The door opens. It’s Mason again. He’s saying something.
I point to my earplugs. He starts yelling so I can hear.
I sigh and pull out the earplugs. “What?”
“Can I use your new pens?”
“Well . . .” I say. At least it would keep him from thumping for a while.
“Please?” he asks.
“Okay,” I finally say.
A big smile spreads across his face. He heads to my desk, where I keep all my art supplies.
“But there are some rules,” I say.
He stops dead in his tracks. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. “You mean, like the keep-them-lined-up-in-a-row-in-order-bycolor rule?”
“Yes,” I reply. “And the put-the-lids-backon- before-you-put-them-down-even-ifyou’re- going-to-use-them-again rule. And the put-them-back-in-the-holder-with-all-thelabels- facing-up rule.”
He backs away from my desk, looking pained. “Why do you have to have all these rules?” he says. “No one has rules for coloring.”
