Stuff We All Get by K. L. Denman Page A

edges with a brush. But when it comes to the rolling part, the work gets boring. Up and down, up and down. Flecks of orange paint fly off the roller and speckle my face, arms and hair. Yawning while rolling paint is a bad idea too. The paint tastes terrible. After a while, my arm gets tired and the orange starts to look ugly. There’s way too much of it.
    I’d like to put on some music, but that could be a problem. I have sound-color synesthesia, which is a fancy way of saying that I see colors when I hear music. Some synesthetes see colors for all sounds. They might hear a siren and see red, or hear a dog bark and see brown. Other synesthetes with their senses cross-wired see color-coded numbers. Some taste words, which I think would be bad. Imagine meeting a hot girl, then hearing her name and tasting dirt.
    I see colors in brilliant flashes or in transparent clouds streaming through the air. They don’t block out everything else, but they could interfere with getting the paint even. I do not want to get stuck redoing this job.
    When Mom shows up after her shift, she’s startled. She doesn’t need to be a synesthete to feel the color. If the color orange had a sound, our kitchen walls would be vibrating with noise.
    â€œPhew,” she says. “It didn’t look that orange on the sample.”
    â€œThat was a dinky little square,” I tell her. “Not a whole room.”
    â€œGood point,” she sighs. “I think we have to do at least one wall over. In white.”
    â€œWe?” I ask.
    She shrugs. “I’ll buy the paint.”
    â€œThanks a lot,” I mutter.
    â€œWould you rather dig up the garden?” she asks.
    â€œOh, yeah.”
    â€œAll right,” she says. “It’s a deal. Tomorrow you work on the garden, and I’ll paint.”
    I think this is a good deal for me, until the next morning. I figured I would pull a few weeds out of the little plot in the backyard, but no. That’s not it.
    Mom stands in the yard rubbing her hands together. “Anything grows in this climate. It’s going to be great. Lettuce, peas, onions. Tomatoes and potatoes.”
    â€œIn February?” I ask.
    â€œNo, but we need to prepare the soil now. What else can we grow?” She answers her own question. “Carrots. Maybe some corn too?”
    I stare at the puny garden and shake my head. “There’s no way you can fit all that in here.”
    She waves her arm. “Not all in this little spot. We need to expand. See the markers I’ve put in?” She points across the lawn to where she’s marked the corners of the new plot with rocks. “There are stakes in the garage you can use. Tie string between the stakes and that’s the area you need to dig.”
    She’s marked out half the backyard. “You’re kidding, right?” I say.
    â€œDo I look like I’m kidding?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
    She doesn’t look like she’s kidding.
    â€œMaybe I’ll do over the paint after all,” I say.
    â€œMaybe not. We had a deal, remember?”
    â€œSome deal,” I mutter. “Not like you told me what was involved.”
    â€œNot like you asked,” she says. “Details are important. Haven’t I always told you to get all the facts before you make a decision?”
    â€œI never get to make any decisions. Why should I bother?”
    She folds her arms across her chest and eyes me. “What’s with the attitude, Zack?”
    â€œYou didn’t ask me about moving here. I have no friends. And no driver’s license. I had my learner’s license in Alberta, Mom. Remember that little detail?”
    She sighs. “I told you I was sorry about that. I am. But I had an opportunity, and I had to take it. Some day when you’re older…”
    â€œAlmost a year older! Now I have to wait until I’m sixteen.”
    â€œYes,” she says. “You do. I