How to Say I Love You Out Loud

by Karole Cozzo

  For once, my parents have the decency to refrain from defining the concept of fairness for me. But that doesn’t mean I get off entirely lecture-free.

  “Jordyn, this is hardly ideal for anyone,” my mom says tiredly. “It’s not particularly fair to Phillip or to us as his parents. This last-minute notification is just appalling.”

  I actually resort to stomping my foot against the hardwood floor. “It’s not appalling, it’s bullshit!” I yell. “Why did we have to move into this stupid district last summer if this was going to fall through one year later? Why did I have to leave the school I went to forever, all my friends, so that Phillip could live close enough to go to Bridges and have a reasonable bus ride? Are you kidding me? It worked out for one year and now we’re back to the drawing board after changing so much in the first place?”

  “You’re at a really good school now, a better school,” my dad tries to remind me. “There are opportunities for you here as well. You’ll have your pick of colleges with Valley Forge at the top of your transcripts.”

  I shake my head, furious. “Don’t act like this move was about me, please, do not seriously try to play it like that. If Phillip hadn’t needed to go to Bridges, we never would have moved.”

  Their eyes reveal everything. What I said is true.

  “And for the record,” I inform them, “Phillip will get eaten alive at my school. Kids will be mean to him. Teachers will be mean to him. Trust me, at my school, you’re expected to fit in. You’re going to subject him to that?”

  My mom rubs at her temples and closes her eyes. “It’s temporary. By November, all of this will be over.”

  “By November, my life will be over! Thanks.”

  My father’s jaw tightens, and I can tell my parents are reaching the point where they will yank me back into line. But before they get the chance to do so, Phillip joins us in the foyer. His hair is disheveled from the headphones and from playing with it and his face is tight with agitation.

  “Gary, what are you doing here? You’re causing a scene!” he screams. Another stupid SpongeBob line. “A scene, Gary!”

  He charges toward me, wagging his finger in my face, because as always, it’s all about him.

  I never yell at my brother.

  But tonight, I do. “I can yell if I want to!” I scream back right in his face, which only makes him scream more, as if he’s been zapped with electricity.

  I stomp up the stairs, tears of anger and bitterness blurring my vision. It’s. Not. Fair.

  All I wanted tonight was the chance to enjoy a chicken enchilada in peace.

  All I wanted was to be going on with life as I know it.

  Everything is changing. And somehow I have ended up on the brink of a disaster, one I can’t do anything about.

  An hour later, I sit uselessly at my desk, head in my hands. Someone knocks on my door, and my mom doesn’t wait for permission before coming into my room. She carries a cup of steaming tea and balances a plate of shortbread cookies on her forearm.

  She sets the plate and cup on my desk. “I’m sorry,” she says a minute later.

  “Stop apologizing,” I mumble, staring at the fake wood grain of my desk. “That’s not what I want.”

  I hate when they apologize for Phillip.

  She leans in closer to brush the hair back off my forehead. Her voice is less timid this time. “I am sorry,” she repeats honestly. “I’m sorry that you have to deal with this, too. I’m sorry that our dinner, something I love and cherish, got . . . well . . . ruined. I’m sorry you’re feeling so upset right now. You’re my daughter, I love you more than anything, and I am so, so sorry about these things.”

  Tears fill my eyes again. “I’m sorry” doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make any of this better.

  “Why can’t he just stay at home till he can go somewhere else?” I whisper in desperation.

  My mom perches on the edge of my bed. “I thought about it,” she admits, “requesting homebound instruction, or a tutor.” She sighs loudly. “But in my heart, I know that if we let Phillip stay out of school for two months? If we give him that out? We’ll never get him back, honey. He’d regress a lot.”

  “And you don’t think he’s going to regress anyway, making him go through so many changes in two months’ time?”

  “I’m afraid so. If Phillip ever comes to believe that school is an option, he’ll go back to fighting having to go with every bone in his body.”

  Her voice is resolute. There is no wiggle room.

