What's Broken Between Us

by Alexis Bass

  “You’ll just never come over to my house, unless no one’s home, and I’ll never come over to your house, unless everyone’s gone for the weekend. We’ll spend most of our alone time in the backseat of a car, or in dark corners at parties, or holed up in here with all the paint fumes.”

  “I want to be with you!” he shouts. He moves in on me before I even have the chance to blink, holding my face in his hands and staring into my eyes. “Forget the rest.”

  His hand goes shaky against my cheek, his expression turns sullen. Forget the rest means forgetting about Grace.

  He steps away from me and leans back against the paint-stained cement wall and closes his eyes.

  I join him, resting against the wall next to him. Our fingers find each other and clasp together.

  “Why didn’t we think to stop them?” I whisper. “We knew what they were like. We knew what they were doing. They were notorious party-hoppers, and my brother always had his car.”

  I wait for him to tell me not to do this to myself, to assure me that it’s not our fault, to remind me that dwelling on regret is useless, and that moving forward is the only thing I can do.

  “I don’t know,” is all he says.

  I roll off the wall and press my forehead into his shoulder. He envelops me in a hug. There’s nothing else to say; this is what I need. There’s no more fighting it.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY

  That night Jonathan steps tentatively into the living room, waving an ice-cream sundae.

  “I know it’s flowers that say I’m sorry, but I thought you might prefer this,” he says, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

  “I suppose this will do.” This is the first time I’ve ever really fought with my brother. I have no idea how to take steps toward reconciliation. I don’t even think I really want an apology. I just want things to be different. “Thanks,” I say, taking a bite and smiling at him, so he knows I appreciate the gesture.

  “I hate that I made you cry,” he says, looking down.

  I’m trying to think of how to respond, when headlights from outside scatter light through the curtain openings. Jonathan leans over the back of the couch and peers out. I notice now that he’s in his new, and fitted, clothes, but he also smells suspiciously like he’s spritzed himself with cologne.

  “Is that Wren?” I ask. And this sundae is actually a pacifier?—I don’t say. Instead I point out, “It’s late to be leaving, Jonathan.” I touch the screen on my phone to see the time. It’s nine fifteen. “Mumsy’s rules, ten p.m. curfew.”

  He chuckles at this—Mumsy’s rules.

  “Gary’s rules,” I say.

  “Oh, Gary’s fine. I think he’s actually sort of happy with me right now.” Jonathan stands as three loud honks of Wren’s horn outside summon him.

  “Does that mean you’re doing the Chicago Cares stuff?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs on his coat.

  “I won’t be gone long,” he says. “I just need to get out of here for a while, you know? This cage is wearing.”

  He’s opening the door when Standard Dad makes an appearance, walking in from the den. “You’re going out now?” he asks, already shaking his head as he pushes back the cuff of his sleeve to check his watch.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jonathan calls, slipping out the door. It closes just as my dad takes a step toward it—like maybe he was going to go after Jonathan. He doesn’t, of course. He gives me a small smile, says, “Aw, well,” from chapter 12: “You Win Some, You Lose Some,” and heads upstairs.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  At three in the morning I wake up in a cold sweat. My heart is racing. I listen for signs of Jonathan. The microwave beeping in the kitchen. A toilet flushing. Shoes careless and loud on the stairs. There must be a reason I’m suddenly awake. But there’s nothing. I went to sleep at eleven. There’s no denying the possibility he’s already home. He probably is already home. I tell myself to be logical and go back to sleep.

  It’s laughable—waking up with a start because you weren’t woken up with a start. It feels like forever that I lie in the dark, listening to every creak of the house, waiting for one that tells me my brother is home safe, before I finally fall back asleep.

  The next time I wake up, it’s in a cold sweat again. I’m turned sideways in my bed and my alarm is blaring. The clock reads seven a.m., so I’ve slept right through the noise. I’m late. I kick off the covers, throw the purple fuzzy robe I’ve probably worn only twice in my life on over my sweaty pajamas, and walk across the hall to Jonathan’s room. The door is wide open, the bed’s made. My brother’s not here.

