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Boy Wonder (Cont.)


	High on the slopes of Oregon's Mount Hood (James Smolka)

TERRIE, WHO IS 42, has long hair and slate-blue eyes, and works summers in the office of a photography studio. Dave, 47, is tall and mellow, with an angular face and big, watery eyes. He's co-owner of a concrete company in town. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they vaguely resemble the couple in American Gothic, emanating the same brand of capable, pitchforked watchfulness. They watch Roger all the time, making sure he has all his gear, making sure he's watching his money, making sure he isn't doing anything too dangerous. They've built a framework of rules around him, a clear set of dos and don'ts that reside in their eyes as surely as if they were chalked on the skate-park concrete. Be polite—always thank your coach at the end of the day. Wear your helmet when you're boarding, even if nobody else does. Don't talk back. Don't brag. Don't lose the gear your sponsors send—if you do, pay for the replacement. And of course, don't forget to take your pills.

"If he misses one, you know," Terrie says. "He'll walk in that door moving twice the normal speed, talking back, and he'll be doing that laugh."

"If I hear the laugh, oh my God, it's all over," says Trevor Brown, his alpine coach at the Heavenly Ski and Snowboard Foundation. "Instead of going 100 miles an hour, he's going 300. Then it's Tasmanian devil time."

"The laugh," Dave says, nodding. "You could do anything to him and he'll just keep laughing at you—I mean, it's like Jekyll and Hyde. Without the pills, he's a different kid."

"I tried homeopathy, herbs, everything," Terrie adds. "But when we tried the pills, they worked, and so he takes them. We literally couldn't live without them."

Terrie and Dave talk like this in front of Roger. They don't do this to be cruel or show-offy; it's just family policy. Within the Carver house, the most important rule is to Put Everything Out There. So they do, even when those things are embarrassing. Like Roger's problems in school ("Math is a huge struggle," Terrie says. "He has trouble following patterns"). Or his outbursts in class, or the recent fine-tunings of his medication. All are discussed in clear, impersonal voices, as if they were chatting about the weather. Listening to Terrie and Dave talk to Roger is to hear one message repeated over and over: "Yes, your brain is different." And you hear its implied corollary: "Get used to it."

"They're always reminding me of stuff," Roger says in the living room. "I think they're good parents—not too overprotective, not too underprotective."

"They're pretty cool," Cody agrees, flopping on the couch and closing his eyes. Roger looks at his friend sympathetically. Roger is one of those kids who has lots of friends instead of one best friend—partly, it seems, because he tires them out quickly. He watches Cody for a second, then turns away.

"So," he says, "want to see my room?"

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