by Susan Vaught
Okay. Okay. Mom sounded happy and she made real food and she and Dad weren’t yelling at each other, so no freaking out. No going Big Larry. No talking about stupid stuff.
No talking about the note in the box? No talking about Elana Arroyo and Todd?
“Boxes. Elana. Todd. Faces. Shut up.”
He didn’t shut up, and I slammed the door behind me. Then I worried Mom would get mad about that, but she didn’t. Neither did Dad. He just ate a lot of biscuits and got crumbs all over his suit. I couldn’t say anything, because I got crumbs everywhere, too. Bacon crumbs, egg crumbs, biscuit crumbs. We talked about school but not about grades or getting peed on. We talked about Dad’s job and Mom’s job but not about fighting or spending nights away from home.
Whenever I wanted to say stupid stuff, I just took another bite of something. Definitely better than oatmeal and Kool-Aid glue toast. Way better than peanuts. Even better than cheerleaders. Sort of. Outside, it thundered and rained, but inside, we ate breakfast. It really was the best day since I left the hospital, until Dad had to go to his weekend conference, and Mom had to go to the bank to finish getting ready for the audit. They both cleaned up the kitchen, and they both kissed me, made sure I had their phone numbers, told me they’d call—then they were gone, and I was alone.
Alone in the house. Full, smiling, but alone.
With the box.
But I wasn’t going to look in the box. If I did, and I found something bad or something that upset me, I might ruin everything, and I didn’t want to ruin anything.
“Big Larry. Romeo man. J.B.” I wasn’t going to be a ruiner like them.
The kitchen table was so clean I could see my reflection in the dark brown wood. I could see reflections of the rain on the kitchen windows, too. If I just stayed at the table staring at myself and the raindrops, I’d never go upstairs, and I’d never open the box, and I wouldn’t ruin anything.
I tapped my fingers on the reflections.
Was Leza home? I could call her. Or Mama Rush. That’s what I’d do. I’d call them. After I sat for a while. If I was careful, I could stretch things out and only go upstairs with enough time to do Algebra and Civics for tomorrow. Then I wouldn’t be tempted to look in the box and Dad would come home and probably Mom since she was so happy, and everything would be fine.
But it was hard to sit and do nothing.
I yawned.
Then I stared at the raindrops.
It took a few seconds more before I thought about the box. So I looked up Leza’s number and dialed it.
Somebody answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” Todd. Just my luck.
Don’t say Elana, whatever you do, don’t say Elana Arroyo.
“Hello?” Todd said again, sounding a little annoyed.
Focus. Focus. Go slow. “Is … Leza … there?”
I yawned. I couldn’t help myself, but I hoped Todd hadn’t heard that. He might have, because he wasn’t saying anything. Did I forget something?
“Please?” I said just in case, and, “Sorry.”
Todd made a bull-snort. “Yeah, just a minute.”
Freak.
He didn’t say it, but I sort of heard it along with the rain, which was still tapping away outside. Todd calling me a freak didn’t bother me like it did when I first got home. I knew I wasn’t a total Big Larry. Not yet, anyway. I was trying harder and harder not to be.
Leza came on with, “Jersey? Is something wrong?”
“No.” I stared at my still-sleepy face in the kitchen table. Her voice sounded so soft on the phone, like music. “Just calling.”
“I don’t believe you. Mama Rush told me about that box.”
Should have figured that. I couldn’t get mad at either one of them, though. Especially not Leza. “Romeo man. They had a fight.”
“Yeah, I know. Carl really pissed in his Wheaties.” Someone grumbled in the background and Leza said, “What? But Mom, he did! Oh, okay. Jersey, Carl really, um, messed in his nest. Anyway, I think you should stay away from that box. It’s none of your business.”
“Me, too. No box.” Romeo man. I couldn’t be anyone’s Romeo man, not with all my stupid-marks. But Leza was nice to me. It was almost like she didn’t care how I looked. “My parents are gone right now.”
“You could ask your dad about the box when he gets back,” she said. “But nosing through his things, that would be wrong.”
I couldn’t smell breakfast anymore, and my stomach rumbled, and it was still raining. All gray and dark outside. How long had I been asleep on the table?