  I hear the front door opening and walk to the other side of the hall. From the top of the stairs, I can see down into the foyer, where my brother is entering, wearing his running clothes, drenched in sweat, and out of breath.

  “What time did you get in last night?” My dad comes charging in from the living room.

  “Late. I don’t know.” Panting this hard, Jonathan sounds annoyed. I wonder if anyone’s ever asked him this who wasn’t going to laugh with him about the answer. Standard Dad’s definitely never asked him before.

  “You said you would be right back. You were out way past your curfew.”

  Jonathan shrugs.

  “Hey.” My dad grabs him by the arm. “I stayed up until one waiting for you to get home. You could’ve answered your phone, at least.”

  Jonathan steps to the side, and my father’s hand drops.

  “You have to start taking this more seriously,” he says. “I got a call from Gary. He said your urine test was too watered down to obtain results. Usually that’s an automatic fail, but he’s willing to let you off with a warning.”

  Jonathan shrugs. He bends forward with his hands on his knees, like he’s struggling to catch his breath.

  “I mean it,” my dad says. “You’re still on a slippery slope.”

  Jonathan starts shaking. I look closer and realize he’s laughing. He walks toward the stairs, so I rush into the bathroom.

  When I’m done showering, drying my hair, curling its ends so people don’t think I’m a slob, and adding makeup to the whole package so they know I really care, Jonathan is in his room with the door shut. I hear the shouting downstairs before I’m even out of my room. Once I’m at the top of the steps, it seems to have tripled in volume.

  “You can’t badger him like that. Honestly, who would respond well to being approached and hounded like that?” my mom yells.

  “Hounded?” There’s a banging noise, like maybe my dad slammed his hand against the table or threw his briefcase into the wall. “He’s not supposed to be staying out late, doing God knows what, with God knows who—”

  “He has to feel free here; it’s his home!” she yells. “You can’t be pushing and pushing him, shutting him in, telling him what to do like he’s a child.”

  “He’s living here for now; he can cool it with going out at night, not coming home—”

  “He always comes home!” My mother shouts this so loudly I imagine the chandelier above them in the dining room shaking, its crystal balls rubbing up against one another.

  He always comes home.

  Except for the night when he didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  I’ve become the kind of girl who lies to her best and only real friend about cheating on her boyfriend, who spills all her secrets except the important one: she’s in a new relationship sustaining itself mostly in the confines of an art supply room, because as it turns out, several of the things Henry and I like to do together involve us being alone anyway.

  Henry told me that Graham glares at him at the beginning of soccer practice, but then spends the rest of the time fielding the ball, which doesn’t involve Henry, since he’s still not cleared to play at full capacity and is stuck with water refill and ball retrieval duty. Imogen gave me the finger Tuesday morning as I walked past her and her huddle of friends. I don’t bl
ame her.

  Only 131 more days to go.

  The riveting game of phone tag Dawn and I had been playing since last week ends on Wednesday afternoon, and I still don’t tell her the truth about Graham, or what’s going on with Henry. Lately, all of our conversations are like headlines.

  Hot news: Becky sang a duet with a freakishly hot guy at the karaoke bar and ended up making sweet-sweet music with him in the back of the cab, too!

  So true or so false: Jonathan’s walking a thin line with his probation and could be headed back to prison anytime? So true!

  Latest fashion trend: Dawn was last seen sporting a green jersey dress, studded gladiator sandals, a gunmetal watch, a drink in one hand, and a Delta Sig on each arm!

