Break

by Hannah Moskowitz

  She fades into the black and I stand by the border of the pool, planting my feet and swinging my arms like a swimmer on a diving board. The wind spikes the hair on the back of my neck.

  I don’t even know what bones I’m trying to break.

  I guess whatever happens, happens.

  The hard part is actually jumping. There’s this battle between the brain and the body—I never know if I’m really going to go until the last minute. My brain has to defeat my will to live, so, in a way, it really is an accident. Every crash is a biological accident, if not a physical one.

  I always preferred biology to physics, anyway.

  I try to go, but my knees lock. All right. I say, “Count me off, Nom, okay?”

  She’s somewhere to my right, where she can get a good angle. “Okay. On three?”

  I nod. The helmet strap digs into my chin.

  “One. Two.”

  I don’t hear her say three because I’m already falling.

  The air whooshes under my helmet, into my ears, and there it is—exhilaration.

  I hit the bottom. The first pain is just the usual dull ache, the impact slap of my body against the concrete. I brace myself for the real pain—it’ll be awful, but at least I’m used to it.

  But, oh.

  I’m not used to this.

  My entire arm is ripping off, and I feel every tendon and every muscle and every bone and my side’s on fire and my body is crushing my body and it’s orange orange orange hurt and it’s awful, it’s worse than anything’s ever been.

  As soon as I get air I start screaming.

  Her footsteps cascade down the side of the pool and there’s her hand on the back of my neck. “Tell me what hurts.”

  “Get me up! Get me up get me up!”

  “Jonah—”

  I scuffle my legs on the pavement until I can move enough to aim my torso toward Naomi. I grab her stupid coat and hold her, digging my fingers into her sides. I huff air in and out of my nose so I don’t throw up. The nausea comes, but the pain is not gone. I sound like a dog. “My arm—”

  “Jonah, wiggle your toes!”

  I wiggle them all around and kick my feet, and she lets her breath go. She cradles my head and says, “Breathe. Breathe.”

  I whinny. “This is awful.”

  “Shh.”

  “Make it stop.”

  “I will. Shhh.”

  The back of my head explodes, and I’m drowning drowning drowning in the empty pool. I bury my face in Naomi and scream, letting the pain take me away.

  fifteen

  JESSE FLIES INTO MY HOSPITAL CUBICLE, SWEAT ON his stubbly upper lip, hands in the air. “What the fuck?”

  I throw my good hand over my face. “I told Naomi not to call you.”

  “Yeah, and I told you not to do this. Seriously, Jonah, what the hell? You didn’t get enough ER fun today?”

  I mumble, “Technically that was yesterday.”

  He had to drive almost an hour to get here. This is some grody community clinic just out of state—you’ve got to keep switching hospitals in this life.

  He had to drive almost an hour to get here.

  He paces back and forth, his hands in fists. “This has to stop. Jesus Christ, Jonah. This has got to stop.”

  “I know.”

  He leans against the yellow walls, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to think of a solution. The drip of the morphine into my IV is excruciating in its slowness.

  Over the intercom, Nurse Glenda’s called to the desk.

  I say, “How you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, brother, Jesus Christ, but I’m so fucking . . . God, I’m worried about you.” He sits at the foot of the bed and shrugs off his jacket. “God. Naomi said you were sobbing.”

  I move my arm and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest so I have somewhere to put my shaky chin. “My shoulder’s a fracture-dislocation. Those hurt more than just a break.”

  He reaches out and touches my sling. All my pain and suffering, and I don’t even get a new cast. Just this awkward-ass sling. “And the elbow?”

  “That’s fractured.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Three more ribs.”

  + 1 shoulder + 1 elbow + 3 ribs. Total = 24.

  He squints. “Haven’t you already broken your elbow?”

  “That was the other one.”

  He sighs and leans back, running a hair through his curls. “Mom and Dad are going to be furious.”

