Trigger (11 page)

“Fear’s natural when you don’t understand something.” She tapped her cigarette ashes into the ashtray I made her. “And silence like Big Larry’s—I think it might bother folks more than your nonsense chatter.”

Before I could answer, her words rattled through my broken head.

Big Larry. Me.

Him quiet, me running my mouth.

Two brain-damaged turtles, making people uncomfortable.

My stomach rolled over inside.

Did I really come across like Big Larry, all Frankenstein and scary and … and …?

Biting my lip hard, I looked down at the ashtray, at the glued cracks, at the burned spots and scarred paint.

“See what you can find out about this ‘my life sucked’ thing. You got real stuck on doing everything better than everybody else—and you were doing way too much for any sane person. Poke around there.” Mama Rush smiled at me through her smoky djinni veil. Her image got all blurry as I tried really hard not to cry. She just kept smiling at me, and I wondered if she was counting to ten again. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty.

When I got up, I knocked over one of the stand-up ashtrays. Frankenstein scary. But she didn’t say anything, just patted my back when I kissed her cheek.

chapter 9

For a long, long time, until my headache stopped enough for me to move without wanting to hurl, I hung around the front of The Palace. Just sat on one of the benches and held my memory book and thought. Big Larry went by once and I managed to smile at him even if I wanted to throw up all over again. He didn’t seem to notice. I wondered if Big Larry needed a memory book, but I didn’t want to ask him.

It was nearly dark before I called the cab. I only did it then because Meki Shansu Residential Director handed me her personal phone and made me do it.

I bothered her, just like Big Larry bothered me. That much I understood now. I just didn’t like it.

The cabdriver stared at me when I got in.

I bothered him, too.

Big Larry and I, we probably bothered everybody.

All the way home, I kept hearing pieces of my conversation with Mama Rush and having that weird hallucination of somebody yelling at me. I was pretty sure it was a girl.

You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you
.

It wouldn’t stop, even when I wrote the sentence down in my book. I wrote it down five times. Then I filled up a whole page. If I was self-centered before I shot myself, people would have been mad at me and they would have yelled like that.

Mama Rush said I got stuck on doing too much, and doing it better than everybody else. So maybe my life sucked because I was selfish and nobody liked me? Todd had stopped talking to me, so maybe other people had stopped talking to me, too. Maybe I was totally selfish and all stuck on doing too much and being better than everyone. Maybe that’s why Mom didn’t seem to like me much anymore, either. I hurt her feelings a lot, being selfish. And the way she looked at me now—

The tightness in my throat just wouldn’t go away, and my headache blasted along big-time.

The way Mom looked at me now, it was a lot like I looked at Big Larry.

Frankenstein.

Frankenstein scary.

I slammed my book closed and tried to hold the words inside.

When the cabdriver let me out, I handed him all the rest of my money. And I tried not to care if he stared at me or if he thought I was a Big Larry if I paid him too much. I didn’t want to be selfish.

And sock or no sock, I was going to try to do what the therapists taught me and try harder to focus—and shut up.

As I walked up the driveway and stumbled up the porch steps rubbing my aching head, I felt more determined than
ever. Somehow, I was going to keep my mouth closed. Focus. Focus.

The front door bounced off the doorstop when I opened it, and I frowned. Selfish. I didn’t focus. I pushed it too hard. I should have thought about what kind of noise that would make. If Mom and Dad were home and reading or talking or something, that noise might have scared them.

“Jersey!” Mom came running out of the kitchen.

She grabbed me and hugged me, then pushed me back and shook me. That made my brain hurt. I dropped my book, and my eyes got squinty from the pain.

“Where have you been?” Mom gave me another shake. “It’s dark! You should have been back hours ago.”

Dad came up beside her and the two of them stood there staring at me. Mom’s eyes were red and teary. Dad’s face was stony and way too calm.

I realized I was opening and closing my mouth. Nothing came out. Concrete. My headache doubled, tripled, got so bad so fast I couldn’t really see straight. I barely could keep my eyes open. I wanted to apologize for not trying harder since I got out of Carter. I wanted to apologize for the door noise. That was selfish. Staying gone too long to think was selfish, too, but I wasn’t sure how. What could I say that wouldn’t be stupid? How could I say anything without saying too much?

