“Do you want to go?” he says.
I don’t, but I leave anyway. I’m afraid to push him too far, at this point. At most points.
eighteen
I SWITCH TWO FOREIGN FILMS INTO ALPHABETICAL order. “So now he’s basically entertaining the fantasy that we can get emancipated and live happily ever after. He actually wants this to happen. He’s like the kid who wants to drop out of middle school.”
Antonia takes the movies off the shelf and switches them back. “I’m sure you can get state money or something.”
“Do you not know the alphabet?” I fix the movies. “He needs health insurance.”
“You need health insurance,” Max calls from the register. He starts ringing up this tall guy renting a shitload of bad porn. He gives the guy a look. “Want me to throw in Sound of Music, no charge? You’d have yourself a par-tay.”
I cross my eyes and let the DVD covers blur together.
“Is your shoulder broken, Jonah?”
“That’s not the point.”
“They have government funding for these things,” Antonia says.
“What about the baby?”
“I’m sure you have an aunt or something that would love him.”
The man collects his movies and leaves. The bell on the door jingles, and Max sticks out his tongue and crosses his arms.
I say, “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.” And yet I keep going. “It’s not about the money. I couldn’t take care of Jess.”
Antonia walks behind the counter and wraps her arms around Max. “You won’t be all broken forever. You’ll heal eventually.”
“No. You don’t get it. I can’t take care of him. As in, I take crappy care of Jesse.”
Max says, “Come on. I’ve seen you with him. You’re a good brother.”
I stand up—not to be dramatic, just to do something. I feel like moving. “He was covered in hives when I left him yesterday. He was already having the reaction. And I didn’t do anything.”
“You had no way of knowing.”
“I let him get sick. All the time. I eat shit in front of him that he could get sick from breathing. I don’t always wash my hands. I take terrible care of him.”
Max straightens his glasses. “Didn’t you save his life last year?”
I fold up on the floor. “Stop making me sound like a hero. The EpiPen’s easy to do. You just jam the needle into his thigh. It doesn’t make me an angel. It’s a temporary fix, anyway. Just keeps him conscious long enough to get him to a hospital.”
“It’s significant, Jonah.”
“Don’t act like I can heal him. Seriously. Stop. I hate that.” I wander over to the classics.
“He wants to live with you,” Max calls. “That doesn’t tell you anything?”
I ignore him and run my fingers over the spines of every happy-family-talking-dog DVD, swallowing the urge to explain the difference between a good brother and a loved one.
Then I hear Weezer through the front door and, in spite of everything, I’m smiling. “That’s my ride.”
“All right, get out of here.” Max shakes his head, like there’s something more he wanted to say.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go have fun with your girlfriend.”
People keep telling me where to go.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
Charlotte dances in her car, her hair whipping back and forth. I climb into the passenger seat and buckle in. “Hello.”
“Hey.”
She takes off out of the parking lot, the turbocharge on the Jetta growling from good use. The CD player clicks into a new song.
“So what are we doing tonight?” she asks.
I settle into the seat. “I don’t care. Let’s just stay out forever.”
She laughs. “And what are we supposed to do to keep us entertained forever?”
“I don’t need to be entertained. I just need this.”
Out of nowhere, her eyes go all serious. She touches my cast. “How are you doing this?
“Doing what? My hand? I hit a wall by accident.”
“By accident?”
“Don’t worry.”
She’s quiet for a minute while we join the bigger roads. I swallow and concentrate on the music, the constant woosh of street noise.
I stare at the window. “Man. You know, someday we’re gonna be stronger, Charlotte.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Someday we’ll be beyond this.”
I don’t know who I’m including in “we.” Or I do know, but I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather just let it hang in the air and pretend that will make it true.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be a singer, you’ll be an architect. We’ll live happily ever after.”
This scenario hardly answers all my questions, but it’s enough for now.
We decide on this diner with crappy food and four tables. We share French fries and ketchup and start talking about each other.
Our words rain down in a hurricane. We could do this forever.
I guess I haven’t made it clear how I feel about Charlotte. Well, she puts my heart in a microwave and watches as it warms up and explodes. When I’m around her, my blood runs hot and thick. It’s beautiful.
You could say there’s nothing special about her. You could make the case.
But, really, she’s special because nobody else can do the microwave thing.
“Do you have to babysit on Halloween?” she asks.
My parents go to this Halloween event every year. High-school partying for religious grown-ups. “No. Jess’ll be at home.”
“There’s a party at Marten’s,” she says. “You want to go?”
I drag a French fry through some mustard. “I sort of hate Halloween.”
She frowns. “If this is you trying to get out of going somewhere with me—”
“No. This is me sort of hating Halloween.”
She nods, chewing on her lip. “Then let’s go to a water park, all right?” She’s got ketchup on her lips, like blood. I want to kiss it off and fix it and make it better. “When it gets warm.”
“What about tonight?”
“Sleigh ride?”
