Break (10 page)

She can, and that’s the main difference between us.

We watch game shows and feed the baby and tuck him in and listen to him cry over the baby monitor. I check on Jesse every hour or so, and he wakes up and starts his homework. Charlotte doesn’t tell me she loves me, but she lets me put my head in her lap, and for the few hours she’s with me, I’m happy. Really.

But she leaves at ten, an hour before Mom and Dad come home. “Where’s Will?” Mom says, setting her dog-eared paperback on the counter. Dad undoes her necklace—I’ll never understand why they dress up for book club.

“I put him to bed.”

“Jesse?”

“He’s in his room.” And my mouth is cottony with worry and I say, “He had a reaction. I think he’s all right now.”

Dad loosens his tie. “How bad?”

“It was pretty bad. He took a lot of Benadryl. But he’s feeling a lot better. And he looks okay.”

“What happened?”

And I know Jesse’s right. I know that if I tell them the truth, I’m risking their trust forever. I’m risking the unhealthy bond they’ve allowed me to have with Jesse.

“It was my fault,” I say, my head down. “I had a milkshake and I didn’t clean up.”

I can leave Will out of it, at least.

Mom crosses her arms, “Jonah—”

“I know.” I cover my eyes. “I know I know I know I know I know.”

“You’ve just got to be more—”

I can’t take this lecture, not now. My stomach is crawling and I can’t take it I can’t take it I can’t take it.

“I’ve got to talk about this later,” I say. “I just can’t do this right now.”

I start up the stairs. Mom starts to call me but Dad says, “Let him go,” like he’s some sort of parenting expert.

I sit on my floor with my ear against Jesse’s wall, trying to listen to his breathing around Will’s cries.

That hammer is still here. I pick it up and hold the cold head in my palm. My mind is an explosion of Naomi and Jesse and Charlotte and Mom and Dad and Miss Marlin and I can’t
do
this right now, and I don’t know what I want but I know it’s definitely not this.

Will’s voice gets higher and higher. Soon, only dogs will hear him and our ears will get a break.

Jesse coughs and my heart jumps with electricity.

I take off my shoe and, through my sock, smash each toe individually.

It doesn’t hurt as badly as you might think. Each toe takes only one or two smacks to really snap.

I try to time my hammering so it matches Jesse’s gasping. Every time I hear his breath snag, I swing the hammer.

Eight toes are broken in no time.

2 femurs + 1 elbow + 1 collarbone + 1 foot + 4 fingers + 1 ankle + 2 toes + 1 kneecap + 1 fibula + 1 wrist + 2 ribs + 1 jaw + 1 hand + 1 shoulder + 1 elbow + 3 ribs + 8 toes = 32 total.

174 to go.

I fall asleep in some painful, drunken state, Will’s screams and Jesse’s coughing lulling me into submission.

THE NEXT MORNING, MY FEET ARE SHARDS OF
glass in a sock. I listen to Jesse on the rowing machine and Will sputtering in his crib until the dizziness tapers enough for me to crawl to my computer.

I Google “broken toes.”

I Google “food allergies.”

I Google “I’m so dizzy I can’t see straight.”

I Google “child abuse.”

I Google “Am I going to die?”

None of the answers are helpful, although the last one takes me to some creepy links that at least distract me for a minute.

The windows flash on the screen, and Jesse’s rowing gets faster and faster. I click on my Favorites folder and bring up one of my beloved Confucianism websites. When that Chinese music starts, I lie down on my floor and close my eyes. Begging to sink in, zone out, ignore the baby.

He shouts something, his eight-month-old version of speech, and I wrinkle my nose.

Shut up shut up shut up everyone just shut up.

Mom yells, “Damn it, Will, stop crying!”

That’s it. I need to do something about these toes. “Jesse!” I bang my cast against the floor. “Jess, come up here!”

The rowing stops. I picture him listening, straining his ears over the baby.

“Jess, come here!”

I picture him considering.

My door opens and there’s Mom, her tawdry pink robe washing her whole face gray, Will propped on her shoulder. “Need something, hon? Why are you on the floor?”

I raise my head. Mom spins. “Just need to talk to Jesse.”

She crosses her arms. “Do you need to talk about last night?”

“I screwed up.”

