Trigger

by Susan Vaught

  “Damn it, I’m just trying to help!” Mom’s sharp tone drove more nails into my brain. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Give him a little space. Let him get his bearings.”

  It got quiet and cold all of a sudden, like an ice-wind blew through the house.

  When I focused my eyes and squinted up at Dad, I realized Mom was gone. She left with the ice-wind.

  Before I said or did anything else stupid or selfish, I picked up my book and headed for the stairs. Ice-wind. I shivered. My feet felt like weights as I moved them up, up, one at a time, good boy, bad boy, one two three, stop talking nonsense, you’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.

  Ice-wind. The hall seemed long, but I made it to my bedroom door, made it inside.

  You’re back! J.B.’s voice smacked me cold in the face, like a whole new ice-wind.

  Frowning, I covered my ears to shut him out, but that was no use. He got even louder. Selfish-sailfish-selfish. You look upset, Frankenstein. Why don’t you call somebody and talk about how upset you are? Oh, wait.

  He laughed and it sounded—it felt—like acid. You can’t call anybody. There isn’t anybody to call.

  I closed the door and managed not to slam it.

  Can’t call anybody. Not even a counselor. Not for six months.

  My bed sagged under me as I sat down hard. Not a single person to call. There was Leza, but she was always busy and I didn’t want to bug her and make her stop talking to me. Mama Rush was probably in bed. And none of my old friends had come to see me in the hospital. None of my old friends wanted to talk to me. The friends at Carter were gone or busy with Carter stuff. Maybe I didn’t have any old friends. Maybe they had all left before the big bang, just like Todd. Maybe I didn’t have any new friends left at Carter, either.

  Because you were selfish. Selfish Before. Selfish After.

  If I could have found J.B. in my brain and wrapped my hands around his neck, I would have. I would have choked him and shook him as hard as I bet Mom wanted to shake me. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t shut up when I needed to be quiet and I couldn’t talk when I had something to say. Just a brain-damaged turtle. Just a broken, glued-together ashtray with holes burned in the sides. And my head hurt way, way bad.

  I put my book beside me on the bed, then put my face in my hands.

  You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.

  Someone was touching me, hugging me, holding me, asking me if I was okay.

  It was all I could do to pay attention.

  Dad.

  In my room.

  He was stroking my head. His hand was all shaky.

  “… Don’t want you to put yourself under too much pressure, get too upset.”

  He switched on the bedside table lamp, and I yelped as the light pierced my eyes.

  “I’m sorry. Is your head hurting? Should I get you some aspirin?”

  Dad was gone before I could answer.

  Time didn’t seem to be moving. At least J.B. wasn’t talking anymore. He’d said enough, hadn’t he?

  When Dad came back with aspirin, water, and a really nervous expression, I asked him to get my hand brace and my foot brace out of the closet. He helped me put them on, and he kept looking all jumpy and twitchy. As my fingers tried to curl against the hard plastic and my ankle throbbed from being straight, my broken brain flashed back to Big Larry making his loops around and around the patio.

  He bothered you, didn’t he, Jersey?

  Only, I wasn’t really bothered. Mama Rush had been right about that. I was scared of Big Larry. Scared of what he would do, like Dad was scared of me getting too upset.

  Frankenstein scary.

  “You—you think—” My voice cracked.

  “Ssshhh.” Dad sat down beside me and kept an arm around my shoulders as I took a drink of the water he had brought me. He offered me the aspirin, and I took them, too. Another drink, and my throat unlocked a little.

  “You think I’m Big Larry,” I said.

  Dad stared at me.

  I sighed. “No, wait. Not Big Larry. Frankenstein. Not Frankenstein. But you think—”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to try to talk.” Dad hugged me a little closer. “I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

  “You think—you want to be sure that I won’t break down like Big Larry. That I won’t break down, I mean.”

  Break down again, I wanted to say. Go off and do something stupid, or turn purple and explode with tears. Or worse.

  Dad’s stunned expression and fast blinking gave him away.