  “They don’t have to know. I don’t need a new cast. Just a sling. I’ll just tell them the wrist was sore. They don’t have to know, and Charlotte doesn’t either, or Max and Antonia. Nobody.”

  “Jonah. Your arm will look funny.”

  “I can make it look okay. Look. I can take care of this,” I insist. “I can make this okay.”

  He keeps messing up his hair. “How’s the pain?”

  I shake my head, staring at the quilt.

  “Was it scary?”

  The crash flashes through my mind like an awful Claymation film. I see my body melt into the pavement, into Naomi, see it filling the empty pool.

  He lowers his voice—pitch, not volume. “Brother, you okay?”

  The fourth feeling is worry.

  I say, “Can you sit with me until Naomi comes back? Sh-she’s getting ice chips.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I scoot to the side of my bed and pat the mattress next to me. He sits beside me, fists on his knees, and doesn’t cough. We don’t touch, but the comfort bridges the gap between us.

  No regrets.

  sixteen

  AT SCHOOL, CHARLOTTE SAYS, “SO JESSE’S OKAY now?”

  “Yeah, he’s in Statistics.” I roll my pencil across the desk, trying to make the rigid turn of my broken elbow look casual. “It was a rough one for him, though. He’s pissed off about it still.”

  “Yeah, you said.” Charlotte pushes her hair behind her ears. “How’d Naomi take it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know how she is about Jesse. They’ve always been close.”

  “Well, she was concerned. We all get concerned. Jesse has a reaction, and it’s like a fucking war’s on. It’s scary as hell. Mom’s all jumpy and self-deprecating. You should have seen her washing his lunch this morning.”

  “My sister was worried.”

  The little bit of a smile I had sinks into my lips.

  “What?” she says, plucking a petal off her carnation.

  “I just don’t think it’s going to work. With Jesse and your sister.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know?” Her eyebrows bend together. “My sister’s a sweetheart.”

  “I’m sure she is. I just don’t think he’s ready.”

  “He’s sixteen.”

  “Yeah, and he’s been out of the hospital for five minutes. Your sister eats peanut butter, gives my brother a kiss on the cheek, and me and my parents are ID’ing Jess’s body.”

  She rolls her eyes. “If you want to baby someone, use Will. Jesse’s a big boy.”

  “Yeah, a big, sick boy.” I flip open my notebook.

  She shakes her head. “You know, I worry about you. What’s with the sling?”

  “Wrist was just sore. Trying to get a break from gravity.”

  Mrs. Yanovic waddles in, four pens clasped between her teeth. “Welcome to polyatomic ions, kids. Wait, McNab.” She nods at me. “Miss Marlin wants you in her office.”

  I look at Charlotte and mumble, “Who’s Miss Marlin?”

  “Counselor.”

  “The counselor?”

  She nods.

  “It’s probably a mistake.” I gather my stuff. “She probably wants Jesse.” Everyone always thinks it’s their place to comfort him after a reaction. I don’t even know.

  Whatever. Anything to get out of Chemistry.

  I tramp down the hall in my backpack, considering my options. My arm’s throbbing, and I just w
ant to go home, but I don’t want to deal with Mom whining that she’s not good enough, or that Dad doesn’t appreciate her, and I can’t stand listening to Will any longer. I want to go to the library and curl up and take a nap.

  I want to go back and get Charlotte and do some kissing.

  I take my cell phone out and text message Jesse. WHATS UP.

  Just want to be sure, you know. It seems like the counselor would want to talk to me if he died.

  He says, SHUT UP IM IN CLASS.

  Okay. Good.

  I eventually find Miss Marlin. Her door’s squeezed between the principal’s office and the supply closet. On an importance spectrum, she’s much closer to the latter.

  I knock with my cast.

  “Come in.”

  Miss Marlin’s a small black woman with paintbrush-thin fingers. Her sweater is pretty ugly.

  “Hi.”