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Jersey.” Mom squeezed my shoulders. “Are you going to answer me?”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My fist clenched. My scars ached. Stupid, selfish, stupid, selfish.

Mom let me go.

I kept trying to speak as she backed away like I had wanted to back away from Big Larry.

“Sonya.” Dad’s warning voice punched through my headache, but it didn’t break up the concrete.

“Damn it, I’m just trying to help!” Mom’s sharp tone drove more nails into my brain. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Give him a little space. Let him get his bearings.”

It got quiet and cold all of a sudden, like an ice-wind blew through the house.

When I focused my eyes and squinted up at Dad, I realized Mom was gone. She left with the ice-wind.

Before I said or did anything else stupid or selfish, I picked up my book and headed for the stairs. Ice-wind. I shivered. My feet felt like weights as I moved them up, up, one at a time, good boy, bad boy, one two three, stop talking nonsense,
you’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you
.

Ice-wind. The hall seemed long, but I made it to my bedroom door, made it inside.

You’re back!
J.B.’s voice smacked me cold in the face, like a whole new ice-wind.

Frowning, I covered my ears to shut him out, but that was no use. He got even louder.
Selfish-sailfish-selfish. You look upset, Frankenstein. Why don’t you call somebody and talk about how upset you are? Oh, wait
.

He laughed and it sounded—it felt—like acid.
You can’t call anybody. There isn’t anybody to call
.

I closed the door and managed not to slam it.

Can’t call anybody. Not even a counselor. Not for six months.

My bed sagged under me as I sat down hard. Not a
single person to call. There was Leza, but she was always busy and I didn’t want to bug her and make her stop talking to me. Mama Rush was probably in bed. And none of my old friends had come to see me in the hospital. None of my old friends wanted to talk to me. The friends at Carter were gone or busy with Carter stuff. Maybe I didn’t have any old friends. Maybe they had all left before the big bang, just like Todd. Maybe I didn’t have any new friends left at Carter, either.

Because you were selfish. Selfish Before. Selfish After
.

If I could have found J.B. in my brain and wrapped my hands around his neck, I would have. I would have choked him and shook him as hard as I bet Mom wanted to shake me. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t shut up when I needed to be quiet and I couldn’t talk when I had something to say. Just a brain-damaged turtle. Just a broken, glued-together ashtray with holes burned in the sides. And my head hurt way, way bad.

I put my book beside me on the bed, then put my face in my hands.

You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you
.

Someone was touching me, hugging me, holding me, asking me if I was okay.

It was all I could do to pay attention.

Dad.

In my room.

He was stroking my head. His hand was all shaky.

“… Don’t want you to put yourself under too much pressure, get too upset.”

He switched on the bedside table lamp, and I yelped as the light pierced my eyes.

“I’m sorry. Is your head hurting? Should I get you some aspirin?”

Dad was gone before I could answer.

Time didn’t seem to be moving. At least J.B. wasn’t talking anymore. He’d said enough, hadn’t he?

When Dad came back with aspirin, water, and a really nervous expression, I asked him to get my hand brace and my foot brace out of the closet. He helped me put them on, and he kept looking all jumpy and twitchy. As my fingers tried to curl against the hard plastic and my ankle throbbed from being straight, my broken brain flashed back to Big Larry making his loops around and around the patio.

He bothered you, didn’t he, Jersey?

Only, I wasn’t really bothered. Mama Rush had been right about that. I was scared of Big Larry. Scared of what he would do, like Dad was scared of me getting too upset.

Frankenstein scary.

“You—you think—” My voice cracked.

“Ssshhh.” Dad sat down beside me and kept an arm around my shoulders as I took a drink of the water he had brought me. He offered me the aspirin, and I took them, too. Another drink, and my throat unlocked a little.

“You think I’m Big Larry,” I said.

Dad stared at me.

I sighed. “No, wait. Not Big Larry. Frankenstein. Not Frankenstein. But you think—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to try to talk.” Dad hugged me a little closer. “I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“You think—you want to be sure that I won’t break down like Big Larry. That I won’t break down, I mean.”