  He thought if I got too upset, I’d crack. Only, he wasn’t afraid I’d drive my scooter too fast and blubber a lot. He was scared I’d hurt myself like I did before.

  I needed to tell him I understood that, or ask him if that’s what he thought for sure, or ask him if he thought I was selfish. All I could do was drink the rest of the water, put the glass down, and say, “I won’t.”

  I said that over and over.

  Dad just hugged me and blinked even faster.

  Mom never came to my room.

  chapter 10

  I have this dream where both legs work and both arms work and I don’t have any scars on the outside. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in dress blues holding a pistol. Sunlight brightens the dust and ashes in my room and darkens all the places where I’ve nicked the walls and doors. The football rug, the one Mama Rush gave me when I made the team my freshman year, is folded neatly on my dresser so it won’t get messy. I give it one last look before I turn back to what I’m doing. My fingers tingle as I lift the gun to my mouth. It tastes oily and dusty all at once as I close my lips on cold gunmetal—but I can’t. Not in the mouth. I’m shaking, but I lift the barrel to the side of my head. The tip digs into my skin. I’m thinking about how selfish I’ve been, how everyone’s sick of me and mad at me. I’m thinking I don’t have friends, I’m ashamed. I hate myself, and I hate my room and all the dust and ashes in places I didn’t even know. Then I’m squeezing the trigger and looking at the dust and ashes and feeling my hand shake and there’s noise and fire and pain and I’m falling, falling, my broken head smashing into my pillow ….

  You shouldn’t go to school. J.B. hadn’t shut up since I woke up two hours ago. The quieter I got, the noisier he got. You’re talking really bad now. You can’t do it. You’ll run your stupid mouth or turn to stone when you’re supposed to talk.

  I didn’t have time to fight, so I ignored him.

  My hand and ankle felt all stiff from wearing the braces for the first time since I left Carter, my hair still felt damp from the shower, and my jeans felt too heavy and too tight. Were jeans okay? I mean, I’d been locked up in brain injury hospitals for a year and the only place I’d been since discharge was The Palace. I wasn’t really sure what to wear. A solid green shirt and jeans seemed safe enough for now, but the snap and zipper on the pants would be hard. Pragmatics. Even brain-damaged turtles knew better than to show up at school dressed like a geek.

  Geeks bit the heads off live chickens at carnivals. I read that somewhere, about the word “geek.” Chicken heads. Just the thought was gross.

  “Chicken heads.”

  Oh, great. Load up on stupid things to say. Why did you think it would be a good idea to go back to your old school?

  “Answers.” I fought with my left sock, trying to pull it over my weak foot. The ankle wouldn’t bend. Putting socks on one-handed was a real bitch. I was glad I wasn’t a girl. I’d never be able to put on a bra. “Bra,” I muttered. “Chicken heads. Harder in the real world, but I can do it. Get some answers. Bra.”

  See? That’s what you’ll do. J.B. actually sounded nervous. March into the main hall at Central and yell, “Bra! Chicken heads!” It’ll go over real well.

  “No yelling about bras or chicken heads or geeks.” I finally finished with the sock and started on the shoes. Then I wondered why I was comforting the ghost who had tried to kill me. “Go to hell,”
I added, just to keep things straight between us. “Bras. Socks. Hell.”

  I needed to quit listening to him, but that was hard. He was so loud in my room I couldn’t ignore him.

  Stay home. Even Mama Rush thinks you shouldn’t go back to that place.

  “Going.” Both shoes were on. Dad would tie them. I refused to do Velcro for school. Stupid-marks or not, I knew Velcro was just … out.

  Don’t talk about bras. Don’t talk about anything. This is a bad idea, I’m warning you. School will be a disaster like you can’t imagine.

  “Bras,” I echoed even though I didn’t want to. “Imagine bras.” The urge to shout “chicken heads” nearly overpowered me.

  The digital clock on my bedside table made a whispery noise as the numbers changed.

  I picked up my memory book.

  Hatch, Jersey.

  Time to go. But I would do something about the bra-chicken-head problem, for sure.

  “Oh, no, you do not have a nasty old sock sticking out of your mouth.” Leza made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scream as she hurried down Central High’s front steps.