  She has a file in her lap. “Are you Jonah McNab?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She waves for me to sit down. The chair is too comfortable.

  “How’s everything going, Jonah?”

  This question is enough to piss me off. I hate counselors. I hate how they pretend they’re your best friend when they fucking don’t know you. I got a counselor when Mom and Dad separated for the first time. I got a counselor when they got back together. I got one when they worried Jess was getting too much attention.

  I have Naomi. I don’t need this crap.

  “I’m fine.”

  She nods. “Heard there was a scare with your brother yesterday.”

  “He’s fine.”

  What a bitch. She doesn’t know Jesse. How dare she sit there and look concerned.

  She’s got this white-noise machine, like she doesn’t want the principal or the janitor to hear me if I start to cry. Yeah. I’m just on the verge of fuckin’ tears, here.

  “How’s everything at home?”

  I lean onto my elbows. My ribs don’t like this. I ignore them. “Do you have a point?”

  She nods once. “How’d you break your arm, Jonah?”

  “Fell off my skateboard.”

  “And the black eye?”

  “Fell off my skateboard.”

  “Your jaw?”

  I stare at her. “You want me to say it again?”

  “Jonah.” She scoots forward in her chair and looks at me like she means it. I imagine her practicing this at night: scooting toward the side of her bed, making doe-eyes at the mirror.

  She says, “This isn’t the first time you’ve come in banged up. And this isn’t the first time a couple of your teachers have come to me with concerns.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just a klutz.”

  “I understand that you’re seventeen, that you feel like you’re old enough to take care of this yourself. And I hope you understand that I’m obligated to look for signs of abuse.”

  Abuse.

  I think about what this word means.

  I mean, obviously this chick thinks my parents hit me. And I know they never have.

  But if I flinch every time they reach toward me, is that just as bad?

  If my baby brother won’t stop crying?

  If I know, flat-out know, that they could take better care of Jesse, that they use him as an excuse to fight . . . you can’t convince me that that’s not just as bad.

  “They don’t hit me,” I say. “I just take a lot of risks.”

  “Your brother—”

  “My brother has a schizophrenic immune system. It has nothing to do with my parents. Check out his record. He makes enough school days. His grades are great. He’s a good kid. None of this has anything to do with my parents.”

  “None of what, Jonah?”

  Aw, shit. “None of my broken bones and none of Jesse’s allergies. Look, I appreciate your concern, and if my parents ever beat the shit out of me, I’ll be sure to come in. But I’m fine and so’s Jesse. Your interference is not going to help.”

  And then . . . oh.

  What if I break so many bones that I can’t dodge these accusations? What if they decide Mom and Dad are hitting me?

  What if they decide they’re not fit to be parents?

  What happens to Will?

  What happens to Jesse?

  “Look,” I say, desperate. “I’m rebellious. I’m attention-starved. My parents are busy with Jesse and the new baby. So I take risks and I get hurt. It’s not their fault. They’re good parents. Honestly. They call ambulances for Jesse. They watch whatever he eats. And they hold Will all the time. Dad sings him lullabies. They love them.”

  She leans even farther forward. She’s about to fall out of her chair. “What about you?”

  “They love me, too. Really, they do. None of this is their fault. Don’t make them come in.”

  She says, “Well, we might need to—”

  “No. If you need to discuss this more, just call me in here. Don’t make them come in.” I stand up. “I’ve got to go.”

  When I get outside her office, I’m so antsy I can’t keep still. I text message Naomi, who doesn’t need much coaxing to skip class. We sit on top of her car and smoke cigarettes.

  I cough a little bit. I’m not an experienced smoker, but it’s not my first cigarette either. I don’t embarrass myself.

  “So what are you breaking next?” she asks.

  I say, “I think I’ll stick with the cigarette for now,” I say. “You know. Try normal teenage self-destructive.”

  She forces herself to laugh, and I force myself to keep smoking.

