by Elise Bryant
I give him my best apologetic smile and try to shut the door, but he stops me with the pizza box. “I’m Sam.”
“Um, okay.” I blink at him, and he holds out his pizza-free hand to shake mine. Right, now it’s my turn. “Tessa.”
“Nice to meet you, Tessa,” Hawaiian Shirt Sam says, shifting from one foot to the other. He clearly has something more to say, and I wish he’d just get on with it because I need to go.
“Uh . . . I talked to your mom a few days ago.”
Of course he did. Mom talks to everyone and always ends up telling whoever it is too much information. The cashier at the Trader Joe’s by our old house knew all about the emergency tonsillectomy I had when I was two, Dad’s strained relationship with Grandma Edith, and my mom’s dream to buy an Airstream trailer one day. I wonder what she told Hawaiian Shirt Sam. Apparently not my name. “Yeah?”
“Well, she was talking to my mom, and she said you were going to Chrysalis Academy. That you’re, uh, a writer? I’m transferring there too. So yeah . . . that’s pretty cool.” He smiles, and only the right side of his mouth goes up, revealing a deep dimple. His eyes get all crinkly, little half-moons under his thick blond brows. It’s a nice smile. Almost makes me forget the cargo shorts.
And okay, now I want to ask him more, like what conservatory he’s in or if he knows what to expect tomorrow on our first day at the art school. Thoughts of the school have taken over my brain for the entire summer—that, and the fact that I’ll be able to write every day and be around people who do what I do, but better. The whole thing is a thrilling, terrifying unknown for me at this point, and it would be nice to have someone to share it with. But I also hear Miles’s footsteps now, shuffling toward the door. And I’ve already hit my peak tolerance for chaos today.
“Yeah, cool. So we’ll see each other at school then. Sorry about the pizza. Bye!” I say it quickly and too loud, shutting the door on Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s puzzled face. It slams closed, harder than I intended, just as Miles is walking up behind me, his ringing hearing aids announcing his presence.
My brother is three years older than me, but people usually don’t assume that. He definitely looks younger. He’s shorter than me, for one, but I think a lot of it is just the expression he carries on his face: wide, dark brown eyes, permanently dancing. And his full lips always hanging slightly open, upturned into a smirk, ready to say anything that will get a reaction. He’s wearing his favorite Dream Zone shirt today, but it’s all wrinkly. And his short, coarse hair needs to be brushed. I should have done a better job getting him ready this morning.
“That was a good one, wasn’t it, Tessie?” Miles laughs, and I try to hold back my smile. It will only encourage him.
“No.” I can’t help but let out a little snort, though, as my nerves start to settle, and it sets him off into giggles of delight. “It wasn’t funny at all,” I say with more resolve. “I thought we all agreed that you were done with this now. New city, new start?”
He shrugs. “I was bored. Did you take a video of them?”
“Why would I have taken a video of them?”
“Because it was a good one,” he says, and he begins to roll his head around, which he does whenever he’s excited. It looks like someone doing yoga, trying to stretch out a stiff neck. I just shake my head.
“Wait.” He grabs my arm, suddenly serious. “Where’s the pizza?”
“He took it.” I roll my eyes. “He paid for it, bud!”
“But I’m hungry. I ordered extra pepperoniiiiiii.” The last syllable extends into a whine, and I can feel his mood about to shift, like how the air changes right before it rains.
“Let’s get you some food,” I say, wrapping my arm around his shaking shoulders and leading him toward the kitchen. “And maybe let’s just keep this pizza business between me and you.”
“C’mon, Tessie, but you know it was a good one.”
Chapter Two
My brother has disabilities.
We used to call it special needs before a teacher pointed out that his needs aren’t special. They’re just his.
“My brother has disabilities” is the canned answer I have ready to run off, whenever someone meets him for the first time, or he does something he’s not supposed to (like ordering pizza for the neighbors), or I have to explain why he’s not in college and still living at home even though he’s nineteen. It’s quick and to the point, so I don’t have to spend too much time talking about it or talking in general.
I don’t like to explain how the cord wrapped around his neck when he was born, leaving him without oxygen for too long, blue instead of brown.
And I hate listing all of his technical diagnoses. I always worry I’m going to say something wrong because it’s not all clear-cut or what people expect. Athetoid cerebral palsy—that’s the full name, but I rarely say all that. From what I understand, that’s the center of everything. It’s why his legs are stiff and uncoordinated, why his body moves without his control when he’s really happy or really upset, and why he stumbles and rocks sometimes, like he’s on a boat going over rough water.
Then there’s cognitive impairment—I think that’s the right term to describe why my older brother acts a lot like my younger brother, why I have to help him with his basic addition homework and weather his tantrums when things don’t go the way he expects. OCD—but that might be unrelated. And vision and hearing loss—that explains the thick lenses on his glasses and expensive hearing aids that he somehow loses every few months. By the time I get to the end of the list, I’m a little lost too, ending it with an awkward “And . . . yeah.” And then it usually leads to more questions or an invitation for people to tell me about how their cousin has cystic fibrosis or something, which is not even close to the same thing. And then something that I wanted to be done with has extended for a whole lot longer.