  She was dressed in nice jeans and a Green Rangers cheerleading shirt.

  I looked down at my own jeans. At least those were probably okay.

  She was right about the sock, too. It tasted pretty fuzzy, but it reminded me to be quiet. Dad had finally agreed just to drop me off. Per the instructions of the principal, I was arriving one hour late at nine a.m., and I was supposed to meet my guidance counselor and go to class. As soon as Dad pulled away, I had fished the sock out of my backpack and shoved it where it would do the most good.

  But Leza had yelled about the sock. Her hair was straightened, with little flipped-up curls at the bottom. I thought it was cute. I thought she was beautiful. I didn’t expect her to be waiting, since I was there one hour late at nine a.m.

  She reached me and snatched the now-wet sock out of my mouth. Before I could say anything, she hurled it into the bushes and turned back around to point her finger in my face. “No more socks.”

  “No more socks,” I repeated. “I’m not going to be selfish anymore, and I don’t wear a bra.”

  I clamped my teeth on my tongue. It was coated with fuzz.

  Leza only shook her head. “I’m really glad about you not wearing women’s underwear, but be quiet about bras and come on. Ms. Wenchel’s waiting in the office.”

  As we climbed the school’s front stairs, she walked on my bad side and steadied my elbow. My memory book felt heavy in my right hand. I needed a new backpack or something. The book might be as bad as the sock, especially if somebody read it.

  Hatch, Jersey.

  I winced with each step, then winced as I realized I used to run up the front steps to Central, even skipped a few sometimes. Sweat beaded on my forehead just from the bad-boy, good-boy march I had to do now.

  “There’s a wheelchair entrance around the side by the gym,” Leza said as we finally made it to the top. “It might be easier.”

  “Like Velcro,” I answered as I glanced at my shoes.

  Leza looked down, too. Her head cocked to one side like she was thinking. “Oh, I get it.” She took my arm and steered me toward the main school doors. “You thought people would laugh at the Velcro shoes.”

  “Yeah.”

  She shrugged as we walked. “Maybe they would have. I’ve got some Easi-laces at home. I’ll bring them over after school since I don’t have practice today.”

  “Easi-laces?” I tried to open the door for her, but it was heavy.

  Leza waited while I yanked at it. “Yeah. They’re cool. Laces you don’t have to tie. Kind of a compromise.”

  I finally got the door open. She smiled at me as we walked inside, and my heart did a goofy-dance because smiling made her even prettier, and she was going to bring me shoelaces.

  Shoelaces.

  She made me open my book and write down where the wheelchair entrance was. Then she made me write shoelaces. Like I’d forget that.

  When I grinned, Leza said, “Close up that notebook and come on. We’re going to be late.”

  The air inside was barely cooler than the air outside, and I caught a whiff of sour locker and bleach. The halls were empty, and I figured everyone was in class. Leza and I walked past the main auditorium toward the office. A short redheaded woman wearing a black dress was standing outside the office door. She looked all bunched up and nervous and dark, like she was going to a funeral. Shoelaces. I hoped that wasn’t Ms. Wenchel.

  Jeez, I didn’t need to think about funerals or shoelaces or bras or geeks or chicken heads. Leza threw away my sock. Shoelaces. My backpack hurt my bad shoulder. I was still sweating and my jeans were definitely too tight and some funeral-woman might be waiting for me. If Leza hadn’t been there, I would have wanted to go home even if J.B. laughed at me and made me tell him he was right after all.

  When we got to the office, the weird woman in the mourning dress stuck out her hand. “Hello, Jersey. I’m Alice Wenchel, your helper for the day.”

  Helper for the day? Helper? Funeral shoelaces. What the hell? I opened my mouth to say, “Oh, no way. No way!”

  What came out was, “Chicken head bras.”

  Alice Wenchel stared at me.

  Leza wrinkled up her nose. “You’re a little worse in public, aren’t you?”

  I wanted to bang my broken head on the concrete wall. Focus. Focus! Why didn’t I remember to focus? After Big Larry, I swore I wouldn’t forget. Focus. No forgetting. Not again.

