Break (11 page)

“He looks
sick
.”

“Don’t go that far.”

“I’m going that far.”

The puck heads straight to Jesse’s stick, and we scream at him for a minute as he flies down the ice.

“His skating’s off,” I say.

“It’s not.”

“He’s wobbly.”

“Jonah. It’s fine.”

Dad’s never going to get it. I don’t care how many allergic sisters he had. She wasn’t Jesse, and she didn’t have his willpower. Nobody does.

I tear my eyes away from Jesse to scan the bleachers. “Do you see Charlotte?”

“Nope. No Naomi, either.”

Right when he says this, though, I see Naomi standing on her backpack, leaning over the plastic shield that separates the bleachers from the ice. She pounds her mittened hands together and screams, “Come on, Jesse!” Her cheeks are blown fuchsia from the cold.

She really is cute for such a psycho.

The other team calls a time-out and Jess leans with his fists on his knees. His back’s to us, and I can see how hard he’s breathing. His shoulders fall and rise under his jersey.

I nudge Dad. “Look.”

“Jonah, stop trying to scare me.”

“He shouldn’t be playing.” I stand up and yell, “Jesse!” until he looks at me. I hold up both my thumbs, and he does it right back.

“See,” Dad says. “He’s all right.”

Jess winks at Naomi and goes back to his heavy breathing.

“He’s having trouble.”

“Have faith. He will be okay.”

My parents tend to turn to “Have faith” when they have no better defense. The thing is, they rarely seem to try faith themselves. They just expect me to do it for them. Maybe that’s why they had children.

I yell, “Catch your breath, Jesse!”

He grumbles something back. He’s too far away for me to hear, but my brother lip-reading sense tells me it’s “I’m working on it.”

“Get him out of there,” I tell Dad, sitting down as the referee’s whistle signals the end of time-out. “Talk to his coach or something.”

“Jonah—”

I shut him up because there’s someone heading toward us. And instead of Charlotte, it’s a huge guy in a glen plaid suit.

Principal Mockler.

“Crap.” I sit up straight. “Act normal.”

Dad says, “What?”

“Principal’s coming. Might want to pretend you’re not letting your son die out there.”

Mockler wades through the bleachers and looms over us. “Hello, there, Jonah. Mr. McNab.”

Dad shakes hands and makes nice.

Mockler sits next to me. “Could I have a word with you, Jonah?”

I nod toward Jess. “I’m watching my brother.”

“Jonah, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

As if he can’t tell I’m busy. As if he can’t tell I’m obses-sing over Jess right now.

“One of your friends came to talk to me,” Mockler says. “She was concerned about your recent . . . appearance. Is everything all right at home?”

Dad looks over. He says, “If you’re about to accuse me of something, you’d best wait until we’re in a more professional setting.”

Mockler straightens his tie and looks straight at me. “Maybe we should discuss this in private.”

“They’re not hitting me,” I say, tracking Jess with my eyes.

“I’m more concerned you’re doing this to yourself.” Mockler says. “Jonah, listen. We have pretty clear—”

Before I can shut him up, Jesse falls to his knees.

I leap off the bleachers. “Get up, brother!” I shout.

Dad doesn’t move, but Naomi’s going crazy too. She hops up and down on her backpack, screaming, “Up, Jess! Get up!”

One of Jesse’s teammates skates over and hauls him up, and I see them talking—teammate with his glove on Jesse’s shoulder, trying to find out if Jess is okay. . . .

“Did Charlotte tell you?” I ask.

After a pause, he nods. I could probably get him fired for admitting that.

I point. “Look at my brother. Look at him.”

“Jonah—”

I hear my voice rising—in pitch—as my head falls to pieces. “If you don’t want your students hurting themselves, look at him. Look at my brother. He’s not eating.” I turn to my dad. “He’s not eating!”

Dad stares like he doesn’t even recognize me.

Like he never suspected I’d lose my mind over Jesse.

Naomi faces us, her hands on her face. She’s bundled in her mittens and coat and scarf and I’m so, so overheated from just looking at her.

“We’re going to need you to get a psychiatric evaluation,” Mockler says, in a voice he must think sounds concerned. “We need to figure out why you’re hurting yourself.”

From the expression on my dad’s face, you’d think he’d never had a self-destructive son before.