  I scratch at my desktop with the empty metal socket where the eraser used to sit atop my pencil, leaving gashes behind. “When is this going to start?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Probably by Monday. We need to get him back, somewhere, before he gets used to sitting at home. But I already have a list of four potential schools,” she follows up quickly. “It’s sixty days, at the most. If one of these schools can take Phillip sooner, the district is ready to move on it as soon as possible, okay? I just need you to hang in for a little while, and this will all be over. Worst-case scenario, it’s still only two months.”

  I try to picture Phillip walking through my school. I think of the pressure us normal kids have to deal with, how it’s like a tightrope—balancing, going along precariously without disrupting the flow. Meeting expectations, impressing the crowds.

  She doesn’t get it. Two months will ruin everything. Two months will knock me right off.

  Knock him right off even faster.

  There is no sense in trying to make her understand.

  “Okay,” I mutter, even though it’s not okay at all.

  My mom stands to leave, leaning down to kiss the top of my head on her way out. “Have a cookie. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Yeah, right,” I grumble.

  But the second she leaves, I stuff both cookies in my mouth, barely bothering to chew. And once it cools some, the tea is actually soothing, and for the first time in two hours my head starts to clear.

  I notice something sitting on the corner of my desk. It is the first-aid guide from the required summer training at the tennis club. I haven’t glanced at it in months, but now I read the first-responder credo on the cover with new eyes.

  Thou Shalt Not Panic.

  The steps are outlined below: Tame your emotions. Apply logic. Promote positive thoughts.

  To me, Phillip showing up at my school is as much of a crisis as anything. I look at the final step to resisting panic. Take charge.

  There is no way to make good of a crisis situation. The best I can do is attempt to survive it.

  Take charge.

  I unzip my book bag and pull out my shiny, blank agenda. I turn to September and find Monday’s block. I write the number one in the upper left corner. I count my way through September and October, making a sixty-day timeline. Maybe I will feel better when I see the actual end in sight. This will not last forever, and now I can see that in black and white. I just have to survive it.

  I have sixty days. Sixty days to just survive.

  Chapter Three

  I don’t know what I expect to happen on Monday, as I sit in my car until the last possible moment, dreading going to homeroom.

  It’s not like the initials “P.S.” have been stitched onto my jacket, revealing my identity as Phillip’s Sister to all. It’s hardly like anyone’s strung up some banner in the lobby welcoming him to Valley Forge High School. I don’t think anyone plans to announce his arrival, but . . . discretion isn’t really Phillip’s thing.

  I sigh and climb out of my car, slamming the door and shaking my head as I walk toward the building. Phillip’s transition to Valley Forge isn’t my problem. I think it’s a terrible idea to begin with, but it’s not my job to worry if he’ll survive the day. He has a one-on-one aide for that, someone who must have the patience of a saint, who agreed to follow him from Bridges back to district placement.

  Her name is Anne. It’s Anne’s sole responsibility to keep Phillip content
and contained, and to keep him from disrupting the lives of others. She maintains his comprehensive binder of strategies and behavior plans. I really hope she’s good at her job.

  Even knowing that Anne accompanied Phillip on the short bus to school this morning, I brace myself as I walk into the empty lobby, expecting to hear yelling coming from some distant part of the building. Phillip doesn’t take to new places and he hasn’t been forced to attend school in almost a week. If either of these realizations crosses his mind, I’m sure I’ll be able to hear his piercing screams from the farthest point in the school.

  In fact, as I stand in the large vacant room, I’m half convinced I do hear him, that there’s a phantom ringing in my ears I can never quite escape, knowing he’s on the premises. Eager for distraction, I scurry toward the wing of junior homerooms. I take a quick moment to give thanks that my part of the building is far, far away from the home economics kitchen, which has been converted into a makeshift classroom for my brother and his few classmates.

  But physical distance doesn’t grant peace of mind, and I’m on edge all day. Even though I don’t spend a single second with my brother, I have the same feeling I do when my family is out in public. Exposed. Vulnerable. On edge. I take long, looping paths around the outer wings of the school, on high alert for the screaming, arriving at two classes late and earning pointed looks from the teachers. It’s only the fifth day of school, after all.

