Break(51)

“You called Ellie. Ellie called Charlotte. Charlotte called me.”

“Oh.”

“And I found you and Will sleeping in a puddle half a block away from the house. Brought you here—”

“Is Will all right?”

“He’s fine.” Jess laughs. “Better than—hey, you all right?”

The second feeling is pain.

“You okay?” he says.

I bite my lips.

My hand hurts. The IV in my other hand hurts. My head hurts. But it’s all so far away, so I nod. One of my cords beeps and stops beeping every time I make a fist. I do this for a few seconds, watching my fingers clench. I’m alive. Dead people can’t make fists. Dead people have nothing to fight.

I chew the tip of my tongue, feeling my throat choke up.

I still have both my hands. And I’m still alive.

The third feeling is exhilaration.

I’m still alive.

The walls are clean and pale. The television at the foot of my bed shows some idiot getting tattooed. I hear quiet, way-away voices.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Jess says.

“I know.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Okay.”

“Got to stop fighting us now.”

I don’t say anything.

He rubs his jaw. “Look outside.”

I turn my head toward the big window that divides me and the hallway world. And there’s Charlotte.

The holly in her hair presses against the window. Her brown eyes stick to mine. I’m still alive. And even if I wasn’t, her face would be enough.

Jesse and everyone melt away.

The fourth feeling is falling in love.

This can be my fight. I can fight for her.

And through the window there’s Dad, praying by himself, his lips moving to something he trusts. There’s Mom, walking Will up and down the hall while he sleeps on her shoulder, his face pink like a real baby’s. Silent.

And I know, I know everything is far from perfect, but it’s hard to care.

“We’ve got to tell a doctor you’re lucid,” Jesse says.

I swallow back everything. “Where’s Naomi?”

Throat-clearing. I turn my head to the other side and there she is.

She’s back in her grody clothes, baseball cap perched on her head. She’s wearing earrings. I wonder where she got them.

Her eyes flick from Jesse to me. “Hey, partner.”

“Hey.”

“How you feeling?”

I can’t remember, but I say, “Better,” because it sounds like the right answer.

She says, “Not to steal your thunder, but Jess and I decided we’re not gonna let you f*ck us up.”

I close my eyes against a new pain wave. “He’s allergic to latex.”

Jesse smacks me.

“I’m just saying. Before you get your freak on.” Ugh.

Naomi says, “You want to see Charlotte?”

She smiles hopefully through the window.

I want to, but I’m so, so tired. My face falls down with my eyes.

“Let him sleep,” Jess says, “There’ll be time.”

I say, “Tell her—”

“You can tell her later, brother.”

Jess takes Naomi by the hand and pulls her outside. I can’t ask if she washed her hands—I can’t ask it anymore. My mouth is too heavy with too much medication and feelings and shit.

They take their seats on the bench outside and mumble to Charlotte, mumble to Mom and Dad. I keep my eyes open. I will watch them until I fall asleep.

I will watch them because I need to.

“Let him sleep,” Jesse is telling Mom. “He’s going to be fine.”

I’m going to be fine, Jesse says.

He says, “I’ll take Will home, if you want. My car’s here.”

Dad sits down next to him. “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

My brother crosses his arms, his jaw set. “Because I got him here faster.”

Charlotte taps on the glass so I’ll look at her. Her lips move and I’m too blurry, I can’t read the words—but I read every bit of the smile and the eye-sparkle.

We’re going to be fine, Charlotte says.

Dad says, “You did good, Jesse.”

Did he . . . Jesse, shit, did he lift me off the street? Did he put me in his car? Did he rescue Will and me from certain death? After I f*cked up his life?

But Jess smiles and ducks his head, his cheeks glowing like they’ve been pinched. “I did what I had to do.”

Mom says, “You saved his life.”

Mom is so literal.

And Jesse knows it, and he humors her and says, “Yeah.” He bites his lips together and looks in at my room. He says. “Yeah, now we’re even.”

He stands up and takes the baby, bounces him on his hockey-player’s hip.

The fifth feeling is healing.

Or if it’s not, it’s close enough.

No regrets.



About the Author

If all goes well, Hannah Moskowitz will be out of high school by the time you read this. She can’t cook, likes to play dress up, and has never broken a bone. Break is her first novel. Learn more at UntilHannah.com.