When We Collided(60)

I’m at Felix’s house minutes later, buzzed on adrenaline. It was just instinct, coming here, and I have no plan. I have only the aftershocks of a meltdown.

The moment I turn to go, I hear Ellie’s voice. “Jonah?”

She’s standing at the side of the house holding a garden hose, half-lit by the setting sun. I want to take off running.

“I’m almost done,” she calls. “Wait one sec, okay?”

So I stay standing on the sidewalk like the jackass that I am. I watch Ellie spray the red dahlias and the gloriosa daisies with water. My mom used to garden. Watering the plants was one of my chores, too. Our yard is bare this year.

Ellie shuts off the water and coils the hose back up. There are a lot of reasons why I like Ellie—why I’ve always liked Ellie, even when it wasn’t cool to be friends with girls. She’s so nice that she could probably feed a deer out of the palm of her hand like one of the princesses in Leah’s movies. But, in junior high, I saw her punch Patrick Lowenstein in the stomach after he called her older brother a *. It wasn’t because she was sticking up for Diego. I know that because she yelled, “GIRL PARTS DO NOT MEAN THE SAME THING AS ‘WIMPY’!” right before her fist doubled Patrick over. I thought that was so damn cool.

“Hey,” she says, walking toward me. “I thought that was you. Do you want to come in? My mom could probably heat up din—”

“No,” I say. “No thanks.”

She stops in front of me. Her eyes shift across my face, left to right, reading me like a book page. Something is wrong—a lot of things, actually—and she sees it all over me.

“C’mon,” she says. I follow her to the front porch. It feels rude not to say hi to everyone while I’m here, but politeness is not happening for me tonight. Clearly.

Ellie pats the spot next to her on the porch swing, and I sit. She pulls her legs up, bare feet on the edge of the seat.

I square my feet on the concrete, propping my elbows on my knees. I can’t even look at her right now, so I press my hands into my face. “I screamed at Isaac and Bekah. I called them *s. I made them cry. And then . . . Vivi . . . wasn’t even listening . . . God, I just . . .”

I want her to yell at me. Or, hey—she goes to church. Maybe she can give me a set number of Hail Marys to recite. This is my confession, and I want absolution.

Instead, Ellie rubs her hand across my back. For the first five seconds, her touch makes my muscles tenser than they already are. My chest heaves like I’m crying, even though I’m not, and I relax.

“Jonah, you’re such a good brother. We all snap sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It is, though. I feel—”

“Guilty. I know. But they know how much you love them. I know you try to hide how stressed you are from the littles, but maybe they needed to see it, you know?”

My mom used to rub my back when I was little. And that’s the thing. Obviously I’m tired of being a standin parent. But I also miss having a parent. Sometimes I want to be the kid, embarrassing as that is. I know I’m seventeen. I shouldn’t need someone to rub my back and tell me it’ll be okay. That I’m not screwing up everything as badly as it feels like I am.

I still can’t quite get words out, so Ellie keeps talking, swiping the palm of her hand over my shoulder blades.

“You know, last year, I was studying for a huge math test, and Lina kept bugging me to play Legos with her. She kept interrupting: ‘Has it been an hour? Is it time yet?’ I was so exhausted and stressed. Finally, I told her to shut up and go away.”

At this, I glance over for a moment, less afraid to meet her eyes.

“She cried,” Ellie says. “And then I cried, because I felt so guilty.”

“Really?” Ellie, one of the nicest people I know, made her little sister cry, too?

“Really.”

“Ugh. I just don’t know how I’m going to face them.”

She shrugs. “You’ll go home and apologize. Try your best to explain why you reacted that way. They’ll bounce back—I promise.”

All I can think is, What if they remember this forever? What if I’ve spent so much time trying to make life okay for them and all they remember is me yelling that they’re *s? “I hope so.”

“I think it’s time to talk to your mom.” Her hand stops in the center of my back. “Tell her you can’t handle this anymore. Jonah, I’ve known her my whole life. If she knew what this is doing to you and Naomi and Silas, it would crush her. She needs to get some help from an adult. A therapist or group.”

When I turn to look at her fully, she pulls her hand away. “Yeah. I know. That’s part of the reason I snapped tonight. Your dad was over at my house, and my mom was pretending to be fine. He had no idea. It pissed me off—that she can’t pretend for us, but she can pretend for someone else. So I can’t pretend anymore either. I can’t pretend like it’s okay anymore.”

I didn’t realize how true that was until I said it.

“I’m going to tell my mom she needs to talk to someone. Soon. If she doesn’t . . . I’m going to tell your parents what’s going on.” I swallow hard, and my Adam’s apple feels stuck. I hate the idea of giving my own mother an ultimatum. “I think . . . I think that’s what my dad would want me to do.”