“I like that,” I say. “We could stick Post-its on people’s lockers with compliments.”
“As long as people don’t think you’re just sucking up to them to get their vote,” Hayley says.
“That’s what you’d think if you got a compliment on your locker?” I ask, worried.
“Maybe,” she says. “If I knew it was from someone who was running for class president.”
“You’re so cynical,” Farida sighs. “But fair point. Okay, the election is on October sixteenth,” she says. “We need to come up with a good slogan so we can make campaign posters.”
“That’s right,” Ken says. “We want to get those up quickly. Get your name out there.”
What everyone isn’t saying is: Because you aren’t as popular as Chris and Amy.
“How about something like Vote Stella: Because She Cares?” I suggest.
My idea is met with a resounding meh.
“Maybe Stella Walker: The Responsible Choice,” Farida says.
“That makes me sound boring,” I say. “Especially compared to free ice cream.”
“How about We All Win with Walker?” Ken suggests.
“Better,” Farida says. “Inclusive.”
“I like the alliteration,” I say.
“Ugh, this is an election, not English class,” Haley says. “What about Stella Walker: The Smart Solution? I mean, the whole point is that you’re smart and can do the job well instead of making stupid promises that are never going to happen, right?”
There’s a few seconds of stunned silence as Ken looks at me and I look at Farida and then we all look at Hayley.
“That’s a great idea,” Ken says.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” she says. “I have them, too.”
“It’s perfect, Haley,” I say, trying to smooth things over. “It’s says what we want to say, and it has alliteration.”
“Why are you so obsessed with that?” she asks.
“Because it’s catchy,” I tell her. “I always remember alliterative things more.”
“As long as it’s not just because you’re being a word nerd,” Haley says. “Because that’s not going to win you any elections at this school.”
Is it nerdy or just being observant? Whatever.
“Okay, so now we’ve got the slogan. What’s next, campaign managers?”
“We’ll start making posters,” Farida says. “You need to start working on your platform.”
“Yeah,” Ken says. “You need some good ideas.”
Ken’s right. I need some really good ideas if I’m going to win this election. But to do that I need to figure out what I stand for beyond just a catchy campaign slogan.
ROB: Hey, Roadrunner. Checking in. Worried after getting your email. You okay?
JASON: Define okay.
ROB: Eating? Sleeping? Not going to do anything stupid?
JASON: Heh. You know me. I’m always doing stupid.
ROB: LOL, true. Seriously though.
JASON: Seriously? Don’t know. Can’t sleep. Still seeing Reyes when I try.
ROB: It’s not your fault.
JASON: Last night we were in a firefight and I shot Reyes instead of the enemy.
JASON: And then we were trying to save him, and we took off his helmet, and it was me.
ROB: Wow. That’s messed up. No wonder you can’t sleep.
JASON: TBH, it makes more sense than anything when I’m awake. I don’t know who the enemy is anymore.
JASON: Most of the time, I think it’s me.
ROB: Dude. You need to get help. Now. Go to the ER. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Just go there now. Do it. Please?
JASON: I don’t know.
ROB: I do. Trust me. Go now. Your family loves you. Heck, even I love you. Just go to the ER, okay?
JASON: Heh.
ROB: Go. NOW.
JASON: Yeah, okay.
ROB: I’m gonna check in on you tomorrow, okay?
JASON: Okay. Thanks, bro.
ROB: Hey, Roadrunner, me again. Checking in.
ROB: Jay, you okay?
ROB: Jason, call me.
ROB: Come on, Jay.
ROB: Don’t do this to me, bro.
ROB: DON’T MAKE ME CALL YOU, dude.
ROB: CALLING NOW, YOU BETTER PICK UP.
