Break(22)

“I’m sure you have an aunt or something that would love him.”

The man collects his movies and leaves. The bell on the door jingles, and Max sticks out his tongue and crosses his arms.

I say, “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.” And yet I keep going. “It’s not about the money. I couldn’t take care of Jess.”

Antonia walks behind the counter and wraps her arms around Max. “You won’t be all broken forever. You’ll heal eventually.”

“No. You don’t get it. I can’t take care of him. As in, I take crappy care of Jesse.”

Max says, “Come on. I’ve seen you with him. You’re a good brother.”

I stand up—not to be dramatic, just to do something. I feel like moving. “He was covered in hives when I left him yesterday. He was already having the reaction. And I didn’t do anything.”

“You had no way of knowing.”

“I let him get sick. All the time. I eat shit in front of him that he could get sick from breathing. I don’t always wash my hands. I take terrible care of him.”

Max straightens his glasses. “Didn’t you save his life last year?”

I fold up on the floor. “Stop making me sound like a hero. The EpiPen’s easy to do. You just jam the needle into his thigh. It doesn’t make me an angel. It’s a temporary fix, anyway. Just keeps him conscious long enough to get him to a hospital.”

“It’s significant, Jonah.”

“Don’t act like I can heal him. Seriously. Stop. I hate that.” I wander over to the classics.

“He wants to live with you,” Max calls. “That doesn’t tell you anything?”

I ignore him and run my fingers over the spines of every happy-family-talking-dog DVD, swallowing the urge to explain the difference between a good brother and a loved one.

Then I hear Weezer through the front door and, in spite of everything, I’m smiling. “That’s my ride.”

“All right, get out of here.” Max shakes his head, like there’s something more he wanted to say.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go have fun with your girlfriend.”

People keep telling me where to go.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”


Charlotte dances in her car, her hair whipping back and forth. I climb into the passenger seat and buckle in. “Hello.”

“Hey.”

She takes off out of the parking lot, the turbocharge on the Jetta growling from good use. The CD player clicks into a new song.

“So what are we doing tonight?” she asks.

I settle into the seat. “I don’t care. Let’s just stay out forever.”

She laughs. “And what are we supposed to do to keep us entertained forever?”

“I don’t need to be entertained. I just need this.”

Out of nowhere, her eyes go all serious. She touches my cast. “How are you doing this?

“Doing what? My hand? I hit a wall by accident.”

“By accident?”

“Don’t worry.”

She’s quiet for a minute while we join the bigger roads. I swallow and concentrate on the music, the constant woosh of street noise.

I stare at the window. “Man. You know, someday we’re gonna be stronger, Charlotte.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Someday we’ll be beyond this.”

I don’t know who I’m including in “we.” Or I do know, but I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather just let it hang in the air and pretend that will make it true.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be a singer, you’ll be an architect. We’ll live happily ever after.”

This scenario hardly answers all my questions, but it’s enough for now.

We decide on this diner with crappy food and four tables. We share French fries and ketchup and start talking about each other.

Our words rain down in a hurricane. We could do this forever.

I guess I haven’t made it clear how I feel about Charlotte. Well, she puts my heart in a microwave and watches as it warms up and explodes. When I’m around her, my blood runs hot and thick. It’s beautiful.

You could say there’s nothing special about her. You could make the case.

But, really, she’s special because nobody else can do the microwave thing.

“Do you have to babysit on Halloween?” she asks.

My parents go to this Halloween event every year. High-school partying for religious grown-ups. “No. Jess’ll be at home.”

“There’s a party at Marten’s,” she says. “You want to go?”

I drag a French fry through some mustard. “I sort of hate Halloween.”

She frowns. “If this is you trying to get out of going somewhere with me—”

“No. This is me sort of hating Halloween.”

She nods, chewing on her lip. “Then let’s go to a water park, all right?” She’s got ketchup on her lips, like blood. I want to kiss it off and fix it and make it better. “When it gets warm.”

“What about tonight?”

“Sleigh ride?”

“It’s October,” I say.