“I know it was just an accident. And you’re so good with him.”

But . . .

She says, “But you just need to be more careful, Jonah. How are the injuries?”

My voice feels glued somewhere near the crown of my head. When I talk, I sound more like Dad or Jesse than myself. “I’m fine.”

Will starts screaming again, and she says something I can’t hear.

I end up sleeping through the time it takes Mom and Will to leave and Jesse to arrive. He wakes me up with one hand on my chest. “You look like crap.”

“I think I’m sick.”

“I think you’re in pain.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So what’d you do?”

I point toward my feet. “They need to be taped up. I am so nauseous.”

“Okay. Hold on.” He handles my feet, and I grit my teeth. He starts talking, probably just to distract me. “I did five reps,” he says. “And an hour of rowing. I’m really building up my stamina. I think it’s going to make a difference for hockey. You’re coming to my game tonight, right?”

I try not to moan. “Of course.”

“So . . . what are you doing for Halloween?”

When I was little, I always got mad at Jesse because he wouldn’t come trick-or-treating with me. I don’t know how it took me so long to figure out that it would kill him, but ever since, Halloween gives me a sour sort of taste.

I say, “Will I be able to walk?”

He inhales as the socks come off. “Shit. Yeah, don’t worry. We can work this out. Hold on.”

He rushes to the bathroom and I get my first good look at what I’ve done. My toes look like raw chicken nuggets sewn into my foot. They’re purple and stick in incorrect directions. One of my nails is falling off.

Jesse returns with a shitload of gauze and medical tape, as if we really have the supplies to fix all of this.

“When did you do it?” he asks, ripping a piece of tape with his teeth.

“Last night. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

He starts taping the toes together. I dig my fingers into the floor. He says, “I don’t think you’ve ruined anything, here.”

This is a funny way of putting it.

“They should heal okay.”

“I know.

“I’m worried about you. This is beginning to look more and more like one of those suicide cry-for-attention things.”

I start hitting my head against the ground. “You’re not supposed to just ask me that. You’re supposed to dance around the subject and call a hotline if you’re so fucking concerned.”

He lowers his voice. “Jonah, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” I flap my arms over my face. He tapes me and it hurts. “What’s up with you?” I snap. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I am eating.” Rip of more tape. “This one might hurt.”

I chew my tongue. “Is this like an eating disorder?”

“I’m allergic to everything. It’s already like the ultimate eating disorder.”

I throw my hands away. “Look, if you don’t eat, you’re going to get worse. You’re going to lose tolerance and you won’t be able to eat
anything
. If you think starving’s fun now, wait until you don’t have any choice.”

“I’m eating.”

“Stop blowing me off.”

He pulls one of my toes and I swear. “I am not blowing you off,” he says, “but you have some nerve to lecture me about how to take care of myself. Now shut up and let me finish here.”

I exhale. “We’re gonna be really late.”

“It’s okay. I’ll drive fast.”

I say, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You’ve done enough.” And it doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“What?”

“Jonah, relax, okay? Just let me tape.”

I could throw up.

He finishes, and I examine his handiwork. My toes are secured in a wonky line like drunk soldiers.

“All right. Here we go.” Jess takes my good arm and hauls me off the ground. “You all right?”

My head’s about to split open, but my feet feel okay. “Yeah.”

“Just keep your weight on your heels and the tape should hold up.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“Uh-huh.” He pulls his sweaty hair back in his fist. “I’m gonna shower. Get yourself a granola bar or something and let’s get out of here.”

“Okay.”

He starts to go, then pauses with his hand on the door frame. “Jo.”

“Problem?”

He shrugs. “Can you try to do something about the baby before we go?”

There’s this desperation in his voice.

“I’ll try,” I say.

NAOMI’S WEARING MY SWEATSHIRT AGAIN, AND
the cuffs are folded over but still cover her hands. She grumbles in the back of her throat. “I can’t believe you did this without me.”

“It was impulsive. Barely intentional.”

“You couldn’t have waited?”

I wiggle my shoulders. “No, I couldn’t.”

“You’re like an addict.”

“Hush. This isn’t about you. Look, I have to stop doing this. For real. It’s bothering Jesse.”

“What’s up with Jesse?”

