Break Page 4
“It’s going to get cold in here,” I tell him as I flop down on the couch beside him. “I’m airing the kitchen out.”
He pulls the quilt off the back of the couch and drapes it over us.
“It’s kind of a problem that you get this sick just from the smell,” I say.
“I know.”
“And I know food challenges suck, but you’ve got to get more tolerant than this.”
Jess used to do challenges where he had to eat tiny bits—like, really tiny bits—of something he’s allergic to every day. The point is that your body deals. Starts to accept it. And then you eat a little more, then a little more. Just building up. Immune system overcomes the challenge.
But Jess always ended up getting sick as hell whenever he was in a challenge, and a few years ago he said he wouldn’t do them anymore.
He rolls his eyes and lies down, his head next to my knee.
I shove my hand in his hair and turn on the TV to some game show. “Let me know if you get bad, okay?”
He says, “Okay.”
The show’s so boring that Jess falls asleep within minutes. And I’m only half-conscious when Mom turns the key in the lock and slogs in, screaming baby on her hip.
Jess groans and throws a pillow over his head.
“Want to take the noise somewhere else?” I say. “He’s in the middle of a reaction.”
“Gosh, really?” She hovers over him, mothering to the best of her ability when she’s not allowed to touch him. “What happened?”
I hold the pillow over his head so he’ll stay asleep. “You left milk on the stove, is what happened.”
She touches her forehead with her non–baby-wielding hand. “I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did. Which is irresponsible enough considering the whole fire hazard thing, but you might as well have left frickin’ cyanide boiling—”
“Jonah, I don’t need a lecture.”
I shut up.
She says, “Are you going to be okay, Jesse?”
He nods and the pillow shakes. “What’d the doctor say?”
She walks back and forth with Will, bouncing him with her shoulder. “He doesn’t know. He said it could still be colic, that sometimes it’ll last this long.” She pauses, hand in her hair. “I’ll bring Will upstairs and give him a bath, okay?” She directs this to me.
I say, “Okay.”
Jesse falls back asleep, snoring through his congestion, and I’m left with this awful feeling in my mouth, like I’ve been swallowing carpet. I’d get up and drink something, or walk around, if it weren’t so damn cold and I didn’t have a responsibility to watch Jesse. I need to just shut up and be here for him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to distract myself.
So. Distraction. How about another bone, Jonah?
My mouth twitches up.
How about tomorrow?
nine
WHEN I WAKE UP AT 5:57 THE NEXT MORNING AND hear the squeak-squeak of Jesse on the rowing machine, I trudge downstairs and find Mom eating toast at the kitchen table, baby tucked under her arm.
“Hi.”
Her mouth’s full, so she waves. I rescue Will. He’s turning purple from crying so hard.
When you hold him close enough to your ear, it’s impossible to think.
Sort of nice.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Mom says.
What is it about that sentence that makes your stomach curl up?
She pats the table across from her. Will’s getting as close as he ever is to quiet, just doing his pissed-off whine. I sit down and try to concentrate on Jesse’s rowing and Will’s whimpers instead of her.
“I haven’t really gotten to speak with you since the accident,” she says. “How’re the breaks feeling?”
“Okay. I took some aspirin.”
“Good.” She rakes her hair back in one hand. “Been praying?”
Shit. “Yeah, Mom.”
She sighs and takes my hand. “We feel guilty about this, Jonah.”
I wonder if it’s only religious parents who always tell you how they feel. And I wonder if it’s only terrible children who don’t want to hear it.
“Why?” I say. “I’m just clumsy.”
She lays her fingertips over her mouth. “If there’s something going on—”
“Nothing’s going on.”
Will’s loud again, and Mom has to shout. “You know your dad and I love you very—”
“I know, Mom. Thanks.” I’m at a loss for what this had to do with anything. I stand up and cradle Will over to the sink, start sponging the counter.
Quietly, Mom says, “You know what he does, though. He belittles you. He pits you and Jesse against each other.”
“Stop it. I could never be against Jesse.” Even if I wanted to be.
She looks down and traces the woodwork on the table. “Well . . . look, darling, could you talk to him, then?”
“What?”
“Talk to Dad. Tell him you’re okay, that you know our family’s okay. That you’re keeping the family in mind.” Her lips fold into an envelope. “That’s all I mean.”
“You tell him. I’m not getting involved in your issues.”
“Jonah.”
“No. You handle Dad, and I handle Jesse. Those are the rules.”
We’ve never said this out loud, but it’s become clear over the years that we’ve made an agreement. It worked out fine until Will was born. Now we’re outnumbered.
She scrapes her toast. “Your father doesn’t listen to me.”
“Don’t do this. I’m not your therapist. Hire a marriage counselor. Use his money. This isn’t about me.”
“Of course it is.”
I set Will on the counter and pour orange juice. “I’ve got to get ready for school.”
“Stop it, Jonah.”
“Look,” I say. “I don’t want to argue about this. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just fell off my skateboard. It happens. People fall all the time.”