  Don’t think about the toes. Don’t think about the cheekbone.

  Just keep smoking.

  seventeen

  AT LUNCH, I FIND JESSE HIDING OUT IN THE WEIGHT room, squeezing his biceps together on a machine that looks like a torture device. His sneakers are dirty and untied.

  “You wouldn’t believe my morning.”

  He looks up. “Hey, brother.”

  “Hey.” I flop down on the mats and lean against the radiator, squishing around my sling. The heat is heaven on my sore neck. “So the counselor thinks Mom and Dad are breaking my bones.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Together? Like, one of them holds you down and the other one twists?”

  “This is serious, Jess.” I look around to make sure we’re safe to discuss this. The only other person in here is a runner on the treadmill all the way in the back. His iPod’s on so loud that I’m surprised I can hear me and Jesse’s conversation.

  Jesse says, “I know it’s serious,” and adds twenty more pounds to the machine. “Look. You can’t say nobody warned you. Of course they’re going to suspect this.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Hmm.” Jesse starts another rep. “One would suggest that you could stop breaking your bones.”

  “Shh.”

  “You want to be serious, Jonah? This needs to stop. I can’t watch this.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You like watching me in the hospital, brother?”

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like seeing you like this, either.” He frowns and counts under his breath. He’s just pissed-off all over the place, this one. It’s not unexpected—he’s usually a bitch for a day or two after a reaction—but it’s still a change from the Jess I know and love.

  I say, “Hey. I brought you an apple.”

  He doesn’t look up. “Did you wash it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not really hungry. So I talked to Naomi.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She thinks you’re on a mission.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, are you?” He drills me with those postanaphylactic bloodshot eyes.

  “On a mission?”

  “That’s right, Captain.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t think the kind of mission Naomi means.”

  “Look.” He pauses, leans forward, pulls the bottom of his T-shirt
like he’s trying to make it bigger. “If you’re trying to prove something—”

  “Prove what?”

  “That they’re bad parents.” He drops onto the ground beside me. “You know I wouldn’t last a second in foster care.”

  “Jess, hush the hell up. That’s not even a possibility.”

  “They could totally get convicted of something. You’ve got like eighty-five broken bones. How much more proof would a judge need?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Some scrawny sophomore walks by and considers the free weights. Jesse and I stare at him until he leaves and we can continue talking. The runner picks up his pace.

  I watch him. “You wouldn’t be in foster, anyway,” I say.

  He rubs his nose. “Yeah?”

  “I’d take you. I’m the only one any court would trust to take care of you.”

  Jesse freezes, his teeth on his lip.

  I say, “What?”

  Jess says, “Shit, man. Let’s do it.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Come on, I can’t live in that house anymore. You know how Mom and Dad are.” The timer on his cell phone goes off and he fishes two pills out of his pocket.

  “They’re annoying,” I say. “That doesn’t mean they’re bad parents. Be honest.”

  “Okay, you want honest? I’m allergic to all that shit they feed the baby. I’m allergic to the liquid dripping out of Mom. I’m practically allergic to the damn house.”

  “I know. It sucks.”

  He swallows the pills. “So don’t lie. You and I . . . we get along great. We’d be better without them.”

  I rub my hair. “Yeah, socially, maybe.”

  “So tell the counselor Mom and Dad are hitting you.” God, his eyes are like red stars. “And, bam. It’s just us.”

  “Okay, great. And I pay your medical bills . . . how, exactly?”

  He curls up like I’ve punched him. “Fuck you.”

  But of course I can’t quit. I offer the apple again. “And what about Will? They’re not going to leave him with Mom and Dad if they think they’re going to slap him around.”

  He makes that noise in his throat. “We could take Will.”

  “Jess, you can’t even touch Will.”

  He shoves the apple out of my hand and it falls to the floor, rolls across the mats. “There. Can’t eat it now.”

  “Jesse.”