  I don’t like how she’s turned our real-talk into punch lines. It feels less like confiding in each other and more like a competition for whose life is more shocking—even though I don’t want my life to be shocking, especially not to the one person who’s supposed to know everything about me. But lately, it’s like my ability to shock and awe is what makes me worth speaking to—now that her life is all about the beach and frat parties and fake IDs and strawberry daiquiris and trips to Los Angeles and surfing and tanning at the rooftop pool of the Canary Inn. With her ocean-breeze weather and her new friends and new freedom.

  I can just hear it. Breaking scandal: Amanda’s hooking up with Henry in the art supply room; if those paint canisters could talk, indeed!

  So I don’t say anything as she rattles on about the gargantuan frat houses at USC or the models doing coke in the bathroom of Club Whatever, or the two-story beer bong the guys on the fourth floor made that they’re gearing up to test out this weekend. I console her about another definitely-probably failed quiz, and then we hang up.

  In truth, it makes me jealous that she can collect the pieces of her life so easily, while I have to hold mine together with all its cracks as it trembles beneath my fingers, threatening to break apart.

  THURSDAY, 8:38 P.M.

  The conversation I want:

  Me: Dawn? Remember how I told you about Jonathan’s drug test? Well, instead of sending him back to jail, Gary’s making Jonathan get started on his community service right away. He’s speaking at my school on Monday—as in, in four days—when Chicago Cares comes back again, staking claim on the month of November as Drunk Driving Awareness Month, even though everyone knows November is for lung cancer and April is for alcohol. They’re kicking off their tour of twenty-five high schools in Illinois (marking the only time this year my brother will be permitted to leave the zip code). It’s like, they booked Jonathan Tart, so they can make up whatever holiday they want and funding for travel is suddenly approved. I know I can skip the event, that’s fine. But no one else will. And then I’ll have to spend my remaining 127 days dealing with the aftermath of whatever he decides to say.

  Dawn: [Lots of invaluable advice topped off with a funny story about dorm life that will make me laugh as well as highlight how much I’m going to love it there.]

  The conversation I get:

  Me: Dawn? What? It’s too loud, I can’t hear you. Call me back later, okay? Okay? Bye—

  Dawn: [muffled]

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  I feel like I should warn Henry when I see him Friday morning. But he’s already heard—everyone has. Jonathan Tart for Chicago Cares.

  “There’s nothing to say about it,” he tells me before school as a hundred eyes pore over us as we walk down the hall.

  After lunch, I stand at my locker reviewing notes one last time before the test next period, when my phone starts vibrating. I check it, feeling an unwelcome surge of hope that it’s Dawn calling.

  Jonathan.

  I slide my finger across the screen to answer the call, leaning into my locker, like this will hide that I’m on my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “You answered!” Jonathan’s voice is loud and exuberant. I haven’t heard him sound like this since the night of the accident. “I’m downtown.” Now that he’s not yelling, his words sound heavy. “At the Riverwalk, by the docks.”

  “What’s wrong?” Something must be for him to call me in the middle of the day, sounding like he’s on a bender.

  “Oh.” He laughs. “Nothing, nothing. We just need a ride.”

  “We? Are you with Wren?”

  “I’m with Sutton. Can you come get us?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, too stunned to say anything different. I don’t know what else to do; he knows I’m in school and he still wants me to come. “I’m going to leave now, okay? Just don’t—don’t move.”

  He’s laughing as I hang up the phone.

  I scan the halls for Henry and find him standing with three of his friends.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Of course.” He nods good-bye to his friends and joins me by the wall. I grapple for the most political way to say this—a lighthearted opening, maybe, so, we’ve got trouble—but in the end I just blurt out, “Jonathan and Sutton are together at the Riverwalk.”

  Henry stands up straighter, it’s like a reflex. “What?”

  “They sound like they’re . . .”

  Henry’s chin juts out, he’s shaking his head, gritting his teeth.

  “They need a ride,” I finish.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Henry says, though he doesn’t look at me. He tugs on his collar like his shirt is choking him.

  “No—Henry, I’m the one they called.”

  “You’re the one he called, you mean.”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice rising. “He called me.”

