Break(30)

“Get him out of there,” I tell Dad, sitting down as the referee’s whistle signals the end of time-out. “Talk to his coach or something.”

“Jonah—”

I shut him up because there’s someone heading toward us. And instead of Charlotte, it’s a huge guy in a glen plaid suit.

Principal Mockler.

“Crap.” I sit up straight. “Act normal.”

Dad says, “What?”

“Principal’s coming. Might want to pretend you’re not letting your son die out there.”

Mockler wades through the bleachers and looms over us. “Hello, there, Jonah. Mr. McNab.”

Dad shakes hands and makes nice.

Mockler sits next to me. “Could I have a word with you, Jonah?”

I nod toward Jess. “I’m watching my brother.”

“Jonah, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

As if he can’t tell I’m busy. As if he can’t tell I’m obses-sing over Jess right now.

“One of your friends came to talk to me,” Mockler says. “She was concerned about your recent . . . appearance. Is everything all right at home?”

Dad looks over. He says, “If you’re about to accuse me of something, you’d best wait until we’re in a more professional setting.”

Mockler straightens his tie and looks straight at me. “Maybe we should discuss this in private.”

“They’re not hitting me,” I say, tracking Jess with my eyes.

“I’m more concerned you’re doing this to yourself.” Mockler says. “Jonah, listen. We have pretty clear—”

Before I can shut him up, Jesse falls to his knees.

I leap off the bleachers. “Get up, brother!” I shout.

Dad doesn’t move, but Naomi’s going crazy too. She hops up and down on her backpack, screaming, “Up, Jess! Get up!”

One of Jesse’s teammates skates over and hauls him up, and I see them talking—teammate with his glove on Jesse’s shoulder, trying to find out if Jess is okay. . . .

“Did Charlotte tell you?” I ask.

After a pause, he nods. I could probably get him fired for admitting that.

I point. “Look at my brother. Look at him.”

“Jonah—”

I hear my voice rising—in pitch—as my head falls to pieces. “If you don’t want your students hurting themselves, look at him. Look at my brother. He’s not eating.” I turn to my dad. “He’s not eating!”

Dad stares like he doesn’t even recognize me.

Like he never suspected I’d lose my mind over Jesse.

Naomi faces us, her hands on her face. She’s bundled in her mittens and coat and scarf and I’m so, so overheated from just looking at her.

“We’re going to need you to get a psychiatric evaluation,” Mockler says, in a voice he must think sounds concerned. “We need to figure out why you’re hurting yourself.”

From the expression on my dad’s face, you’d think he’d never had a self-destructive son before.

“Look at him!” I shriek.

On the ice, Jesse falls again. He gags onto the ice, and spit drips from his lip. I imagine it steaming.

“Look at my brother!”

Dad traps me under his arms and squeezes me. My ribs burn and he keeps squeezing and squeezing, until I have to stop shouting. Until I can’t watch Jesse anymore.





twenty-four


SINCE BREAKING BONES DIDN’T WORK, I’LL TRY this new defense mechanism: disappearance.

I rip out of the hockey rink too quickly for anyone to see me. I’m a blur. Screw the toes—I’m lightning. I’m f*cking gone, is what I am.

I’m in the parking lot before anyone catches me.

“Jonah!” Naomi skids beside me, tottering on her tiny legs. “What the hell was going on in there?”

I’m so f*cking hot, despite the evening air. I tear off my jacket and force it at her. She takes it. My sling sways in the wind and my shoulder creaks back and forth.

“They think I’m crazy,” I say. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

“Slow down.”

Moonlight glints off the car tops. It’s f*cking seven o’clock; why is it so dark? I hate the fall.

“People are going to see your shoulder,” she points out.

“I don’t care. Can you get me out of here?”

Naomi—my partner in crime. My escape vehicle.

She licks her lips. “All right, fine. But I wanted to see Jesse.”

I storm toward her car. “He’s killing himself.”

“His team will look after him.”

“Nobody f*cking knows how to look after him. That’s the goddamn problem.” I yank the passenger side door and collapse in the seat. My anger puffs my chest up and down every time I breathe. “I just need to get out of here.”

She fumbles with her keys.

“Can you hurry, babe? They’re sort of gonna be looking for me.”

She drives, and I tell her what Mockler said.

“Jesus Christ!” She pounds on the steering wheel. “Charlotte just told him?”

“She . . . I don’t know.”