Break(2)

“Enough with the skateboard. We’ve got to be more creative next time, or your video’s gonna get boring.”


She makes that wicked smile. “You okay to stand?” She takes my good hand and pulls me up. My right wrist dangles off to the side like the limb of a broken marionette. I want to hold it up, but Naomi’s got me in a death grip so I won’t fall.

My stomach clenches. I gasp, and it kills. “Shit, Nom.”

“You’re okay.”

“I’m gonna puke.”

“Push through this. Come on. You’re a big boy.”

Any other time, I would tease her mercilessly for this comment. And she knows it. Damn this girl.

I’m upright, but that’s about as far as I’m going to go. I lean against the grody wall of the Laundromat. “Just bring the car around. I can’t walk that far.”

She makes her hard-ass face. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I’m not going to baby you.”

My mouth tastes like cat litter. “Nom.”

She shakes her hair and shoves down the brim of her cap. “You really do look like crap.”

She always expects me to enjoy this part. She thinks a boy who likes breaking bones has to like the pain.

Yeah. Just like Indiana Jones loves those damn snakes.

I do begging eyes.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll get the car. Keep your ribs on.”

This is Naomi’s idea of funny.

She slouches off. I watch her blur into a lump of sweatshirt, baseball cap, and oversize jeans.

Shit. Feeling number four is worry. Problems carpet bomb my brain.

What am I going to tell my parents? How is this setting a good example for Jesse? What the hell am I doing in the grossest parking lot in the city on a Tuesday night?

The feeling that never comes is regret.

There’s no room. Because you know you’re three bones closer.





two


AT THE HOSPITAL, I CALL HOME. MOM ANSWERS with, “Jesse has hives.”

So weird. I could be anyone. She could be announcing my brother’s skin condition to a telemarketer.

I smile at the nurse as she takes my vitals. The blood pressure machine beeps.

I think, Of course he has hives. Jesse has reactions to almost everything. Will’s baby food is everywhere. So yeah. Jesse’s going to get hives.

But I just say, “How’s his breathing?”

“Oh, you listen. I never know.”

I roll my eyes and wait for Jesse to get on the phone. “Blood pressure’s a little high,” Nurse tells me.

Naomi flips a page in her magazine. “Breaking a few bones will do that to ya.”

I kick her. “I feel fine,” I tell Nurse. “Thanks.”

Jesse picks up the phone and says, “Hey, brother.”

We call each other “brother” like it’s our name. Sometimes I worry we’ll forget our real ones.

I actually worry about things like this.

I say, “How you feeling?” while the nurse looks at my ribs.

“I’m fine. Mom’s overreacting.”

I believe him, because Jess is good about admitting when he’s not fine. He’s basically good about most things. And he’s breathing in and out, nice and slow.

“Yeah, you’re fine.” Some machine nearby starts beeping and I hold the phone tighter against my cheek to block the receiver.

Still, Jesse says, “Do I hear hospital noises?”

It’s sad that he can recognize them so well. Not to mention inconvenient. I don’t answer.

He groans. “Man, come on.”

“I was just about to tell you. Honestly.”

“Uh-huh.” He exhales, all smooth and clean. “So what’d you get?”

“Broken wrist, a couple broken ribs.”

The nurse tells Naomi the doctor will be here soon and swooshes out through the curtain.

Jess says, “Shit, Jonah.”

“No, hush. It’s not that bad. How’re Mom and Dad?”

“They yelled about the baby for a while and now they’re having a truce. Which I’m sure will be temporary when they find out you’ve broken yourself. Again.”

“I’ll tell them I fell off my skateboard,” I mumble, lying back on the bed.

“And really you . . .”

“Fell off my skateboard, actually.”

“This has got to stop.”

“Yeah. It’ll stop. I promise.” One hundred and eighty-nine bones from now. The baby wail builds like a siren.

I squeeze my eyes shut as my wrist grinds. Will was born eight months ago, and he has cried ever since.

I understand that most babies cry. But I’ve decided the reason you’re supposed to have kids close together in age is so they don’t care when their little siblings wail. When I was a year old, what the hell did I care if baby Jess was screaming?

But now I’m seventeen and Jess is sixteen and when our little brother cries, we worry.

When he cries for eight months, we worry for eight months.

Will hiccups and wails right into the phone. Jess is holding him, even though he’s not supposed to.

“You shouldn’t hold him if he’s been breastfeeding,” I say.