“Look at him!” I shriek.

On the ice, Jesse falls again. He gags onto the ice, and spit drips from his lip. I imagine it steaming.

“Look at my brother!”

Dad traps me under his arms and squeezes me. My ribs burn and he keeps squeezing and squeezing, until I have to stop shouting. Until I can’t watch Jesse anymore.

SINCE BREAKING BONES DIDN’T WORK, I’LL TRY
this new defense mechanism: disappearance.

I rip out of the hockey rink too quickly for anyone to see me. I’m a blur. Screw the toes—I’m lightning. I’m fucking gone, is what I am.

I’m in the parking lot before anyone catches me.

“Jonah!” Naomi skids beside me, tottering on her tiny legs. “What the hell was going on in there?”

I’m so fucking hot, despite the evening air. I tear off my jacket and force it at her. She takes it. My sling sways in the wind and my shoulder creaks back and forth.

“They think I’m crazy,” I say. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

“Slow down.”

Moonlight glints off the car tops. It’s fucking seven o’clock; why is it so dark? I hate the fall.

“People are going to see your shoulder,” she points out.

“I don’t care. Can you get me out of here?”

Naomi—my partner in crime. My escape vehicle.

She licks her lips. “All right, fine. But I wanted to see Jesse.”

I storm toward her car. “He’s killing himself.”

“His team will look after him.”

“Nobody fucking knows how to look after him. That’s the goddamn problem.” I yank the passenger side door and collapse in the seat. My anger puffs my chest up and down every time I breathe. “I just need to get out of here.”

She fumbles with her keys.

“Can you hurry, babe? They’re sort of gonna be looking for me.”

She drives, and I tell her what Mockler said.

“Jesus Christ!” She pounds on the steering wheel. “Charlotte just
told
him?”

“She . . . I don’t know.”

“She didn’t even let you explain! She didn’t even give you a fucking chance!”

It does seem like the least she could have done. And she could have been there. . . . She didn’t have to be so goddamn
sneaky
.

My chest is freezing.

“What a bitch,” Naomi says.

“Nom, I’m aware! I’m aware that she’s not perfect! What the fuck!”

Naomi throws her hands up. “Don’t yell at me! I’m, like, the only person left on your side, remember?”

I hide my head in my palm. “Just drive.”

“Where are we going?”

I swallow.
Think, Jonah.
I need to make things right. I need to get my happily ever after, with or without Charlotte. It’s got to happen. I’ve got to make it happen.

“Work,” I say. “Video store.”

She squints. “Seriously?”

“Just do it. I need to talk to Max.”

Naomi makes it to the parking lot much faster than Charlotte ever did. The jingle when I open the door does not help my headache.

Antonia scurries off Max’s lap. God, there are customers here. Can’t they wait? Do they have to shove this in everyone’s faces?

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

Max stands up. “Jonah, sit down.”

“No, I can’t. We need to talk. I’m in a hurry.”

“You look awful. Sit down.”

Antonia stands up and takes his elbow. “He’s limping.”

“No, that’s not . . . that’s not important. Max, listen, I need . . . some kind of escape, some way to get out of it, one of the happy movies—”

Max puts his hands up and backs away slowly, like I’m turning into a werewolf. “Jonah, maybe you should leave.”

“No, I’m not—”

All the customers are staring at me.

“What?” I yell. “I’m not crazy! I’m not fucking crazy!”

Antonia says, “Jonah, leave!”

The next thing I know I’m outside, the night is black and long and cold, and Naomi says, “Home, Jonah, we have to go home,” and it sounds like the worst and best thing anyone’s ever told me all rolled into one.

THE PSYCHOLOGIST’S NAME IS DR. SCHNEIDER.
It’s written in curlicue letters on her door.

The couch is lavender plush and smells like roses. I sink back and am reminded of Charlotte. The white-noise machine wails like arctic wind.

After we’ve finished small-talking through my social life, school, work, and my dreams and aspirations, she says, “What’s your family like?”

Dr. Schneider has a pretty green sweater and pointy glasses. I like her, but I hate being here.

I do my good-boy smile. “We make the Brady Bunch look like they need counseling.”

She brushes her hair back. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

My smile dims. “Which is?”