  At that moment, the auditorium doors banged open.

  A roar of voices washed through the halls. Half the school was suddenly right there beside us, all around us.

  Did I have sweat on my lip? I wiped my face on my good arm really fast, just in case.

  Ms. Wenchel glanced at the crowd, then gave me a huge smile that reminded me of my dad when he was being all weird.

  “Sorry,” she said. “The junior-senior group ran a little over.”

  Teachers filed by.

  All of them looked at me as they passed, then tried to act like they didn’t.

  A lot of the students stared without bothering to hide it. I saw guys I recognized from the football team and the golf team. They were the ones in Green Rangers T-shirts, not looking at me. It was like they didn’t want to see me. They were pretending me away like I pretended J.B. away. They didn’t want me back in school with them.

  Did I used to walk like that, all fast and confident?

  I knew I did, but that didn’t seem real.

  I shut my eyes and turned to the side so I wouldn’t see anything, either. Well, not as much.

  When I opened my eyes again, Todd went by with a very pretty dark-haired girl. Her head was down and he had his arm around her shoulders.

  Who was she?

  I leaned toward them and squinted. Took a step. Todd shot me a glare of pure fire and hate. I stepped back. Todd directed a wicked frown at Leza, then he and the girl moved on down the hall, kind of in a hurry.

  You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.

  The hallucination sentence ran through my head four times, really fast, with the last word the sharpest. My book jerked in my hand like it wanted to pop open to the page where I wrote that down over and over again.

  Was Todd walking with the girl who said that to me?

  Was that girl Elana Arroyo? She looked like the picture. Did Elana really move away? Leza said Elana moved away.

  “Leza?” I called her name before I had time to be scared of what else I might say trying to ask what was happening.

  “It was an assembly.” Leza sounded embarrassed and annoyed. “You know, to, um, get people ready for you being here. Remind them not to ask you questions and stuff.”

  I turned to face her. “What?”

  She pointed to the auditorium. “The principal thought the crisis specialists should talk to everyone one more time today, before you got here.”

  “
An assembly … crisis … about me?”

  All the teachers staring. All the people in the hall gaping. It made a lot more sense now. I might as well have been onstage next to the specialists. They could have pointed and sighed and looked all serious and therapeutic like the doctors at the brain injury center.

  The geek is back. Will he bite the heads off live chickens?

  Ms. Wenchel was talking, but I couldn’t hear her through the noise in my brain. The skin around all my stupid-marks tightened. My teeth clenched. The hallway image blurred a little, but if it was the last thing I ever did, I wasn’t going to cry.

  Leza’s hand brushed my good arm. “It’ll be okay, Jersey. I’ll see you between classes and at lunch.”

  “Are you my helper, too?” The question fell out of my mouth, but it didn’t sound mean. At least I hoped it didn’t.

  “Sort of, I guess.” Leza’s smile was a lot more real than anyone else’s. “Just a friend. Gotta go.”

  She took off into the crowd and left me with Ms. Wenchel.

  I looked at the woman’s bright red hair and dark black funeral dress, and I really, really, really wanted to go outside, dig through the bushes, and find my sock.

  As it turned out, the sock didn’t matter. I was so busy trying to take notes and keep up with stuff in class that I didn’t talk to Ms. Wenchel much. In between taking notes, I made lists of stuff I needed.

  1. Get a better backpack. Bigger.

  2. Get pencils that don’t break so easy.

  3. Maybe get pens.

  4. Get a tape recorder.

  And I made lists of stuff I didn’t need to say out loud.

  1. I need a math tutor.

  2. Do I even have to take math?

  3. Did math suck this bad before? Ask Dad.

  4. I think the Earth Science teacher hates me.

  5. Ms. Wenchel has a pimple on her nose.

  6. Ms. Wenchel shouldn’t have nose pimples.

  Ms. Wenchel kept trying to look at what I was writing, so I covered it up with my bad arm. Then I made lists of stuff I kept saying out loud so maybe I’d stop saying them out loud.