Break(12)

“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 head 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?”