Break(19)

He reaches out and touches my sling. All my pain and suffering, and I don’t even get a new cast. Just this awkward-ass sling. “And the elbow?”

“That’s fractured.”

“Anything else?”

“Three more ribs.”

+ 1 shoulder + 1 elbow + 3 ribs. Total = 24.

He squints. “Haven’t you already broken your elbow?”

“That was the other one.”

He sighs and leans back, running a hair through his curls. “Mom and Dad are going to be furious.”

“They don’t have to know. I don’t need a new cast. Just a sling. I’ll just tell them the wrist was sore. They don’t have to know, and Charlotte doesn’t either, or Max and Antonia. Nobody.”

“Jonah. Your arm will look funny.”

“I can make it look okay. Look. I can take care of this,” I insist. “I can make this okay.”

He keeps messing up his hair. “How’s the pain?”

I shake my head, staring at the quilt.

“Was it scary?”

The crash flashes through my mind like an awful Claymation film. I see my body melt into the pavement, into Naomi, see it filling the empty pool.

He lowers his voice—pitch, not volume. “Brother, you okay?”

The fourth feeling is worry.

I say, “Can you sit with me until Naomi comes back? Sh-she’s getting ice chips.”

“Uh-huh.”

I scoot to the side of my bed and pat the mattress next to me. He sits beside me, fists on his knees, and doesn’t cough. We don’t touch, but the comfort bridges the gap between us.

No regrets.





sixteen


AT SCHOOL, CHARLOTTE SAYS, “SO JESSE’S OKAY now?”


“Yeah, he’s in Statistics.” I roll my pencil across the desk, trying to make the rigid turn of my broken elbow look casual. “It was a rough one for him, though. He’s pissed off about it still.”

“Yeah, you said.” Charlotte pushes her hair behind her ears. “How’d Naomi take it?”

“Hmm?”

“You know how she is about Jesse. They’ve always been close.”

“Well, she was concerned. We all get concerned. Jesse has a reaction, and it’s like a f*cking war’s on. It’s scary as hell. Mom’s all jumpy and self-deprecating. You should have seen her washing his lunch this morning.”

“My sister was worried.”

The little bit of a smile I had sinks into my lips.

“What?” she says, plucking a petal off her carnation.

“I just don’t think it’s going to work. With Jesse and your sister.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?” Her eyebrows bend together. “My sister’s a sweetheart.”

“I’m sure she is. I just don’t think he’s ready.”

“He’s sixteen.”

“Yeah, and he’s been out of the hospital for five minutes. Your sister eats peanut butter, gives my brother a kiss on the cheek, and me and my parents are ID’ing Jess’s body.”

She rolls her eyes. “If you want to baby someone, use Will. Jesse’s a big boy.”

“Yeah, a big, sick boy.” I flip open my notebook.

She shakes her head. “You know, I worry about you. What’s with the sling?”

“Wrist was just sore. Trying to get a break from gravity.”

Mrs. Yanovic waddles in, four pens clasped between her teeth. “Welcome to polyatomic ions, kids. Wait, McNab.” She nods at me. “Miss Marlin wants you in her office.”

I look at Charlotte and mumble, “Who’s Miss Marlin?”

“Counselor.”

“The counselor?”

She nods.

“It’s probably a mistake.” I gather my stuff. “She probably wants Jesse.” Everyone always thinks it’s their place to comfort him after a reaction. I don’t even know.

Whatever. Anything to get out of Chemistry.

I tramp down the hall in my backpack, considering my options. My arm’s throbbing, and I just want to go home, but I don’t want to deal with Mom whining that she’s not good enough, or that Dad doesn’t appreciate her, and I can’t stand listening to Will any longer. I want to go to the library and curl up and take a nap.

I want to go back and get Charlotte and do some kissing.

I take my cell phone out and text message Jesse. WHATS UP.

Just want to be sure, you know. It seems like the counselor would want to talk to me if he died.

He says, SHUT UP IM IN CLASS.

Okay. Good.

I eventually find Miss Marlin. Her door’s squeezed between the principal’s office and the supply closet. On an importance spectrum, she’s much closer to the latter.

I knock with my cast.

“Come in.”

Miss Marlin’s a small black woman with paintbrush-thin fingers. Her sweater is pretty ugly.

“Hi.”

She has a file in her lap. “Are you Jonah McNab?”

“Uh-huh.”

She waves for me to sit down. The chair is too comfortable.

“How’s everything going, Jonah?”