I had AP exams coming up in May, and I was at the library most nights until nine, and by the time I got home, the garage light would already be off and his bedroom door shut.
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The one time I actually caught him, it was a Tuesday around eleven, and he was coming in through the side door with sawdust dusted across both sleeves.
"Teddy, what is it?"
"Not telling."
He put his hand on the banister and grinned at me with his whole face, the way he's grinned at me since he was small enough that I could still carry him myself.
"Not telling."
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Three weeks out from prom, I went to Mom and told her maybe this was too much for him. Maybe Aunt Rachel could walk me in instead. Maybe he'd honestly rather sit in the audience, where he could see everything without any of the pressure of the stage itself.
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She let me finish the entire speech before she said anything back.
Then she said, "He's been out there since January, Josie."
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I want to explain something about Teddy, because I don't think I did a good enough job of it in my own head, not for months leading up to that night.
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Teddy is fifteen. He's three years younger than me, and he has Down syndrome, and he has spent his entire life being underestimated by exactly the kind of well-meaning caution I'd apparently just tried to extend to him myself, standing in our kitchen telling Mom he might rather sit this one out.
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Around Thanksgiving, our elderly neighbor, Mr. Whitfield, a retired carpenter who'd built half the furniture in his own house by hand, mentioned to Mom that he'd be happy to teach Teddy some basic woodworking if he was ever interested. Teddy had always liked watching him work through his open garage door on weekends.
Teddy said yes immediately. He started going over most Saturdays in December, learning to sand, to measure properly, to work a small hand plane without taking off a fingertip.
By January, he'd apparently decided exactly what he wanted to build, and he'd decided he wasn't going to tell a single person what it was until it was finished.
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The night of prom, they lined the siblings up backstage. I stood in the wings in my dress, watching them go out one at a time — Priya's brother carrying that framed portrait, Julian carrying his shadow box, careful and steady, clearly rehearsed.
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I couldn't see Teddy. There was a curtain in the way, and he was somewhere behind it with Mom, and I could hear some low, careful sound I couldn't quite place, something between shuffling and quiet, focused breathing.
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