“No box. You want … to talk? Over here?”
She sighed. “I can’t. It’s Sunday family time. Ever since you—well, you know—my parents have been doing this. We have to eat lunch together, and we all play stupid board games, then go to Lake Raven for dinner.” Grumbling kicked up in the background. Leza groaned. “Okay, whatever. The games aren’t stupid, but I can’t come over. Just a second.”
She put her hand over the phone. I could hear a little bit, but not much. She was asking something. Mumbled voices answering, and one loud one—Todd, I figured. Then Leza got louder with, “Why not?” And, “My choice if I want to talk to him, the doctors and Mama Rush said …” And, quieter, “God … forgive … ashamed.”
More mumbling. More loud stuff from Todd.
Then Leza came back. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, but I want you to promise me—stay out of your dad’s stuff.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Okay. Frog farts.” The rain was getting louder.
“Promise me, Jersey.”
“I promise.”
“No opening that box.”
“I promise. Frog farts.”
“Do all of your homework, clean up your room, and do something nice for your parents. That should keep you busy.”
“Homework. Major frog farts.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She laughed. “Hoochie-mama.”
She hung up without saying good-bye, and the last thing I heard was her starting to yell at Todd again. I was grinning. It was nice to talk to her. I never wanted to stop, but I knew she had to play stupid board games that weren’t really stupid. Wouldn’t want her to mess in her nest or piss in her Wheaties.
“Wheaties.” I turned the phone off and looked up the number for the Palace. Then I turned the phone back on and dialed. No answer. I pushed the off button and put the phone down, pulled all of my money out of my pocket, and counted it. Not enough for a cab ride to The Palace and back.
I could check in with Mom and Dad. That would waste a little more time. I turned the phone back on, and the low-battery warning chirped.
Great.
The only other cordless phones were upstairs, one in my bedroom and one in my parents’ bedroom. Guess it was time to do homework after all.
My body felt heavy when I stood up. I’d been at the table so long it was hard to move, but I stretched and went to the downstairs bathroom. Peed without peeing on myself. When I was finished, I washed my hands, washed my face, washed my hands again. Stared at myself in the mirror for a while and made some faces.
The left side of my smile still didn’t work right. All of my stupid-marks were still where I left them. I needed a haircut, and I needed to borrow Dad’s electric razor.
After a while, I got tired of standing there.
“Don’t be stupid. You can go upstairs without looking in the box.” When I talked, my mouth looked funny. Halfa-mouth. Frog farts. Did Leza really not care what I looked like? I told her I’d do my homework and clean my room and do something nice for my parents. I promised I wouldn’t look in the box. So, I’d go upstairs and do all that other stuff. Then one of my parents might come home, and everything would be okay.
• • •
I just needed a phone. Really. That’s the only reason I went into my parents’ bedroom. The phone downstairs was dead, and I hadn’t put my phone on the charger so it was dead, and I’d finished my homework. Cleaned
my room, too, but I couldn’t think of anything nice to do for my parents, and I was sick of listening to J.B., so I wanted to call Mama Rush. Only, I didn’t have a phone, so while the rain tap-tapped on the roof, I went to get one off Dad’s dresser, right across from the closet.
Now I was standing there with the phone in my hand, staring at the closet. If I went into the closet, I’d see the box. So I just wouldn’t walk into the closet. I’d take the phone and go back to my room. Frog farts. Simple. Take the phone, leave. Take the phone, leave.
I threw the phone on the bed and cursed instead.
Enough with this crap. I was sick of thinking about the box. Really sick of trying not to look in it. I’d just go in the closet, look once, and leave. Then I’d know. Then it would be off my mind, and nothing would be ruined.
But I’d promised Leza.
Leza wouldn’t have to know, would she?
God, I sounded just like J.B. I’d been listening to him too long, which was another reason to get this box thing over with. Just a fast look. In and out.