Coming home after school used to be fun. On the days when I didn’t have debate and Farida didn’t have to work at Tigris, my friends would come with and we’d do homework together and watch old movies. I don’t invite them here anymore, because I’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Before, when my parents got home, they’d pay attention to me. We talked about things. School, movies, the latest news, funny jokes. I mean, it’s not like it was rainbows and unicorns all the time, and there was always the underlying worry about Rob being in Afghanistan, but compared to now, those days seem like nirvana.
I feel guilty for even thinking that, because the only reason I can think of those days as so great is because Rob came home. I wouldn’t want my life to have stayed easy because he didn’t.
But now he’s back, and he’s changed, and so has home. These days, I start feeling butterflies in my stomach as soon as I get off the bus. The anxiety intensifies the closer I get to our front door. By the time I turn the key in the lock to let myself in, I’m waiting for it to hit me—that suffocating tension that’s been a permanent resident ever since Rob got back.
I open the front door. Peggy usually greets me, tail wagging and ready to lick. Today the front hall is empty and strangely silent. I figure maybe Rob’s napping with his door shut.
I head to the kitchen to make myself a snack before I get started on my homework. I’ve just taken a yogurt out of the fridge when I hear a crash from upstairs, and Peggy starts barking, high-pitched and stressed. I take the stairs two at a time, hearing more crashes as I do.
“Rob!” I shout. “Are you okay?”
It’s a stupid question, because I know my brother is anything but okay.
He doesn’t answer, but I hear him cursing and there’s another loud noise, this time of breaking glass.
I wish my parents were home. I wish Farida hadn’t had to work this afternoon. I wish I’d gone over to Ken’s house. I wish I had debate today. Anything so I didn’t have to deal with this.
Because I have no idea what to do.
I send a quick text to my parents: Rob’s gone off the deep end, come home now!
Then, bunching my trembling fingers into a fist, I knock on my brother’s door.
“Rob, it’s Stella. Can I come in?”
He doesn’t answer, but there’s no more crashing and smashing. Just the sound of him breathing heavily inside his room. Then I hear Peggy whining and scratching on the other side of the door.
“Rob, open the door, please! Peggy’s upset. I need to see you’re okay.”
Peggy barks, three short, high-pitched barks.
“Ro-ob!” My voice cracks. I’m spiraling into full-on panic mode now.
And then I hear his voice, barely. “It’s unlocked.”
I turn the handle, my mouth dry, and open the door slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements.
Rob is standing near the broken window, blood streaming from his fisted hand. Shards of glass litter the floor. He’s punched a hole through the plaster in the wall, too, and toppled his bookshelf over onto his bed. Luckily, it hasn’t broken the frame, but there are books all over the bed and the floor, and the mattress is sagging under the weight. The room looks like it’s been hit by a tornado, except the tornado is my brother and whatever tipped him over the edge.
Rob looks in my direction, but I don’t even think he sees me. He’s got that far-off look like Peggy gets when a thunderstorm hits and she can’t settle and she paces around like she wants to crawl out of her own skin.
Slowly, quietly, I bend down and pick up a T-shirt from off the floor. It’s not clean, but it’s better than nothing for cleaning his hand until
he calms down.
“It looks like you cut your hand. Can you show me?” I ask in a voice that is deceptively calm.
He holds it out in front of him, watching as blood drips onto the floorboards.
Doesn’t it hurt?
Why is he so still? Why are his eyes vacant? What’s wrong with him?
“So, uh, what happened?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
He just keeps watching the blood as it drips.
Peggy has been sitting at his feet, staring up at him, but she starts licking the blood that’s pooling on the floor.
“Ugh! Stop that, you gross dog,” I shout, forgetting to be calm and soothing. “Stop!”
Rob doesn’t care about me wanting to help him with his bleeding hand, but he does care about me shouting at the dog. He drops to his knees and puts his arms around Peggy’s neck, apparently unconcerned that she’s still being Dracula Dog with his blood.
“It’s her instinct. Don’t shout at the poor girl.”