  Henry stares at me, and I look him right in the eyes. I won’t back down.

  “Fine. I’ll drive us,” he says.

  “If you want.” But part of me wishes I hadn’t told him.

  It doesn’t take us as long to get to the Riverwalk as I thought it would. We spot them toward the end. Henry pulls into a No Parking zone, leaving the car with the front wheel slightly over the curb and the hazard lights on.

  Jonathan’s sitting on a bench surrounded by crisp brown grass next to a tree with a few dry leaves that are barely hanging on against the breeze. Sutton is leaning against him with her eyes closed. She has both of her crutches today, propped up against a tree. It’s a clear day, not a cloud in sight. Jonathan and Sutton are both bundled up—winter coats, beanies, gloves. Like maybe they’d planned to be outside.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask. Now that I’m closer, Sutton looks like she’s asleep. She’s perfectly still and doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice.

  “Relax, she’s still breathing,” Jonathan says. His eyes are bloodshot. He frowns slightly when he sees Henry approaching. “Did you bring our chariot?”

  I nod and point behind me stupidly.

  Henry crouches down in front of Sutton. “You got her drunk?” he says, sharp and astounded.

  “It’s fine.” Jonathan scoots up, sliding Sutton’s arm around his neck. Her head dips forward. “I’ve got her,” he insists.

  Now I can smell the alcohol coming off them. There’s a bottle of vodka perched on Sutton’s lap. It falls to the ground once Jonathan’s got her standing. He’s holding her up by her waist, and her head flops back on his shoulder, exposing her neck. If he doesn’t change position, she’s going to slide through his grip.

  “Here.” Henry puts one arm behind Sutton’s back and the other under her legs and lifts her out of Jonathan’s arms.

  “I said, I’ve got it.” But Jonathan does nothing to prevent Henry from taking her.

  Sutton starts coughing and squirming once Henry’s holding her. He lowers her to the ground. I put an arm under her head, so it lands gently as Henry lays her on the ground. Her eyes pop open as soon as she’s down, but she struggles to form an expression. It’s like she’s not even there. I can’t remember her ever being this drunk before.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Henry s
ays to her. As if in response, Sutton’s body convulses, and she starts throwing up.

  Henry rolls her on her side, and I pull her hair back and help angle her body so she doesn’t vomit on herself. It’s all liquid, so it’s not as disgusting as it could be. Or maybe it is, but I’m too worried to be grossed out.

  “You’re okay, you’re okay.” Henry rubs her back. “How much has she had?” he shouts at Jonathan. His voice is strong, but it wavers slightly.

  Jonathan shrugs. He bends down to pick up the bottle of vodka and holds it up for us, so we can see the damage. “Sutton was always really good at holding her liquor. I had no reason to believe this would happen.”

  “Mixing vodka with antidepressants and muscle relaxants would make anyone sick,” Henry says.

  Sutton’s been too drunk to speak a million times before. Passed out in weird places like the back porch or the floor of Jonathan’s room. But something about this time seems off. Even Jonathan looks sickly.

  “How was I supposed to know what she’s on?” he says.

  There’s a switch in Henry—from worried to raging. I can see it on his face. So can Jonathan.

  Jonathan holds up his free hand and steps back. “Hey, man, she brought the vodka. It was all her. You know how Sutton loves to drink her lunch.”

  “How fucking stupid are you?” Henry says. I think he’s about to charge at my brother, but he’s got to hold on to Sutton. He wipes her mouth with his jacket sleeve, keeping her steady on her side. I’ve still got a grip on her shoulders, and her head in my arms.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Henry.” Jonathan seems mad now, too—as mad as Henry. I wonder if it used to be Jonathan taking care of Sutton the way we are now. Or if it was Grace, and the only person my brother’s ever taken care of is himself.

  “Really, I’m the one who should be pissed at you,” he says to Henry with a callous laugh.

  “And why’s that?” Henry says, annoyed.