“People don’t usually break things.”
“I wasn’t wearing the pads. I’m a reckless teenager. Ground me. But stop making this some big issue.” I finish the orange juice. Forget oatmeal. I wash the baby-spit off my hands, shake out Jesse’s pills, and head downstairs with a Coke.
He’s resting on the edge of the rowing machine, his elbows on his knees.
“Good set?” I ask.
He nods. “Half hour. No stopping.”
“You’re a force, brother.”
He coughs. “Mom pissed?”
“Kind of. It’ll be good for her. She needs some cardiac exercise.” I hand him the pills. “She’s fine.”
“I know.” Jesse dry-swallows the pills. “She’s always fine.”
ten
BEFORE CALC, I MAKE OUT WITH CHARLOTTE BEHIND the gym.
“Why, not-boyfriend,” she whispers, running her lips down my neck. “This is so naughty.”
I say, “Shh.”
She takes off my army hat and plunks it onto her head. It completely covers her bun and way-pierced ears.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Nooo.”
I pull her close. She’s twenty degrees warmer than I am, and her winter-skin’s dry and her breath is wet. Not-dating leaves so much room for lust.
“You have study hall,” I say into her mouth.
She giggles. “Right. I’m supposed to be learning. Supposed to be getting”—she licks my teeth—”educated.”
“Ow.”
She pulls back. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt your mouth?”
Like kerosene. “A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that already. It’s okay.”
“It’s probably a little too early in the recovery process for making out.”
“It’s okay, really.” Really.
She kisses the side of my jaw, gently, then moves her mouth down to the top of my chest. I look down at the top of my cap, the fold of fabric where her h
ead doesn’t fill all the space. Her mouth is so warm, like a splash of hot water every time we make contact.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“You. You’re beautiful.”
She stops kissing and wraps her arms around my waist, her forehead against my broken ribs. “That’s a suspiciously boyfriend-type remark.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“Hush, you.” I push my hand under her shirt. I’m aware that, in a few hours, I’ll have no good hands left. This might be my only opportunity to touch her for a long time.
She moans and arches her back into my hand. “Love you.”
“Aw, man, Charlotte. Don’t.”
She doesn’t get mad, just pushes away from me, fingers in my belt loops. “I have to go,” she says.
“Noooo.” I laugh. “I changed my mind. Stay.”
Her eyelashes flutter like hundreds of butterflies. “But I do have to go. I promised Naomi I’d help her with Bio.”
“Blow her off.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. I do it all the time.”
She huffs and messes with her bun, rearranging the daisy so it’s visible around her curls and my hat. “Are we hanging out after school?”
Crap. I’ve got to break tonight.
But I can give her a few hours first. Maybe finish what I started?
It’s delirious thinking, but it’s the only kind of thinking I can manage when I’m with Charlotte.
I say, “Absolutely.”
We kiss, and I taste her. I don’t love her—I can only muster that for Jess and occasionally Will, and when you claim “love” about a girl it’s stupid and ephemeral and everyone knows it. It’s like a big joke.
Plus, she’s not my girlfriend.
No girlfriend could ever be this good.
eleven
MY PHONE JINGLES AS I HEAD TO CHARLOTTE’S car after school. It’s Jesse, and he’s not feeling well.
I say, “Not feeling well or feeling seriously awful?”
“Not feeling well. I think I’m okay.”
“Breathe.”
He does, and I listen, and he sounds fine. But how sure can you be over a cell phone?
He says, “It’s nothing major. Don’t freak out on me. Probably just the pollen.”
It’s practically November. “Jesse.”
“Look, I’m honestly fine. I’ll call if it gets bad. I just wanted to tell you I’m skipping practice and going home.”
“You’re skipping practice.”
“Don’t make this a big deal.”
I close my eyes because it’s too hard to look at Charlotte on the edge of her car, her curves just begging for me to come and put my hands on them. “Do you need me to come home?”
“No. No no no. You have plans with Charlotte, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t break those. Mom will watch me.”
Yeah, okay. “I won’t be gone too long. Stay away from the baby.”
“I know, Jonah. God.”
“And call in half an hour. No matter what.”
“Okay.”
I hang up and climb into Charlotte’s passenger seat. “Sorry. Duty called.”
“Duty?”
“Duty, thy name is Jesse.”
“Right.” She starts the car and honks her horn until the pack of sophomores gets away from her back bumper. “He all right?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. He said he wasn’t feeling well, and you never know what that means.”
“Do you need to go home?”
“No, he’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” She looks at me. “I know how you are with him. If you want to go home, it’s okay.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be home. I want to be with my not-girlfriend.”
She slides on her sunglasses and hits the gas.
After-school trips with Charlotte mean trailing her through her house visits. She’s a pet-sitter, and every day she’s got about a thousand neglected animals to feed and pet and bathe. It’s kind of tedious, but it’s with Charlotte. And I don’t usually get to spend time around animals, so . . .