“I don’t even know.” I lead her down the south hallway. “Ever since his reaction he’s been all weird and combative. He never used to argue with me, and now it’s like . . . I don’t know.” My eyes feel like they’re coated in sandpaper.

She crosses her arms. “I’ll talk to him.”

“He’s not your responsibility.” We arrive outside the AP Bio classroom just as the kids start pouring out. I watch them, one by one, each of them an Ivy League–bound robot. Except my girl.

“He listens to me,” Naomi says. “What the hell are we doing here, anyway?”

Charlotte emerges, her hair pinned up in a Spanish orchid.

My girl who knows real life like it’s one of her songs.

Naomi fixes her baseball cap. “Oh.”

I do my best to wrap up our conversation before Charlotte gets to me. “Just leave Jess alone. He’s got enough on his plate. Figuratively.”

“Fuck you.”

I leave her to be pissed off and go bear-hug Charlotte. She giggles inside my arms, like a chorus of tiny violins.

“You smell fantastic,” she says.

“Hey, backatcha.”

I hear the smattering of combat boots and unbury my face from Charlotte’s curls. Naomi is stomping away, making as much noise as she can.

Charlotte’s lips peek open in her
what-the-heck?
face. “What’s wrong with her?”

“No clue. She’s mad about something.”

“You know what it is, don’t you?” She takes my arm and we stroll back toward our lockers. It’s almost like she’s my girlfriend. My feet hurt, but not so much that I care. “She’s jealous.”

“Please. Naomi would fall in love with you before she’d fall in love with me.”

Charlotte says, “Hmm.”

“She’s not gay.”

“Someone has to be gay.”

“Well, not Naomi.”

“Someone has to be.” She takes a step back. “Are you limping?”

Shit.

“Jonah?”

I start walking ahead, this time without Charlotte on my arm. “I’m fine.”

She follows. “Is your . . . is your
foot
broken?”

I take her hand. “Toes.”

“Jonah! What’s
happening
to you?” She plants her high heels on the linoleum and digs her fingers into my wrist until I have to stop. The hallway flow continues around us. We’re an island, together.

And there’s nothing for me to say.

“Skateboarding.” I swallow. “You know how I am.”

“No. You can’t skateboard with three broken ribs.”

I don’t correct her with
Five
.

We face off. She’s got this glitter on top of her eyes and she’s so beautiful and so angry.

“Jonah,” she whispers. “Tell me.”

I close my eyes and pray for a trapdoor.

“Jonah.”

I pray for a closed-over throat and no more breathing.

“Is it your parents?”

“No. It’s not my parents.”

My headache is back and it’s destroying down to my neck and shoulders. I don’t know if this is a sign of my trapdoor or my impending doom.

“Look,” I say. “There isn’t an answer for this that you’re going to like.”

She croaks, “Jesse?”

“Jesse would never hurt me. Seriously, Charlotte, let it go.”

A speck of glitter flickers into her eye.

I see her thought process.

I see her crossing out every other possible option.

I see her chin shake.

She says, “Are you doing this yourself?”

I’m afraid I’m going to vomit on her pretty shoes. “Charlotte, I’m really not feeling well. Can we talk about this later?”

“No!”

But I’m not faking it, and I’m trembling so hard I almost fall over. She catches me, and I stabilize myself on a locker.

“Geez, are you sick?” she says.

“No, just . . . I can’t talk about this right now.” The bell rings. “Look, are you coming to Jesse’s game tonight?”

She pauses, tongue against her cheek, and nods.

“Okay. We’ll talk there, okay? You know where I’ll be.”

I don’t know why I think this will help. Maybe I’m just stalling the inevitable. She knows. My only option is to confess and deal with the consequences.

But confessing to Charlotte will take a fuckload of courage. Of strength.

In short, I want to watch Jesse when I do it.

THE UNOFFICIAL FAMILY SPOT IS JUST BEHIND THE
box. We’d have a great view of Jesse, if he were ever on the bench.

We used to all come together, but now Mom stays home with the baby. We never let the baby out of the house. I guess we’re afraid what people will say if they see him crying like that.

I tap Dad on the shoulder. “Look at him.”

He stops cheering and turns to me. “He’s doing great.”

“He’s so
pale
.”

Dad folds the sleeves on his sports jacket. “He’s fine.”