“It’s October,” I say.
“Hay ride?”
I shake my head. She sips her soda.
I suggest, “Roll in the hay?”
“Jonah.”
“Damn. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
She sets down her glass. “We’re not even dating.”
“So we can’t have sex?”
She rolls her eyes, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth.
“It’s an honest question.”
“It’s a stupid one. You know how I feel.”
I don’t know why I have to honor her feelings when she isn’t honoring mine. But whatever. I’m not an asshole.
She plays with her carnation. It’s pink and starting to brown along the edges. Pans rattle back in the kitchen, and I spend a moment just looking at this beautiful girl.
I could stay here forever. I look at her easy smile and I know that I’m already enough for her. That I don’t need stronger bones or a stronger heart for this to be okay.
She reaches out and takes my hand. I nod to myself, staring at the French fries.
Enough screwing around, Jonah. It’s time to face facts. This breaking thing . . . it’s time to stop. This is when I decide.
nineteen
THE TROUBLE COMES WHEN IT’S TIME TO GIVE this news to Naomi. She bounds up to me on Monday before third period, a handful of Web printouts in her fist, and then she’s showing me pictures of people bleeding and people in traction and people’s bones oozing infection. “We’re going to have to be very careful with the next one,” she whispers, shoving the pages into my locker.
“Look,” I say, and I know I should be breaking the news to her, but instead I dive into my pocket and come up with my physics test. “Look at this.”
>
She sees the A and her face breaks into a smile. “Jonah! That’s awesome!”
“It’s not just awesome, babe.” I rip a piece of a Post-it note and stick the test to the inside of my locker. “It’s another deposit on a ticket out of here. Architect school—”
“You want to celebrate?” And she makes a breaking motion with her hands.
Oh, Naomi. She does this all the time. She gets way too wrapped up in what she’s doing. It’s like her thing.
One time we did this report on the 1960s, and she tie-dyed her carpet and stopped eating meat.
One time we learned about the Atlantic Ocean and she filled her entire bedroom with fish tanks.
Now she looks up at me, her pointed chin tilted to the side. Her eyes are huge and humid.
“I don’t think I’m going to do this anymore.”
“We can do something about the pain,” she says immediately. “I’ve been looking into it. If you take a lot of cough medicine before—”
“Naomi, stop. It’s not about the pain. I can’t do this anymore.”
Her mouth bends toward the ground. “But why not?”
I love that Naomi needs a reason for me to stop killing myself. What a friend.
“It’s not fair,” I say. She’s big on fairness. “I’m ripping my family to shreds. That wasn’t the point.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“This is too much for my parents right now. They’ve got to focus on Jesse.”
“Jonah, come on.” She takes my good arm and pulls me to the hallway window seat. With the sun howling beside us and the hordes of people rushing by, I feel like I’m sitting by a river.
“Look, kid,” she says. “You can’t stop now.”
I shake my head. “You’re insane.”
“No, listen. I know this is getting hard.” She traces her fingers down my cast. “You’re brave as hell, you know that?”
“Don’t do this.”
“No. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this.” A cloud moves in front of the window, and Naomi’s face gets dark. “What you’re doing is . . . shit, it’s a fucking revolution.”
“Nom.”
“Look, I’m proud of you! You’re telling everyone that this is your body and what you do with it is your business. That takes balls, man.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m desperate.” God, people really needed to stop making me sound like some kind of hero.
“Naomi,” I say. “If people think my parents are hitting me, they’ll take Will and Jesse away from them. Will is fucking eight months old. He needs his parents. And how the hell is Jesse supposed to survive on his own?” I cut her off before she can start. “Stop. This isn’t okay. I never should have started this, and you know it.”
She swallows and I see all the muscles in her throat. “So we’ll be more careful,” she says. “We can just do fingers and toes and stuff.”
“Nom, what the hell? What do you get from this?”
“The video—”
“Don’t lie. It’s not the video.”
She smiles and stares down at the window seat. “I don’t want to tell you. It’s stupid.”
I realize the sun’s back.
“Tell me anyway.”
She plays with the upholstery. “You’re going for it, man.” She shrugs. “You’re putting your all into something. It’s . . . um, kind of inspiring?”
“It’s self-torture. Not exactly inspiring. Or even interesting.”
“It’s not self-torture. Don’t belittle it like that.” She shakes her head. “Don’t pretend that’s why you’re doing it. Just because it will make it easier to stop.”
I don’t say anything.
“You want to get stronger. You want to be a better person.”
“Jesus Christ, Naomi, I’m not some sort of martyr. I’m not even a novelty. Everyone wants to be a better person.”
“But you’re going for it.” She throws her arms around my neck. It’s like hugging a doll. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So don’t stop,” she whispers. “Keep inspiring me.”
All best friends are the same because you’ll do anything for them.
She’d do it instead, if I asked. She’d break her neck for me.
“I’ll think about,” I say.