  I almost welcome our grueling hockey practice. I know that Phillip is tucked safely away at home, and beating my body into the ground provides a strangely welcome alternative to the mental stress I subjected myself to all day.

  As I climb back into my car to head home, I notice a bag of grape Jelly Bellies, my favorite, on the passenger seat. There’s probably over ten dollars’ worth from the candy store at the mall, where you can scoop your favorite flavors instead of having to hunt for them in the mixed bags. Curious, I open the small tag attached, finding my mom’s handwriting inside.

  Thanks for “bean” such a good sport about this—your father and I think you’re really “grape.” It’ll all work out.

  I grimace and set my gym bag on top of the candy. If she had just left well enough alone, I may have smiled at her stupid pun. But she had to go and add a false promise.

  My day had been hell, and all I have to show for it is a single line crossing off one day in my planner. One down, fifty-nine to go. This isn’t working out at all.

  Somehow, miraculously, Phillip and I survive our first week together at Valley Forge without any major disasters. (Fifty-three days to go.) Although, the word together doesn’t really apply. I do everything I can to keep my distance from him, to distance myself from the reality of his presence altogether.

  Still, there are a few minor mishaps the second week.

  The first almost incident happens on Tuesday afternoon when Alex and I are standing beside our Gifted teacher’s desk, looking for a stapler during independent study. I notice the daily attendance sheet that goes out to teachers, listing who is absent, who’s coming in late, and who’s leaving early. My brother has an appointment with his neurologist this afternoon. Phillip Michaelson. His name is in print, right there, an inch away from Alex’s thumb.

  I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable dawning of recognition. The question that will certainly follow. My entire body is tense as I stare at the paper, wishing the name on the page into oblivion.

  Alex finds the stapler under a folder, holds it up to me with a smile, and returns to the table. In reality, I doubt he even glanced at the attendance sheet. In the meantime, I’m on the brink of hyperventilation.

  The second almost incident occurs on Thursday. I’m standing in the lobby, first thing in the morning, with the entirety of the varsity hockey team. Leighton is handing out “spirit ribbons”—curlicues of maroon and silver to wear in our ponytails—in preparation for our afternoon game. I look up while fastening Erin’s ribbon onto her long ponytail and make eye contact with Terry Roth.

  Terry Roth is Phillip’s Behavior Support Consultant, his BSC, from one of the outside agencies whose goal it is to provide support to Phillip across the home and school settings. Terry Roth has worked with our family for over two years, staying with us even after the move, and she’s spent countless hours in our home. But now she’s in my school, walking toward the main office, familiar purple plastic clipboard in hand.

  She notices me, and a bright smile graces her friendly face as she lifts her hand to wave. Terry knows me well—we’re friendly rivals across the board of the special-edition SpongeBob Connect 4 game she bought in the hopes of enticing Phillip into group activities. She changes course slightly, as if she might be coming over to say hello.

  But I do not give her the chance. I lower my head, turn on my heel, and snatch one of the ribbons out of Leighton’s hand. I hurry toward homeroom, hastily tying the bow into my hair, ignoring the curious stares from my teammates.

  I close my eyes as I walk, trying very hard not to envision the hurt, confused expression that likely replaced Terry’s smile.

  It’s Friday afternoon when the third almost incident happens. I’m not being particularly careful, because it’s Friday afternoon and I just need to grab a forgotten textbook from my locker before saying “adios!” to school for the weekend. The final bell has rung and several juniors and seniors are loitering in the junction between hallways, making plans for the weekend.

  My brother rounds the corner, heading in the direction of the boys’ bathroom, surprising me. Anne trails him closely, ensuring his trip to the bathroom occurs without incident. He is wearing his gym shorts, despite the unseasonably cool fall weather, and his headphones. Even with the headphones in place, I watch as his hands fly to his ears, the noise of other teenagers socializing around him still loud and unpleasant.