“That you’ve got a pretty sick little brother.”

I twist my hands in my lap. I want Jesse beside me so badly that it hurts. “Okay. Yeah. We’re messed up. I’ve got parents that should be divorced. But instead, they had a new baby, like Jesse wasn’t already too much for them.”

“Jesse’s your brother?” His name sounds different coming from her—harsher, more metallic. It’s not mean or ugly, but it’s stronger than I’m used to hearing his name.

“Yes. My oldest brother. He’s already a huge responsibility for my parents, and he needs to be a priority, but instead they’ve got this new baby. Who won’t stop crying. Honestly. He cries all the time.”

“Well—”

“And Jesse. Jesse is allergic to
everything.
Like, actually everything. And now that there’s breast milk and baby formula and all this other crap he’s allergic to, it’s all over the house, and he can barely breathe. It’s getting really bad. He’s getting really bad.”

“Do you worry about him a lot?”

I look down at my lap and nod, and then I’m crying so quickly and quietly that I didn’t even feel it happen.

She gives me a minute, then passes me the tissue box.

“Want to talk about it?” she says.

I can’t talk. I feel like my brain is squeezing through my sinuses. “I don’t want to be here,” I say.

“I know.”

She looks like she really does know. Like maybe, back before she was a shrink, when she was just a person, maybe her parents or her principal made her come to a counselor, even though she didn’t really need to. Maybe she once knew how it feels to not be messed up when you know you’re supposed to be messed up. Maybe she can still remember it now.

I get a hold of myself. “He almost died twice this week,” I say. “My fault. I just don’t know how to take care of him.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Less than a year and a half younger than me.” I rub my nose. “My parents wanted a new kid right after me because I was crazy-easy. And then we had Jess, and he was all hospitalized and feeding tubed and didn’t sleep through the night until he was five.”

“Jonah?”

“It probably would have been earlier, except I kept waking him to make sure he was okay. I do all these stupid things because I think they’ll help him, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Jonah.”

“He’s stopped eating completely now. He hasn’t eaten in almost a week.”

“Jonah. What about your other brother?”

“He’s eight months old. Eight and a half.”

“What’s his name?”

“Will.”

I bite my lips. Everything’s silent, save the white-noise whoosh.

“He cries a lot,” I volunteer. “We don’t know why. Jesse thinks it’s food allergies. I think it’s ear infections.”

She keeps watching, like we’re playing
$10,000 Pyramid
and she’s waiting for the code word.

“Do you worry about him, too?” she eventually asks.

“Yes.”

“You worry a lot, don’t you?”

I know where this is going; it’s going into nightmares and stress management and depression, and I shake my head very hard. “I
should
worry about them,” I say.

“I understand.”

“They need to be worried about. See.” I swallow. “See, that’s why it’s so ironic that I’m here. I’m actually the only one in my family that’s not, like, really, really messed up. But none of them—see, Jess is screwed and the baby’s screwed, but it’s not their fault. And there’s nobody out there who can stop my damn parents. So they haul me in here instead and try to fix me because they can’t fix my family.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s dragging you in here?”

I shrug. “The principal. My parents. Charlotte. Everyone but Naomi and Jesse.”

She folds her hands. “I noticed your mother didn’t come with you today.”

“Yeah, she had to stay home and watch Jesse.”

“And the baby?”

“Right.”

She straightens her glasses. “Jonah. Do you realize how much you talk about him?”

“Talk about who?”

“Jesse.”

Now I just want her to stop saying his name.

All I can think to say is, “He’s important.”

“I know, Jonah.” She leans forward on her knees. “The heart of the matter, kid, is that you’re here because you’re hurting yourself. Drastically. And if I can’t figure out why you’re doing this, and how I can help you, we’re going to have to consider checking into a facility so you can get some help.”

My throat hurts. “You know about how broken bones grow back stronger?”

“Jonah.”

“I won’t do it again. It was stupid and selfish, I know.”

“Jonah, listen.” She gathers her red hair into a clip. “If there’s anything I’ve figured out about you, it’s that you’re not selfish. And I have a really hard time believing that you’d do something so intense for any sort of selfish reason.”

“I did. It is selfish.” I start crying again. I’m always like this. Once I’ve broken down once, it doesn’t take anything for me to get all weepy again.