“Okay, okay—sorry, Peggy,” I say, wondering why my brother cares more about the dog’s feelings than mine. “But can I look at your hand, Rob?”
He buries his face in Peg’s neck and sticks his bleeding hand in my direction.
It’s a mess.
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” I suggest.
“No.” Even muffled by Peg’s fur, his response is clear.
I curse my brother’s pigheadedness and wrap the T-shirt of dubious cleanliness around his hand as a temporary measure.
“I’m going to try to find the first aid kit,” I tell him. “Stay here, and don’t destroy anything else, okay?”
Rob lifts his head and looks at me—actually looks at me with the faintest hint of a smile.
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” he says.
I survey the wreckage of his room. I figure it can’t get much worse, so I head to the kitchen to find the first aid kit.
When I’m down there, I text Mom and Dad again.
ME: Rob’s had a total freak-out in his room. He broke his window and punched a hole through the wall.
ME: But he seems to have calmed down now. I think.
ME: WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?
MOM: OMG, is he okay? Are you okay?
ME: His hand is bleeding. I think there might be some glass fragments in it. I don’t know if he needs stitches, but he’s refusing to go to the ER.
MOM: Send me a picture. The first aid kit is in the cupboard above the microwave.
DAD: What set him off?
ME: How am I supposed to know?!???
When I get back to Rob’s room with the first aid kit, my brother is sitting on the floor, Peggy curled up next to him with her head in his lap. He’s stroking her fur and staring down at the blood-stained T-shirt wrapped around his hand.
I kneel down next to him.
“I’m going to take this off and check for glass fragments,” I tell him.
“Knock yourself out,” he says.
Rob destroyed his room, scared us all half to death, and all he says is “Knock yourself out” like it’s no biggie? Seriously?
I unwrap the T-shirt, look at the mess he’s made of his hand, then take my phone and snap a picture, which I immediately start to text to Mom.
Rob grabs my phone away with his uninjured hand.
“Are you posting this on Instagram or Snapchatting it to your friends? That’s so messed up, Stella!”
I’m messed up? I look around his disaster of a room. “Believe it or not, not everything’s about you, Rob,” I say, even though in our house, it seems like everything is. “I’m texting the picture to Mom so she can decide if you need to go to the emergency room.”
“Great,” he says. “Why did you have to call her? I already said I’m not going. I’m an adult. I make my own medical decisions.”
“You just trashed your room. You’re not about to win any awards for adulting here.”
Rob’s shoulders slump and he lowers his head. Peggy lifts her head from his lap and sits up, looking from him to me with anxious brown eyes, upset by the weirdness between us.
“Of course I had to tell Mom and Dad what was going on,” I continue. “Now, give me my phone back so I can finish texting Mom the picture.”
I hold out my hand and wait.
He puts the phone in my hand without saying another word.
I type a quick text to Mom and press SEND.
Then I grab Rob’s hand and pick up the tweezers.
“You put your hand through the window. You punched a hole in the wall. What’s going on, Rob?”
He won’t look me in the eye. With a frustrated sigh, I look over his hand, and, spotting a tiny sliver of glass, I start trying to grab it with the tweezers.
“He checked out,” Rob finally manages as I pull the fragment from his skin and drop it into the garbage can.
At first I think he’s talking about someone checking out of a hotel and I wonder why that would make him Hulk out on his room.
“Who checked out?” I ask, pouring hydrogen peroxide onto a gauze pad and trying to dab some of the blood away so I can see if there’s any more glass.
“Jason.”
I freeze, his hand still in mine. “Jason from your squad?”
Rob nods his head.
“Wait … when you say checked out, do you mean …”
I’m afraid to even say the word.
“He’s gone. He killed himself last night.”
I can’t get my mind around it. I never met Jason, except through my brother’s stories, but I feel like I know him.
“Oh, Rob …”
I lean over and hug him. He’s unyielding at first, as if he’s afraid to show anything that could be interpreted as weakness. But it’s too late. His physical strength has already left signs of that all over his room.