Aw, shit.
twenty
NEXT DAY DURING DINNER, NO JESSE. INSTEAD, just the squeak squeak squeak of his arms on the rowing machine.
And Will shrieks.
Dad leads grace then slices into his chicken breast. “Did Jesse eat already?”
“He’s not eating,” I say, and stick a piece of cheese in Will’s mouth. He spits it out.
Squeak squeak squeak.
“What do you mean, he’s not eating?”
“He means he had a smoothie,” Mom says, reaching for a drumstick.
Will bangs his hands in his strained carrots.
I say, “No. I mean he’s not eating. He hasn’t eaten all day. I don’t think he’s eaten since the hospital.”
“Of course he has.”
“I really don’t think so.”
Because I keep offering him food and he keeps blowing me off. Because the blender’s sparkly clean. Because he’s pale as hell.
Dad looks at me. “Why are you wearing that sling?”
“My wrist is sore. Can we talk about Jesse?”
He cuts into his meat. Only my father would use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken. He’s still in his suit. “If he weren’t eating, he’d be having trouble.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’d probably be healthier. I think that’s the point. The only way he could have an attack would be by, you know, touching Will’s shit you leave lying around.”
“Language, Jonah!”
“Stuff.”
I hear them both exhale.
“So, what’s the problem?” Mom says. “He’s afraid of having another reaction?”
She says it like it’s an irrational fear. Sometimes I really don’t think she gets how terrifying the reactions are.
“I can’t read his mind, Mom. I just know he’s not eating. Maybe because he can barely breathe in this house as it is—”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
I hear them both keep breathing.
Squeak squeak squeak.
Baby screaming.
I take a thigh from the fried chicken bucket.
“Just give him some time,” Dad says.
“How long? An hour? A week?”
Dad straightens his tie. “Come on. He’ll be fine.”
End of discussion. Apparently we’re fine!
Mom and Dad have Bible study and Jesse blows out to some kind of sports practice, so I stay home with the baby. I lie on my bed with my eyes closed, while he crawls along my carpet and cries intermittently. I try very hard not to think. About why the damn baby won’t stop crying. About how skinny Jess can get.
My hand twitches toward the hammer beside me.
Why do I have a hammer?
Because I took it from downstairs.
For Naomi. For me. I exhale.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Jonah.
If you have a problem with Jesse, deal with Jesse.
Don’t take it out on your toes.
I look at them and wiggle the eight I didn’t break in the first skateboard crash. Might as well walk while I can, I decide, and head downstairs.
Because I just don’t want to think about Jesse right now.
I plop Will in his high chair and open the refrigerator. Just the thought of eating half this crap makes me want to throw up. My jaw’s killing me, so I settle on a milkshake. I’ll make up for the calories Jess isn’t getting.
I scoop chocolate ice cream and milk into the blender, and it takes me like an hour to find the button to make it spin. No one uses this blender but Jesse. I pour my milkshake into a glass and end u
p with half of it on the floor. And of course we’re out of paper towels. “Stay in the chair,” I tell Will, and he looks like he nods through his tears. It’s the first flash of sweetness I’ve ever gotten from the kid, and I scoop some milkshake into his mouth as a reward. He actually smiles.
He babbles while I tilt some milkshake into a sippy cup for him. He spills all over the tray of his high chair and starts crying again.
All good things end, I guess.
He splashes in the brown puddle. He’s got milkshake all over him. I tweak him on the nose and venture into the garage for a new roll of paper towels.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen—definitely not Will—and when I return, Jess stands by the table, stripping off his layers of hockey clothes.
I say, “What are you doing home?”
“Practice was canceled.”
I turn away from him to hang the paper towels up. His gloves and coat rustle as he pulls them off.
He says, “What the hell has Will got on him?”
“Don’t touch—”
I turn around and there’s Jesse, his hand on Will’s sticky arm.
“Jesse, shit, I told you don’t touch him!” I grab Jesse’s arm and yank him away. There’s milkshake on his hand. Oh shit, shit, shit.
Will takes his yelling up a hundred decibels.
I force Jess to the sink and hold his hand under the water. His whole hand is swollen. God. He’s so bad with milk. This is so bad. This is so bad.
And I could take care of him so much fucking better if I had two hands.
“What is it?” he says. His voice is that forced calm.
“Chocolate milkshake.”
“The hives, man.”
They’re up to his shoulder already. His arm is almost twice the size of the other.
“Ow,” he breathes.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” And he’s even standing in the puddle I spilled. This is unbelievable. I can’t . . . how the hell did I do this?
I’m such an idiot.
“What the hell were you doing?” he says. “Why didn’t you clean him up?”
“I didn’t think you were home—”
“Why the hell were you using my blender, anyway?”
God. I take the only clean thing he has in the whole house, and I put milk and chocolate in it.
I should be shot.
Washing isn’t working. His face is swelling. He’s got hives all over his neck and if they’re in his neck, they’re about to be in his throat.
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