Break down
again
, I wanted to say. Go off and do something stupid, or turn purple and explode with tears. Or worse.

Dad’s stunned expression and fast blinking gave him away.

He thought if I got too upset, I’d crack. Only, he wasn’t afraid I’d drive my scooter too fast and blubber a lot. He was scared I’d hurt myself like I did before.

I needed to tell him I understood that, or ask him if that’s what he thought for sure, or ask him if he thought I was selfish. All I could do was drink the rest of the water, put the glass down, and say, “I won’t.”

I said that over and over.

Dad just hugged me and blinked even faster.

Mom never came to my room.

chapter 10

I have this dream where both legs work and both arms work and I don’t have any scars on the outside. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in dress blues holding a pistol. Sunlight brightens the dust and ashes in my room and darkens all the places where I’ve nicked the walls and doors. The football rug, the one Mama Rush gave me when I made the team my freshman year, is folded neatly on my dresser so it won’t get messy. I give it one last look before I turn back to what I’m doing. My fingers tingle as I lift the gun to my mouth. It tastes oily and dusty all at once as I close my lips on cold gunmetal
—
but I can’t. Not in the mouth. I’m shaking, but I lift the barrel to the side of my head. The tip digs into my skin. I’m thinking about how selfish I’ve been, how everyone’s sick of me and mad at me. I’m thinking I don’t have friends, I’m ashamed. I hate myself, and I hate my room and all the dust and ashes in places I didn’t even know. Then I’m squeezing the trigger and looking at the dust and ashes and feeling my hand
shake and there’s noise and fire and pain and I’m falling, falling, my broken head smashing into my pillow …
.

You shouldn’t go to school
. J.B. hadn’t shut up since I woke up two hours ago. The quieter I got, the noisier he got.
You’re talking really bad now. You can’t do it. You’ll run your stupid mouth or turn to stone when you’re supposed to talk
.

I didn’t have time to fight, so I ignored him.

My hand and ankle felt all stiff from wearing the braces for the first time since I left Carter, my hair still felt damp from the shower, and my jeans felt too heavy and too tight. Were jeans okay? I mean, I’d been locked up in brain injury hospitals for a year and the only place I’d been since discharge was The Palace. I wasn’t really sure what to wear. A solid green shirt and jeans seemed safe enough for now, but the snap and zipper on the pants would be hard. Pragmatics. Even brain-damaged turtles knew better than to show up at school dressed like a geek.

Geeks bit the heads off live chickens at carnivals. I read that somewhere, about the word “geek.” Chicken heads. Just the thought was gross.

“Chicken heads.”

Oh, great. Load up on stupid things to say. Why did you think it would be a good idea to go back to your old school?

“Answers.” I fought with my left sock, trying to pull it over my weak foot. The ankle wouldn’t bend. Putting socks on one-handed was a real bitch. I was glad I wasn’t a girl. I’d never be able to put on a bra. “Bra,” I muttered. “Chicken heads. Harder in the real world, but I can do it. Get some answers. Bra.”

See? That’s what you’ll do
. J.B. actually sounded nervous.
March into the main hall at Central and yell, “Bra! Chicken heads!” It’ll go over real well
.

“No yelling about bras or chicken heads or geeks.” I finally finished with the sock and started on the shoes. Then I wondered why I was comforting the ghost who had tried to kill me. “Go to hell,” I added, just to keep things straight between us. “Bras. Socks. Hell.”

I needed to quit listening to him, but that was hard. He was so loud in my room I couldn’t ignore him.

Stay home. Even Mama Rush thinks you shouldn’t go back to that place
.

“Going.” Both shoes were on. Dad would tie them. I refused to do Velcro for school. Stupid-marks or not, I knew Velcro was just … out.

Don’t talk about bras. Don’t talk about anything. This is a bad idea, I’m warning you. School will be a disaster like you can’t imagine
.

“Bras,” I echoed even though I didn’t want to. “Imagine bras.” The urge to shout “chicken heads” nearly overpowered me.