Break(3)

Naomi clears her throat. “The baby? Again?”


Naomi is very disdainful of Will, probably in the same way she’s jealous of Jesse. When you come from a nonfamily, it’s very easy to resent someone whose brothers take up his whole life. I get it, but that doesn’t mean I tolerate it, and I wave her away.

“He could still spit up on you,” I say. “Come on. You’ve got hives.”

Jesse says, “I can’t believe we’re discussing this now. You’re in the f*cking hospital, Jonah.”

And Mom says, “He’s where?”

I wince. “Smooth.”

“Shit,” he mumbles.

“Nice going.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

And now Mom’s screaming and the baby’s screaming and Jess is yelling back and I just say, “I’ll call you later,” and hang up.

Thirty seconds later, my phone starts vibrating, extra hard like it can gauge the urgency of the call. A white coat brushes in through the door and raises his eyebrows.

“You’re not supposed to have cell phones in here,” he says.

I shut it off gratefully.





three


MY PARENTS HAVE HOME-FROM-THE-ER FACES. Dad starts his as soon as we walk through the front door, and Mom mirrors even though she stayed home and bounced the baby. They wear them all through dinner, scraping their water-spotted silverware against the plates. Jesse is gathering the ingredients for a shake. One of his usual meals. None of them talks. I sit on the bar. They’re my play of a family, and I’m their attentive audience. Just like always.

Will bangs his fists on the high chair and cries into his sweet potatoes. Mom forces the baby spoon between his lips and he spits all over her.

Turns out my jaw is broken too, and now it’s wired shut. My tongue is a dead fish in the center of my mouth, but I talk anyway. “It was just an accident,” I say, as best I can. “I’m an idiot. I’ll try to be more careful.”

“We worry about you,” Dad says, in that thin-as-onionskin voice.

“He’s fine,” Jesse says. “Look at him.”

They look at me. I make my biggest smile, and the wires pull between my teeth.

Mom chews. “He’s getting a black eye.”

“So I’ll look like a prizefighter for a few days. There are worse fates, Mom. Will, shhh.” I wipe orange mush out of his black black baby hair and immediately lean over to the sink to wash my hands. I glance at Jess.

He empties two packets of brown powder into the blender, one for each of us. I don’t ask what it is. Jess makes proteins shakes all the time—and swears he likes them—but it’s still nice of him to share his dinner with me just because I can’t chew. Especially when he, unlike Mom and Dad, knows I did this to myself.

He starts the blender and watches the sludge stir around.

The deal with Jesse is that he has food allergies. I don’t mean like those kids who get a little blotchy when they eat peanuts. And I really don’t mean like those moms who say little Timmy can’t handle Red 40.

Jess’s throat closes up if he eats eggs. Or wheat. Or milk. Or fish. Or nuts, chocolate, strawberries.

Or basically anything.

His blood pressure drops and he swells right up and he can go from fine to dead in less than three minutes. He doesn’t even need to eat the stuff. Touching or breathing it is enough.

I can’t remember everything he’s allergic to. The list is too f*cking long. Really, I just freak out if I see him eating. Sometimes I’ll freak out when he’s drinking bottled water. It’s just a reflex.

Will babbles among his screams and shakes his head when Mom pushes more potatoes.

“He’s always a little banged up now.” Dad cuts a bite of lamb and stuffs it into his mouth. “People are going to talk.”

I stretch my arm out, examining the cast. “If they ask, I’ll just tell them Jesse did it.”

Mom snorts. “You’d be in even more pieces if Jesse did it.”

Jesse’s captain of the hockey team, first string for soccer, starting center in basketball. He’s four inches taller than I am and fifty pounds heavier—all muscle—and not quite as good-looking, but let’s face it. He’s not lacking.

The boy’s sort of a god. He’s got a miniature freshman cult following. And yeah, he could rip me to shreds if he wanted to.

Jesse laughs. “She’s right. You’d have a lot worse than a cast and a band around your ribs, boy.”

“Don’t forget the jaw.”

“How can you even understand what he’s saying?” Mom complains, spearing a bite of meat at the end of her fork. “He sounds like he’s talking with his mouth full.”

Dad shovels in more lamb as potatoes splurt out the sides of his lips.

Mom puts her hands over her eyes. “This is all over the parenting books. You’ve got one child with special needs, the other one has to act out.”

I wonder where that leaves the baby.

Jess makes noises in his throat. “Don’t call me special needs, God. I sound like I should be drooling in a wheelchair.”

“Lord’s name in vain, Jesse!”

He rolls his eyes.

I say, “I am not competing with Jesse.”