Strategy

    He slipped out the back door quietly, quietly and deliberately. He was a noisy boy--he knew that--was reminded of it often, every day, more than once.

    "You're shouting, Aaron! I'm right here. I can HEAR you."

    That stopped him every time, gave him a funny feeling in his  stomach . . . and stopped him. He knew she was right and also knew she didn't pay attention unless he shouted. She was always busy, emptying the dishwasher, opening one cupboard door, letting another slam shut, busy, busy, busy . . . and she didn't hear him unless he shouted, so he shouted.

    It made her mad, but at least she stopped, heard him, and sometimes even waited for him to say it again. "Can I go outside?"

    Or, "Can I watch cartoons?"

    Or even, "Where are we going," said as she dangled his coat in front of him.

    Well, his mother was fast, and he was slow. He knew it, had heard her call him "the slow one," "slow and stupid," more than once, sometimes in that breathy whisper that made him uncomfortable, made his head hurt, made him turn away, even run away in case he cried. She hated "cry babies." He knew that and had learned to leave or become silent and invisible. It worked, slowed his heart so he could breathe.

    Which is what he was doing now. Breathing deep breaths of the morning air, tiptoeing across the grass so he didn't get his shoes wet--that's what careless boys did, and then they came in the house with wet feet, tracking across a clean kitchen floor--so he was careful.

    He was at the sidewalk now and walking normally. Freely. He knew nobody could see him after he got to the end of the block and turned the corner, far enough away not to be seen or noticed, but close enough to find his way home when he was ready. 

    Nobody, not even his mother, would think of looking for a careless, stupid boy like him that far away . . . 

Well, if he kept going, if he walked another block and then another, he'd feel even better. Okay?

Yes--okay!

He turned the corner and kept going.