Break(20)

This question is enough to piss me off. I hate counselors. I hate how they pretend they’re your best friend when they f*cking don’t know you. I got a counselor when Mom and Dad separated for the first time. I got a counselor when they got back together. I got one when they worried Jess was getting too much attention.

I have Naomi. I don’t need this crap.

“I’m fine.”

She nods. “Heard there was a scare with your brother yesterday.”

“He’s fine.”

What a bitch. She doesn’t know Jesse. How dare she sit there and look concerned.

She’s got this white-noise machine, like she doesn’t want the principal or the janitor to hear me if I start to cry. Yeah. I’m just on the verge of f*ckin’ tears, here.

“How’s everything at home?”

I lean onto my elbows. My ribs don’t like this. I ignore them. “Do you have a point?”

She nods once. “How’d you break your arm, Jonah?”

“Fell off my skateboard.”

“And the black eye?”

“Fell off my skateboard.”

“Your jaw?”

I stare at her. “You want me to say it again?”

“Jonah.” She scoots forward in her chair and looks at me like she means it. I imagine her practicing this at night: scooting toward the side of her bed, making doe-eyes at the mirror.

She says, “This isn’t the first time you’ve come in banged up. And this isn’t the first time a couple of your teachers have come to me with concerns.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just a klutz.”

“I understand that you’re seventeen, that you feel like you’re old enough to take care of this yourself. And I hope you understand that I’m obligated to look for signs of abuse.”

Abuse.

I think about what this word means.

I mean, obviously this chick thinks my parents hit me. And I know they never have.

But if I flinch every time they reach toward me, is that just as bad?


If my baby brother won’t stop crying?

If I know, flat-out know, that they could take better care of Jesse, that they use him as an excuse to fight . . . you can’t convince me that that’s not just as bad.

“They don’t hit me,” I say. “I just take a lot of risks.”

“Your brother—”

“My brother has a schizophrenic immune system. It has nothing to do with my parents. Check out his record. He makes enough school days. His grades are great. He’s a good kid. None of this has anything to do with my parents.”

“None of what, Jonah?”

Aw, shit. “None of my broken bones and none of Jesse’s allergies. Look, I appreciate your concern, and if my parents ever beat the shit out of me, I’ll be sure to come in. But I’m fine and so’s Jesse. Your interference is not going to help.”

And then . . . oh.

What if I break so many bones that I can’t dodge these accusations? What if they decide Mom and Dad are hitting me?

What if they decide they’re not fit to be parents?

What happens to Will?

What happens to Jesse?

“Look,” I say, desperate. “I’m rebellious. I’m attention-starved. My parents are busy with Jesse and the new baby. So I take risks and I get hurt. It’s not their fault. They’re good parents. Honestly. They call ambulances for Jesse. They watch whatever he eats. And they hold Will all the time. Dad sings him lullabies. They love them.”

She leans even farther forward. She’s about to fall out of her chair. “What about you?”

“They love me, too. Really, they do. None of this is their fault. Don’t make them come in.”

She says, “Well, we might need to—”

“No. If you need to discuss this more, just call me in here. Don’t make them come in.” I stand up. “I’ve got to go.”

When I get outside her office, I’m so antsy I can’t keep still. I text message Naomi, who doesn’t need much coaxing to skip class. We sit on top of her car and smoke cigarettes.

I cough a little bit. I’m not an experienced smoker, but it’s not my first cigarette either. I don’t embarrass myself.

“So what are you breaking next?” she asks.

I say, “I think I’ll stick with the cigarette for now,” I say. “You know. Try normal teenage self-destructive.”

She forces herself to laugh, and I force myself to keep smoking.

Don’t think about the toes. Don’t think about the cheekbone.

Just keep smoking.





seventeen


AT LUNCH, I FIND JESSE HIDING OUT IN THE WEIGHT room, squeezing his biceps together on a machine that looks like a torture device. His sneakers are dirty and untied.

“You wouldn’t believe my morning.”

He looks up. “Hey, brother.”

“Hey.” I flop down on the mats and lean against the radiator, squishing around my sling. The heat is heaven on my sore neck. “So the counselor thinks Mom and Dad are breaking my bones.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Together? Like, one of them holds you down and the other one twists?”

“This is serious, Jess.” I look around to make sure we’re safe to discuss this. The only other person in here is a runner on the treadmill all the way in the back. His iPod’s on so loud that I’m surprised I can hear me and Jesse’s conversation.