Break(25)

I say, “What are you doing home?”

“Practice was canceled.”

I turn away from him to hang the paper towels up. His gloves and coat rustle as he pulls them off.

He says, “What the hell has Will got on him?”

“Don’t touch—”

I turn around and there’s Jesse, his hand on Will’s sticky arm.

“Jesse, shit, I told you don’t touch him!” I grab Jesse’s arm and yank him away. There’s milkshake on his hand. Oh shit, shit, shit.

Will takes his yelling up a hundred decibels.

I force Jess to the sink and hold his hand under the water. His whole hand is swollen. God. He’s so bad with milk. This is so bad. This is so bad.

And I could take care of him so much f*cking better if I had two hands.

“What is it?” he says. His voice is that forced calm.

“Chocolate milkshake.”

“The hives, man.”

They’re up to his shoulder already. His arm is almost twice the size of the other.

“Ow,” he breathes.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” And he’s even standing in the puddle I spilled. This is unbelievable. I can’t . . . how the hell did I do this?

I’m such an idiot.

“What the hell were you doing?” he says. “Why didn’t you clean him up?”

“I didn’t think you were home—”

“Why the hell were you using my blender, anyway?”

God. I take the only clean thing he has in the whole house, and I put milk and chocolate in it.

I should be shot.

Washing isn’t working. His face is swelling. He’s got hives all over his neck and if they’re in his neck, they’re about to be in his throat.

“Sit down.” I push him into the living room and yell to him while I root through the cabinets. “Don’t scratch!”

“What the f*ck kind of harm is that going to do now?” He shudders and breathes, and I hear every muscle in his throat. I hear the deep, deep whistle in his chest.

My hand freezes on the bottle of Benadryl. “Can you breathe?”

He doesn’t answer, and that’s all I need.

When your little brother’s about to die, for a second it doesn’t matter that it’s your fault and you’re scared to death and you only have one arm. For a second, you turn into a robot.

I snatch the bottle from the shelf and wrench off the cap. I stand over him with one foot on his knee and say, “Open your mouth.”


I pour the pink syrup down his throat. Some leaks through the blue oxygen-starved skin of his lips and dribbles onto his chin. I cover his mouth with my hand. “You will not choke,” I tell him. “You will not throw up. You will drink. You will get this all down.”

He keeps trying to look into my eyes and I keep looking away. He’s crying, but it’s just fear, and it’s just the immune response. It’s not real. We’re robots.

He swallows and I take my hand away.

“Breathe,” I say. “Now.”

He’s coughing. His chest makes noises like a truck.

I’m clutching the EpiPen.

In his high chair, Will positively howls.

“Come on, man,” I say.

And Jesse breathes.

When your little brother looks at you and you almost just destroyed him, you can’t be a robot anymore.

He slumps onto me, more out of exhaustion than affection. His face is so red and hot. I lower the sticky bottle to the table. The guilt is a big ball of yarn at the bottom of my stomach. Breaking bones hurts less than this.

“You’re okay,” I say, and push him away because I might still have milk on me. “But look, man, we’ve got to get to a hospital.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I’m okay.”

“Jesse.”

He inhales—it’s harsh, but it’s there. “If the reaction spikes again, we’ll go. But I’ll just . . . I’ll load up on Benadryl and I’ll sleep it off.”

“Man—”

“Come on, brother.” He nails me with those teary eyes. “We were just at the hospital.”

I stand up and walk away from him, toward the high chair. I’ve got to give Will a bath. “You’re being ridiculous. I am not going to let you—”

“What will Mom and Dad say?”

I’m quiet.

“If they find out I’m having a reaction because of something you did, they won’t listen to you anymore. They’ll stop taking you seriously when you tell them to clean up. They’ll use it against you all the time.”

I close my eyes and lean over the high chair. “Hush, Jesse.”

“They will never trust you to take care of me. Come on, Jonah.”

“Stop.”

“Come on. Don’t do it. Don’t call an ambulance. I hate ambulances.”

He really does. He always says I could get him there faster.

Not that I could drive him right now. I’m so f*cking useless.

“Don’t make me go, Jonah.”

Will screams, and I turn away from him and face Jesse, and I put my hands in my hair. “All right!” I say. “All right. Stay here.”