So I just tell people my brother has disabilities—and leave it at that.
Then I brace myself for one of the inevitable responses that I get every time. They’re so familiar, I can recite them like the Pledge of Allegiance.
There’s always the “Oh, what a gift to your family!” or “I’m sure he’s taught you all so much.” As if my brother is some prop for our own self-development. Yeah, growing up with him is hard. But his function in life isn’t to teach us something. He’s a human being, and this is his life, happening right now.
Anyway, people usually only say stuff like that when my brother is sitting quietly, rolling his head around and singing one of his favorite Dream Zone songs to himself. No one spews any of those inspirational Hallmark-card lines when he’s running through the grocery aisles screaming because they don’t have the brand of chocolate milk he likes, or flipping off the cars at the end of our cul-de-sac because they canceled his favorite show. No, they just avert their eyes or, worse, shake their heads disapprovingly at Mom. That’s the second type of response.
But the third type of response, even worse than the look-on-the-bright-side mess that people try to dish out when they have no idea what they’re talking about, is the pity-filled “I’m so sorry.” Like we’ve suffered some tremendous loss. Like someone has died. I hate when people say that, because as difficult as life is with Miles sometimes, he’s not dead. He’s very much alive. And I don’t like people insinuating that his life is somehow not enough, that I should be mourning the joyful, hilarious, and yeah, kinda annoying brother I was given. He is exactly who we want.
I gave my usual explanation today, and I was expecting one of the usual responses.
But Hawaiian Shirt Sam surprised me. He just said, “Hello.”
Later, we’re sitting down for family dinner.
Family dinner is not something that happens every night, and that’s why it’s called family dinner instead of just, well, dinner.
The evenings are busy in our family. Dad works late a few nights a week at the shipping company where he’s general manager, so he sometimes grabs drive-thru on the way home. And Miles al
ways has so many appointments—with an occupational therapist, ENT, behavior specialist, psychiatrist, and whoever else he needs to see this week—so he and Mom end up snacking in waiting rooms or popping in a frozen pizza when they get home. Back in Roseville, I was left to my own devices for most dinners, so I usually ended up at Caroline’s house, eating plates of rice and meat that Lola would constantly refill, insisting I was getting too skinny.
Things haven’t changed much with the move. Everyone’s still busy. I just eat a lot more cereal now.
“You should have seen his face,” Miles says, shoveling a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. Dad cuts up the noodles to make it easier for him. “He was so mad. He was flinging the pizza around and yelling about how he had to pay for it! Tessie should have recorded it, so we could put it on YouTube.”
Miles told my parents as soon as they got home. He always does, out of guilt. But as usual, his contrition soon turned to pride, and even though it’s hours later, he’s still talking about his conquest.
“You didn’t even see his face!” I say.
“Yes, I did. I was there the whole time. He was maaaaaad! Almost as mad as that old lady!” His head starts to roll, and his arms shoot back behind him, like a bird trying to take flight. I love how he shows his feelings with his whole body, no need for interpreting or second-guessing.
“Oh, okay,” I say, giving him the side-eye, which sets off his laughter.
“Do you think I should check in with Audrey too? To make sure she’s not upset with us? We had such a nice chat about you and her son going to Chrysalis last week, and now this,” Mom says. Her thin eyebrows are pinched together, and she’s looking past us in the direction of Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s house across the street, as if she could send them an apology with her mind. “I already said I’m sorry to Mrs. Hutchinson about a thousand times, but lord knows that’s going to take a while to smooth over. First the tree situation, and now this.” Mom puts her hand up to her forehead and closes her eyes. “I just . . . I really wish you had been watching him better, Tessa.”
And there it is.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal, Mom. I handled it.” I focus on pushing the spaghetti around on my plate so she can’t see me roll my eyes.
“I know.” Just like that, her voice is soft now, a switch flipped, and she reaches across the table to grab my hand. “You do a lot for us. I’m sorry if I don’t say it enough.”
My mom and I are nothing alike. She’s all sharp angles, with pale, freckled skin and wavy blond hair that falls down perfectly on her shoulders as soon as she wakes up. I have hips and thighs that make me want to hide sometimes. And my tight curls look good eventually, but it’s basically a part-time job to get them there. She talks to everyone and seems to thrive on these conversations, and most social interactions drain me. I’m perfectly content sitting in silence.
But one thing we have in common is that we obsess over everything we say, anxiously analyzing how our words might have been interpreted or affected someone. I can only imagine how exhausting this must be for her. I avoid talking to others simply because of it. I can see that now in her cloudy blue eyes, as she squeezes my hand one more time and gives me an apologetic smile.
“Maybe we should get rid of the house phone,” she says. “One less thing for us all to worry about.”
Dad, who has been studying emails on his phone for most of dinner, looks up. “We can’t do that. What if there was an emergency?”
“I didn’t use the house phone,” Miles cackles. “I got Tessie’s cell phone when she was pooping! She was pooping so long! Maybe you should just get your poop under control, Tessie.”
I smack his arm, and he yelps in between giggles, trying to smack me back.
“Hey, hey,” Dad warns, but there’s a wide smile on his face. His phone’s screen is dark now.
