Break(31)

“She didn’t even let you explain! She didn’t even give you a f*cking chance!”

It does seem like the least she could have done. And she could have been there. . . . She didn’t have to be so goddamn sneaky.

My chest is freezing.

“What a bitch,” Naomi says.

“Nom, I’m aware! I’m aware that she’s not perfect! What the f*ck!”

Naomi throws her hands up. “Don’t yell at me! I’m, like, the only person left on your side, remember?”

I hide my head in my palm. “Just drive.”

“Where are we going?”

I swallow. Think, Jonah. I need to make things right. I need to get my happily ever after, with or without Charlotte. It’s got to happen. I’ve got to make it happen.

“Work,” I say. “Video store.”

She squints. “Seriously?”

“Just do it. I need to talk to Max.”

Naomi makes it to the parking lot much faster than Charlotte ever did. The jingle when I open the door does not help my headache.

Antonia scurries off Max’s lap. God, there are customers here. Can’t they wait? Do they have to shove this in everyone’s faces?

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

Max stands up. “Jonah, sit down.”

“No, I can’t. We need to talk. I’m in a hurry.”

“You look awful. Sit down.”

Antonia stands up and takes his elbow. “He’s limping.”

“No, that’s not . . . that’s not important. Max, listen, I need . . . some kind of escape, some way to get out of it, one of the happy movies—”

Max puts his hands up and backs away slowly, like I’m turning into a werewolf. “Jonah, maybe you should leave.”

“No, I’m not—”

All the customers are staring at me.

“What?” I yell. “I’m not crazy! I’m not f*cking crazy!”

Antonia says, “Jonah, leave!”

The next thing I know I’m outside, the night is black and long and cold, and Naomi says, “Home, Jonah, we have to go home,” and it sounds like the worst and best thing anyone’s ever told me all rolled into one.





twenty-five


THE PSYCHOLOGIST’S NAME IS DR. SCHNEIDER. It’s written in curlicue letters on her door.

The couch is lavender plush and smells like roses. I sink back and am reminded of Charlotte. The white-noise machine wails like arctic wind.

After we’ve finished small-talking through my social life, school, work, and my dreams and aspirations, she says, “What’s your family like?”

Dr. Schneider has a pretty green sweater and pointy glasses. I like her, but I hate being here.

I do my good-boy smile. “We make the Brady Bunch look like they need counseling.”

She brushes her hair back. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

My smile dims. “Which is?”

“That you’ve got a pretty sick little brother.”

I twist my hands in my lap. I want Jesse beside me so badly that it hurts. “Okay. Yeah. We’re messed up. I’ve got parents that should be divorced. But instead, they had a new baby, like Jesse wasn’t already too much for them.”

“Jesse’s your brother?” His name sounds different coming from her—harsher, more metallic. It’s not mean or ugly, but it’s stronger than I’m used to hearing his name.

“Yes. My oldest brother. He’s already a huge responsibility for my parents, and he needs to be a priority, but instead they’ve got this new baby. Who won’t stop crying. Honestly. He cries all the time.”

“Well—”

“And Jesse. Jesse is allergic to everything. Like, actually everything. And now that there’s breast milk and baby formula and all this other crap he’s allergic to, it’s all over the house, and he can barely breathe. It’s getting really bad. He’s getting really bad.”

“Do you worry about him a lot?”

I look down at my lap and nod, and then I’m crying so quickly and quietly that I didn’t even feel it happen.

She gives me a minute, then passes me the tissue box.

“Want to talk about it?” she says.

I can’t talk. I feel like my brain is squeezing through my sinuses. “I don’t want to be here,” I say.

“I know.”

She looks like she really does know. Like maybe, back before she was a shrink, when she was just a person, maybe her parents or her principal made her come to a counselor, even though she didn’t really need to. Maybe she once knew how it feels to not be messed up when you know you’re supposed to be messed up. Maybe she can still remember it now.

I get a hold of myself. “He almost died twice this week,” I say. “My fault. I just don’t know how to take care of him.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Less than a year and a half younger than me.” I rub my nose. “My parents wanted a new kid right after me because I was crazy-easy. And then we had Jess, and he was all hospitalized and feeding tubed and didn’t sleep through the night until he was five.”

“Jonah?”

“It probably would have been earlier, except I kept waking him to make sure he was okay. I do all these stupid things because I think they’ll help him, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”