Still, at least now my brother’s behavior is more understandable. It doesn’t make it right, but at least I kind of get where it’s coming from.
“I knew he was having a tough time since he separated from the marines, so I was checking in with him,” Rob says, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been sounding more and more down. I could tell … he was turning on himself. And then today …”
His Adam’s apple rises and falls visibly.
“Today he didn’t answer back. I kept texting, hoping maybe he didn’t have cell service. Figured maybe he’d decided to go on a hike to clear his head or something. But then, when he still didn’t respond, I called.” My brother laughs bitterly. “His sister picked up. She wasn’t in good shape. Turns out he’d decided he’d had enough. He’s gone. Jason’s dead.”
My heart feels like it skips a beat. They keep talking about the high rate of veteran suicides on the news. It’s why Mom is almost as scared with Rob home as she was when he was serving overseas.
“Promise me you won’t do that. You have to swear to me,” I beg him. “I couldn’t stand it. And Mom and Dad … it would destroy them. It’s bad enough—”
I stop, not wanting to make him feel worse than he clearly already feels.
“It’s bad enough that I’m punching holes in the wall and putting my fist through the window?”
“Yeah.”
There’s no point in lying. Mom and Dad are going to freak when they get home, and not just because of the damage he’s caused in his room. We’ve all being tiptoeing around Rob, painfully worried but afraid to push too much, to nag too much, to be too much anything in case it was the wrong thing for him.
Jason decided to end it all because he didn’t get the right help. My heart breaks for his family—and for his friends. For my brother, who is falling apart because of this news.
I get a text from Mom.
“Mom says I should drive you to the ER. If I miss any glass and you get an infection, it’s not good, and you don’t want to mess with your hands. She’ll meet us there.”
“It’s fine, Stella, I don’t need to go.”
“Rob, Mom’s
a doctor. Do you want me to text her back and say you disagree with her?” I ask him. “Because that’s not going to go down very well.”
He rubs his head with his good hand.
“Okay, I’ll go,” he grumbles. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of choice with all this emotional blackmail going on.”
As I wait for him in the car a few minutes later, I wonder if it’s really emotional blackmail like Rob says, or if it’s just being family. Whatever it is, I hope the ER doctors can do more than just stitch up my brother’s hand. I hope they can help him find a way back to how he was before—a way back to us.
After Mom gets to the ER, she tells me to go home and help Dad clean up the mess Rob made. Like that’s fair. Like I don’t have homework to do. Like I’m not supposed to be coming up with ideas for my campaign platform by tomorrow.
But after I help Dad lift the bookshelf off the bed, and we start stacking books back onto the shelves, I find a picture on the floor. It’s of Rob’s squad from when they were deployed. They all look so young and healthy. So alive.
No wonder Rob’s mad. Jason’s death isn’t fair, either.
“Did you ever do anything like this when you got back from Iraq?” I ask Dad.
Dad finishes organizing the books on the shelf by height order before he answers. My father is very particular about organization. He says it’s because in combat, if you’re not properly prepared, it can make the difference between life and death.
“Can’t say I did,” he says. “And that makes it hard for me to understand. There’s a part of me that wonders if Rob’s just shirking because he doesn’t want to grow up and face the responsibilities of life.”
I feel like that sometimes when Rob just sits and plays video games for hours on end and doesn’t bother to unload the dishwasher, or help with the groceries, even though Mom and Dad are working and I have school.
“Now, Frank Meyers … he had some real anger issues when he came back from Vietnam, from what I’ve heard. He’s tried talking to your brother,” Dad says. “But I don’t know if Rob’s ready to listen.”
“How come some people come back and are fine and others aren’t?”
“If I could answer that question, the Departments of Defense and Veterans Affairs would give me a lucrative contract,” Dad says. “But I can’t, and I’m not sure if they can, either.”
Anything But Okay Page 4