Went fast enough getting in, too. I had to climb onto the bottom shelf of a closet organizer to reach the box. Hold on with the bad hand, reach with the good. Good boys go to heaven. Good, good. The box moved—ah, crap! Boxes! Boxes! Crashing. Going thud. Something hit my head. A shoe. An old checkbook bounced off my shoulder. Old paper-smell. Dust. I sneezed. More thuds. Boxes. Boxes everywhere. Shoes everywhere, and tax records, check stubs, pictures, and old jewelry. I got down off the organizer with the brown box I came for, but frog farts. In and out. In and out? I was such a total Big Larry, with lots and lots of work to do.
Box, box, box. I took the special box to my room and put it on the bed, where I could concentrate on it later. Then I went back to my parents’ closet.
At first I tried to get stuff in the right boxes. After a while, I stuck stuff in whatever box was still open. I put boxes on the shelves. Other boxes fell off. Stupid!
By the time I finished, I was sniffing like a Big Larry baby. How would I ever get the brown box back on the shelf without knocking stuff off? But I had to try. Otherwise, my parents would know and get upset and I’d ruin everything all over again.
When I got to my room and sat down on the bed next to the box, my head was hurting. My hand was hurting. My scars felt like somebody was throwing darts into them.
About time, J.B. said. You’re slow.
“Be quiet.” I rubbed my nose with my shirt. “I’m tired.”
Better hurry up and look and take it back. You’ll be in big trouble.
“I promised Leza I wouldn’t look. What if—”
Look in the box, Jersey.
Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I shivered. My fingers drew up into a fist. “I’ll just take it back. Bad idea. I didn’t mean to do it.”
You didn’t mean to come upstairs, go to your parents’ room, go into their closet, destroy stuff, bring this box here, look in the box—which part?
“Leave me alone!”
You don’t want to be alone. Look in the box and go put it back.
My stomach growled. I needed some lunch. Or was it dinnertime? The rain took away all the light. I couldn’t tell.
When I picked up the box, it felt sort of heavy. Why didn’t I notice that before? Because of the closet disaster?
“Disaster.” The lid felt rough under my fingers. “Look in the box and go put it back.”
Could answers really be inside this stupid brown box?
Open it. J.B. sounded weird and different. Meaner. Open it now.
I closed my eyes and pulled off the lid.
When I opened my eyes, what I saw didn’t make any sense.
My ears started to buzz. My scars and my bad hand hurt big-time. There were a lot of socks in the box. And around the sides, some pictures of me dressed for football and golf and R.O.T.C.—little-sized and worn out, like they came out of Dad’s wallet.
And in the middle of all the socks and pictures, there was a big black thing.
I kept staring at it, trying to make my brain work. Socks, pictures. Socks, pictures. Socks, pictures, and the black thing. Socks, pictures. A green tag had my name on it, and a date, and a long number. The tag had EVIDENCE printed on it, and the police department’s phone number, too. The green tag on the black thing.
My good hand shook harder than my bad hand as I picked it up. So cold. So heavy. Dad’s box. Dad’s box full of socks and pictures, and …
And? J.B. whispered. You know what it is. Say it.
“Socks. Pictures.”
I swallowed.
“And the gun.”
chapter 15
Rain.
There was never any rain in my dream.
No rain.
But it was still raining outside. It had been raining all day.
I coughed, but it sounded like a hiccup. The gun weighed so much it made my wrist droop. In the dream, it wasn’t heavy. I lifted it easily, but now I couldn’t. The barrel pointed toward my knee. In the dream, I had it in my mouth, then I moved it to the side of my head, but there wasn’t any rain. Rain, rain, go away. No rain.
In the dream, there was only sunshine, enough to show the dust and ashes, if there were ever any ashes. In the dream, I didn’t think about hot or cold, but now I was cold. I was shaking. And in the dream, I could taste the oil and metal, not smell it. Here, now, I could smell the gun. It might have been the socks, but all the socks looked clean and I didn’t think socks smelled like metal.
“Metal,” I whispered. “Socks.”
I was wearing shorts. No uniform. And the rug Mama Rush made me, I hadn’t picked it up and put it on the dresser. Socks. Socks. I could smell the gun. Smell it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Socks. Oh, God. Socks.” I had the gun in my hand. It was touching my leg. The tag on it was from the police—this had to be it. The gun. In my dream, it was bigger, but lighter.