The first house is one I’ve visited before; it’s brown brick and all the furniture is plush. I sit on the couch and pet one of the Siamese while Charlotte fills the water bowls.
The clock hits three o’clock and makes a noise like a wind chime.
“Going away for Christmas?” she asks, random.
“Like always. Somewhere cold and dry. My entire life is about what’s good for lungs.”
“So I know it’s early to talk about, but my parents wanted me to invite you to help decorate our tree. If you want.”
“That’s sweet. But kind of relationshipy for me, babe.”
She comes in to the living room, dusting her hands on her jeans. “I just figured you’re not much used to Christmas trees.”
“Nah, not really. I probably had one my first Christmas.” I shrug. “Before Jess was born.”
We’ve got a big aluminum one, but I’ve seen Naomi’s trees, so I can’t pretend it’s the same. It’s okay, though.
Charlotte sits on my lap and holds the cat.
Later we walk with these three Pomeranians around the block and Charlotte stops, ties the leashes to a lamppost, and we kiss. Gently.
“Do you think—” I say, going for her zipper.
She holds my hand. “Shh.”
“But—”
My phone rings. Shit. I think I was actually getting somewhere.
It’s Jesse and screaming Will. “I’m totally fine,” Jess says.
Over the phone, Will’s especially strangled and grainy. I wince. Nothing like a baby to scare an erection away.
I say, “Totally?”
“Yeah. I feel great. I was an idiot to skip practice.”
I hang up and stare at Charlotte. She shrugs and reclaims the leashes.
When I get home, I change clothes before Jess can sneeze at me.
“Basketball?” he asks.
“All right.”
I last about five minutes against him, and he keeps going and going like a boy possessed.
twelve
NAOMI PULLS UP AT AROUND SEVEN. I’M CRASHED on the lawn, watching Jess take practice shots in the dark. I see the glint of a six-pack in her backseat.
She swings out of the car and leans against the door. The sleeves of my sweatshirt she’s stolen cover her fingers. “Hey, Jess.”
He throws her the basketball. She catches it in her tiny hands and throws it back.
“Ready to go?” she says. “Jesus, I can hear the baby from here.”
“Want to see him?”
“Not at all.”
Jess wrinkles his forehead, dribbling the ball between his legs. “Where are you going?”
I wave my good hand in his face. “Work to do.”
He holds the ball. “You’re kidding.”
I shrug.
“Jonah, don’t. Shit, man. Mom and Dad are going to freak out.”
“I know they will. I’ll make sure you’re out of the room first.”
“You.” Jess nods at Naomi. “You let him do this?”
She shrugs and bites her knuckle. “What am I supposed to do? It’s his body. He can do what he wants.”
I tilt my head at Jesse.
“Don’t do this now,” he says.
“What, like there’s going to be a better time than now?”
“You shouldn’t do this anytime, idiot.”
I glance toward the house. “Hush up, all right? Mom’s going to hear you.”
He exhales. “I have half a mind to tell them what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, good thing that other half is smart enough to keep your damn mouth shut. Look. I’ll be fine. So just be a good little brother and keep quiet for Mom and Dad, okay?”
He says, “This is the last one I’m letting you do.”
“I’ll ca
ll in about an hour, all right?”
I clamber into Naomi’s car and put my feet on the dashboard. The bend hurts my ribs, but it’s worth it. “Just drive away, okay? I don’t want to look at him.”
She listens, but when we’re halfway out of the neighborhood, she says, “You’re hurting him.”
My ears are free of baby wail. “I am. Not. Hurting him.”
She knows enough to shut up.
We park behind the old fire station. Naomi wants me to get really drunk, but I know they’ll do a blood-alcohol check at the hospital and I don’t want to get in trouble. So we take just one beer each and sip while we sit on the hood of her car. Our feet dangle over the windows.
“You scared?” she asks.
I nod. “This one’s going to hurt.”
“At least it’ll be over quick. And it’ll definitely look like an accident.”
“How bad is it going to be?”
“Well, it’s going to hurt, Jonah. It’ll be bloody.”
I exhale. “Shit.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“It’s not going to be the best video. Who the hell wants to watch some idiot break his hand in a car door?”
She squirms inside my sweatshirt. “Yeah, but the video’s not the point, is it?”
Of course it’s not, but I didn’t think she knew this.
“All right, Jo.” She drains the remains of her beer and clonks the empty can onto the hood. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
“That’s the spirit.” She sets the camera up on the tripod and does all her tech-girl shit, because I guess the video still matters a little bit.
I hop down and open the driver’s side door. “Shit,” I breathe.
“It’s going to be fine.” She comes back and places her hand on my shoulder. “Put your hand in.”
I take one last look at my unbroken, imperfect hand and place it in the seam between the door and its frame. I wiggle my fingers.
“Now?” Naomi says, poised on the handle.
“No. Not yet.”
“Jonah.”
“Just wait a second.”
I puff air in and out of my mouth, trying to build up some kind of courage. I can do this. It’s worth it. You’ll be better because of it, Jonah. I breathe.
“Now?” she says.