  Phillip doesn’t notice as heads turn in his direction; he never does. He just continues on his course, shaking his head and making little grunting noises as he attempts to block out his surroundings.

  I am frozen in place—a deer attempting to camouflage itself among the foliage—as Phillip comes closer and closer.

  But there’s no cause for my worry.

  Phillip’s eyes meet mine briefly as he passes, but he looks right through me. His conceptualization of the world is black and white, and to him, Jordyn belongs at home. He does not expect me here, and there is no sign of recognition; my presence doesn’t spark the hint of a smile.

  A surprising pain grips my chest.

  As much as I didn’t want my brother to call attention to me . . . it hurts that my brother didn’t even recognize me.

  I mean nothing to him and have no impact on his world whatsoever. I might as well be another stranger, whose only purpose in life is to irritate him. I might as well be an object.

  As I hurry toward the door, I find myself thinking of the pictures in our family photo album, the ones of my nearly two-year-old self seated in an oversized armchair, a swaddled newborn bundle placed very carefully in my arms. In the first picture I’m a combination of petrified and shell-shocked. But in the second picture I’m smiling, bending forward so I can gently plant a kiss on my baby brother’s head.

  I guess I’d decided pretty quickly that having a sibling might be a pretty cool thing. I guess I inherently knew how to love my baby brother.

  As it turned out, I never really got a brother at all. Sometimes being reminded of this can leave me feeling very sad and alone, even when I’m struggling to acknowledge that that brother exists in the first place.

  It is Monday morning, forty-six days left according to my countdown, when disaster strikes.

  I am unprepared, not expecting it. It’s Monday morning, after all, and my guard is down after two weeks of near incidents that never amounted into anything more.

  Nothing about the meltdown should have surprised me.

  Phillip hates Monday mornings as much as the next person . . . and ten times more than that. After hiding out in
our house all weekend, having to return to school pisses him off royally.

  Anne is absent, and there is a substitute, a tall, dark-haired male, in her place. Phillip hates substitutes. He hates unfamiliar, unexpected faces barging into his personal space. Men in particular seem to set him off.

  And at 10:02, when the hallways are filled with students transitioning between classes, the vice principal decides it’s a stellar time for an unannounced fire drill.

  Bright red and white lights flash like strobes from the top corner of every hallway. Then there’s the noise, a piercing, persistent, drawn-out bleeeeeeep that just won’t stop. It hurts my ears, it’s so loud and unnatural.

  Even so, Phillip’s screams can be heard above it.

  On instinct, I am pulled toward them, even though I should be joining the group of kids filing neatly out the nearest set of double doors.

  The screaming intensifies, and I jog toward it, joining the crowd of my peers who have gathered, fire drill ignored, as they all stare, silent and openmouthed, at the display that is my brother. They clutch at their book bags, or cling to the arms of their significant others, half terrified of the crazed animal on the floor before them.

  Phillip has apparently thrown his book bag, and books and papers have spilled out of it. He has removed his shoes and peeled off his socks, and as I approach, I see him hurl one of the shoes in the direction of the substitute one-on-one assistant. “Stupid! Dumbass!” The second shoe is thrown. “It may be stupid, but it’s also dumb!”

  SpongeBob has reemerged.

  He yanks at his hair, tugs on his earlobes.

  “Stupid dumbass. Phillip goes to Bridges. Put the apples in the basket. THE APPLES GO IN THE BASKET!”

  Some of Phillip’s rants I can make sense of. I have no idea what the apples are about. The words could mean a million different things or nothing at all.

  I end up as frozen and helpless as everyone else.

  Phillip wriggles around on the floor as his fight-or-flight responses battle each other. One moment he is curling himself into a protective fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth, and stuffing his fingers into his ears. He cries out, as if pained by the flashing lights and relentless noise. The next moment he is lashing out—eyes wild, face red, as he unfurls his long, thin legs and attempts to kick the substitute in the shins.