Tears ran down my cheeks and across my mouth. Half of my mouth didn’t work. I had scars on the outside now. One of my legs didn’t work right and one of my arms didn’t work right.
Socks. Metal. Smells. Heavy gun.
Did it have bullets? It was raining. Getting dark. I should have turned the light on, but the light might have made it sunny in my room and I might see all the dust and shoot myself again. Socks, socks. Breathe. I needed to breathe. Air. Bullets. Socks.
God, did the gun have bullets in it? I hadn’t even looked. Didn’t know if I could, one-handed. If it had bullets, I might shoot myself by accident. Back in the box. Put the gun back in the box. Pragmatics. When I left, the hospital banner said Up and forward. Up and forward, Hatch. The letters on the sign flashed. The letters changed colors. Did I write that in my memory book? The dirty white binder with the pen on the dirty string and Hatch, Jersey on the spine. Up and forward. Put the gun in the box. Don’t be a Big Larry. Don’t be a Romeo man. Don’t be J.B. the second. No ruining. No ruiners. Pragmatics. Socks.
Put the gun in the box. Be careful. The gun might have bullets. I’d probably drop the box and shoot a hole in my foot. Or the wall. If I dropped it wrong, I might shoot my head again, only this time it would be an accident but nobody would believe me. Where was J.B.? Why wasn’t he talking?
I couldn’t make my body move. I sat there. Just kept sitting. Kept holding the heavy gun. I stared at it. I stared at the box and the socks. My head. It was hurting. Throbbing. Burning. I felt like my eyes would pop out. My scars ached, especially the one on my temple, I could feel the gun pressed against it. All I had to do was pick up the gun and it would be just like my dream, except I wouldn’t shoot.
“Socks. Please. Socks. Pragmatics.”
Who was crying? The world looked funny. My face was wet. Was I crying?
The gun had to go back in the box. I had to get it off my leg and put it up. Careful, careful, there might be bullets. No accidents. Socks. No ruining. I wasn’t a ruiner.
My hand shook. The gun shook. I lifted it up, up. Pu
t it in the box. Just lay it in the box on top of the socks. Don’t smell anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t think about shooting yourself. Put the gun on the socks. Put the gun in the box.
Someone screamed so loud I screamed, too. Dropped the gun on the socks and screamed again—but the gun didn’t shoot. It just fell and lay there on the socks and didn’t move. I looked up at my bedroom doorway.
Mom.
Mom in her black bank skirt and black bank blouse, one hand on the doorframe, one hand on her mouth, frozen like ice. But her eyes. They moved back and forth, back and forth, and got bigger and bigger.
I thought about ponds, and walking out on bad ice, and how if it cracks, you fall in and drown before anybody can save you.
The ice statue was starting to break.
And the cracking was loud, loud, like gunshots.
First her fingers, then her hands, then her arms. She grabbed her hair and tore out big handfuls. Blond hair falling everywhere. Her mouth started to move. She said, “No! No! No!” Her eyes got huge like a cartoon. Her face went red. Tears. Spit on her mouth.
“Put it down!” she yelled. “No! Put it down!”
What? Put what down? Her hair. Oh, God. She was ripping it to bits. I tried to say something, coughed, choked a little. My teeth bounced together. My hands shook. The box and the socks and the gun shook. And then I knew. The gun. Put the box with the socks and the gun down.
Mom thought—she thought—
“No,” I managed to get through my chatter-teeth. “I’m not—I just—I—”
She jumped toward me and knocked the box out of my hands. I covered my head with my good arm as the socks and the gun fell on the football rug.
The gun didn’t shoot. It might not have bullets, but I couldn’t think about bullets because my mom had me by the shirt and she shook me, shook me, until my teeth bounced together harder and the room moved. I tried to grab her hands, but I couldn’t.
“Why?” she was screaming now. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you! Why? Why?”
“Just—looking!” I shouted back.
She let go of my shirt and slapped me hard. My jaw popped. Fire on my face, racing from my chin to my stupid-mark. Water spilled out of my eye. The eye closed. Mom slapped me again, and I fell over on my pillow, holding my face, crying. It hurt. God, it burned. My whole face throbbed. My scars felt like they were ripping open. Broken ice. Drowning before anybody could save me.