her grin, the ball hidden behind her back, and the crooked brim. BratHat. He wrote it in the corner. Downstairs, Mum studied the drawing. “BratHat?” “Because of Cade,” he said. “And her hats.”