Break(6)

Jesse’s so allergic to milk that Mom can barely touch him now that she’s breastfeeding. She showers before she hugs him. But still, she’ll leave Will’s bottles and baby food lying around, like she forgets she has more than one son.

She sighs. “God, this place is a mess.”

“Yeah, it is. Look, you’ve got to be more careful, Mom.” Jesse starts coughing downstairs and I say, “Listen.”

“I know.”

“It’s awful for him. He was actually pretty healthy before you had Will.” And since then we’ve been in f*cking allergy hell.

“I know, Jonah.”

I take out a sponge and start wiping down the counters. “Can’t you start weaning the baby? Put him on rice milk?”

“Rice milk’s not good for babies.”

“It’ll give him what, a toothache?” I hold up the soaked sponge. “Doesn’t exactly compare to one of Jess’s reactions, does it?”

“I know, I know.” She stands up, Will in the crook of her arm. “I’ll take him upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Once she’s gone, and Will’s screams fade into her bedroom, I take Benadryl and steroids and inhalers and shit out of the cupboard and line them up by Jesse’s placemat. It’s not easy to open the pill bottles with one hand, but I get over it. I take two Cokes from the fridge and tromp down to the basement, palming them both in my one good hand.

Jesse is drenched and glued to the rowing machine. I toss his Coke to him and he catches it in his left hand. Coke’s about the only thing we can share.

“You’re a force, brother,” I say.

“Don’t I know it.” He scratches his neck, but stops before I can yell at him. He says, “You’re, uh, kind of slurring your words, there.”

“I know, I know.”

Jesse follows me upstairs, throws the pills down his throat and chases them with a mouthful of Coke. I pour a glass of orange juice for myself and fill a cup from the tap for Jesse. I really feel like an omelet, but you can’t fry eggs when Jesse is home. Airborne proteins and all that. Crazy stuff.

The whole kitchen smells like his sweat. Sixteen-year-old guys smell like deodorant and fast food. Then you turn seventeen and you get fresh.

“You making oatmeal?” he asks.

“Yep. I’m going to drink it through a straw.”

“Bad. Ass.”

“Don’t I know it, brother.”

I figure if I’ve got to eat stuff Jesse’s allergic to right in front of him—and if I didn’t, I’d never eat—I should make it something gross whenever possible. It’s hard to be jealous of oatmeal.

The water boils and I dump a packet of instant oatmeal in a bowl. Jesse watches me shave bananas and cinnamon while he makes his smoothie. Fake milk. Protein powder. Vitamins he needs to get and can’t otherwise. Applesauce. He blends and the concoction turns brown. Just like every day.

I suck out the thinner bits of the oatmeal through the straw. Jesse drinks and watches me, snickering.

“Shut up.” I wipe my lips. “Do you have practice today?”

He nods. “Hockey’s, like, our whole life right now. We’re totally falling behind in school and shit.”

Jesse always speaks about his teams like they’re standing right next to him.

“Are you working tonight?” he says.

“Mos def.”

“Despite the . . . decrepitude?”

I shove him off. “It’s not like I’m running marathons or anything. Scan, receipt, repeat.”

“I know. I know.”

“Max and Antonia will be impressed with the injuries anyway. It’s so fun to come in after a disaster. You’re the battered war hero. You’re famous.”

“Brother, you think I don’t know?” Jess raises his hands. “I can’t eat. I’m famous already.”

Will shrieks. We exchange looks.

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” Jesse deadpans.

“Exactly. Exactly.”

Self-improvement through adversity . . . it isn’t bullshit. Exhibit A: my little brother. I can see every muscle in his stomach and shoulders.

He checks his watch. “I’m going to shower. Am I driving?”

I hold up my arm. “Well, I can’t exactly, can I?”

Jesse laughs. “At least I get something out of this.”

Jesse. This is not about you.

But I love the damn boy. So I let him go shower, then dump the rest of my oatmeal in the sink.





seven


“JO-NAH,” NAOMI SING-SONGS.

I wave her away, pulling up my feet so I’m cross-legged on the hood of her station wagon. Jess clambers up next to me.

I point to the page in my hand. “Bleachers here?”

“Yeah. But make it cool and architectural.”

I sketch in a bunch of triangles, I. M. Pei style. Good thing I’m left-handed.

Naomi says, “Smile for the camera, Jonah.”

I look up and give her camera my biggest wired-shut smile.

She says, “Jesse.”

He flips her off and she sticks out her tongue.

“Come on, Jess.” She hits her zoom button. “Be cute.”