I jump up from the table and Miles follows, but I lap him and give him a noogie before pulling him into a hug, his laughter shaking both of us. Our golden brown skin doesn’t match Mom’s fair tone or Dad’s deep brown, but we’re the same.
My brother’s disabilities are everything sometimes, but they’re also nothing. Our relationship isn’t remarkable or inspiring, like people expect. He’s just my brother, and I’m just his sister. And my favorite memories with him—dressing up in my parents’ clothes and pretending to be the new neighbors, walking down the street to get ice cream from Rite Aid—have nothing to do with what everyone else focuses on.
“So did you and Sam get to talk about Chrysalis?” Mom asks when we settle back down.
“Not really.”
“He seems like such a nice boy,” she continues. “And he’s going to be a junior too! You guys could be buddies! Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Don’t get me wrong. Sam seems nice—really nice. The way he handled the pizza and treated Miles was different than what I’m used to and . . . intriguing. But I’m not sure he’s the type I want to link up with on the first day. It’s not like I’m judging him for his fashion choices, but the students at Chrysalis definitely will. Also, after seeing me as a flustered mess earlier, he’s probably not so excited to hang out with me either.
“Why no enthusiasm? Are you still mad at me about the portfolio?” she asks.
“Is this about when you stole Tessie’s diary?” Miles cuts in.
“Oh, here we go,” Dad huffs with a weary look.
“It wasn’t her diary!” Mom throws her hands up.
“It might as well have been.” I had told myself I was over it, that I wasn’t going to bring it up anymore, but the wound feels fresh all over again, and I’m reminded of her betrayal.
I’d heard about Chrysalis Academy long before my parents dropped the bomb on us that we would be leaving the place we’d lived our entire lives and moving six hours south to Long Beach, so my dad could take a more senior position within his company. The prestigious art school has produced a Disney Channel star, a violinist prodigy who was runner-up on America’s Got Talent, and even a poet who was longlisted for the National Book Award.
So, when I found out where we would be going, I dreamed about Chrysalis a little bit, maybe as a way to cope with the fact that my life was going to be so dramatically changed. I imagined what it would be like to be one of Chrysalis’s talented, special students. To meet other people who love what I love. And I made the mistake of talking about it at a family dinner one time. One time! But I never actually applied. I mean, I knew my love stories were not the kind of serious National Book Award–type writing they were looking for.
So, when I got my acceptance letter in the mail, I thought it was a joke. Or a clerical error.
I showed the letter to Mom, laughing about how bizarre this was, when her face broke into a knowing smile, and she spilled the beans. She could tell from what I’d said that I really wanted to go, so she filled out the application for me and then printed out some of my stories (my private stories!) as the writing samples. She had wanted to wait to tell me until I got in for sure, so I wouldn’t get myself into a tizzy over it—one of her euphemisms for the anxiety I’ve had since I was in elementary school.
“I know I probably shouldn’t have done it. But you wouldn’t have gotten into Chrysalis if I hadn’t. You would have self-rejected instead of taking the risk, and I just don’t want you to let your worries have that kind of control,” Mom says, reiterating the same defense she gave at the time. The same advice she’s given me for years. “You’re such a wonderful writer, Tessa. The world deserves to see that. And it all worked out in the end, right?”
I know I should feel good that I got accepted, and I do. Sort of. But Caroline’s the only person I let read my stories. It makes my skin flame to think which of my romantic, silly stories Mom could have sent. She couldn’t remember which she printed, and, like, I can’t exactly go to the admissions director with that mortifying question. There was that especially bad one from a few years back that took place at a summer camp, where my b
rown-skinned, curly-haired protagonist had to choose between the hot guys who were, of course, inexplicably all in love with her. But surely Chrysalis wouldn’t have accepted me if they had read that.
“Right?” Mom echoes again, looking at me hopefully. I just shrug.
“What time do you think we should leave tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject, but before she can answer, we’re interrupted by Miles standing up so forcefully that his chair falls to the floor.
“What time is it?” he asks. His eyes are blinking quickly and his arms are pulsing behind him.
Dad checks his phone. “Six fifteen.”
“It started! I’m missing it!” He starts to cry, a high-pitched squeal, and runs from the room, toward the direction of the television set. “Stupid! So stupid!”
Mom stands up. “One of the Dream Zone members—Jonny, I think?—was going to be on Access Hollywood tonight. I should have remembered.” She shakes her head, looking mad at herself. As if this is her fault. Sometimes I think it’s easier for her to place blame on someone—herself, me, Dad—so she doesn’t get mad at the universe.
“I’ll go calm him down,” she says, following after him, my question about tomorrow forgotten. I used to get mad at Mom for doing this—putting my brother first, dropping everything to help him—but I’ve learned to let it go. She’s doing the best she can. We all are.
I pick up Miles’s fallen chair and then help Dad clear the table.
Chapter Three
I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear tomorrow, when Caroline calls again.
“I never got anything from you!”
“Yeah, didn’t really have time for that.” I fill her in on the scene from this afternoon, and she cackles. “Ah, I miss those pizzas! Someone should get that boy a reality show.”