Teeth(34)

But what the f*ck is there to say to him? That I’m mad, but not as mad as I should be? That I don’t really think fish are more valuable than people, but that’s essentially the choice I made? That I made it because I wanted him to like me? Please stop? I thought you needed me?

I am the worst brother in existence, and it’s not even because of the things I do and know are terrible. It’s the stuff I don’t notice, because he isn’t on my mind.

I should never have made a mistake like that.

I don’t know. I can’t think about this anymore.

We watch TV in the evenings now, just to avoid talking to each other. Mom and Dad haven’t fought once since the fish ran out, or if they do, it’s whisper-fights in their room, and they come out looking close to stone. Mom had the breakdown initially, but since then I haven’t seen a feeling from either one of them.

It’s not that I think the emotions aren’t there, I just wish that they’d show them so I could show mine. Because I can’t be the one who’s not strong enough for Dylan right now. I can’t do it. I need to be the strongest one. Because the kid has no idea what’s going on, and every strangled breath he takes is completely terrifying him, and . . . shit.

He trusts us.

We’re all just quiet. It’s like we’re afraid if we talk, we’ll miss someone opening their mouth and coming up with the solution to everything. So we sit and stare and wait for someone else to come up with the answer.

When I go into town, when Mom makes me, it’s more of the same, and the guilt blooms in my stomach. Sam’s wife hasn’t been out of bed in days, and you can see the tumor in Leann’s neck growing back and pressing against her skin. Mrs. Lewis collapsed on the beach a few days ago. Nobody’s died yet, but it’s just a matter of time, and I have to get home. I can’t stand this.

I really didn’t think we were this reliant. I really didn’t.

And they’re grabbing Teeth harder and he’s crying louder every night and I lost my only friend, so in what way wasn’t this a hideous mistake?

I’m a shaky mess all the time.

My parents have no idea this is all my fault, that they should be tying me down and excising me or lancing me like a boil or shooting me full of poison, anything, and then taking my lungs and stuffing them down my brother’s throat and watching him turn pink again.

I have a dream about carving Teeth open and taking his liver and giving it to Dylan, and Dylan keeps asking me what a liver is.

But I can’t even fool myself into thinking my parents would want me dead, because I see how badly they need me right now, how they need me to be the one who leaves the house for milk and no fish, because they couldn’t stand it right now. They need me because I’m the only one who can leave Dylan, even for a second.

“It’s not going to happen,” I growl at him when he’s asleep. “So stop even thinking about it.”

Mom holds him and strokes his hair and he asks—sometimes with words, when he can, sometimes just with his eyes—what the hell is going on, why the f*ck he feels so sick. “Only a bump in the road,” she says to him.

I wonder what the f*ck road she thinks we’re on. There aren’t even any cars on this island.

I trap Dylan on my lap with my arms and listen to him wheeze. We put together puzzles. When he’s falling back asleep, I whisper, “Breathe breathe breathe breathe,” over and over again, my forehead up against his.

I don’t care how much time he has left; he needs to be spending every second of it listening to every single thing I’m telling him right now. Because I am telling him some important shit.

“Don’t you f*cking dare,” I whisper.



On our doorstep there is half a fish, the head and half a body. It’s wrapped in wax paper. It’s cool enough out here that it’s like it’s been refrigerated, but really it doesn’t matter how long it’s been waiting for us. Magic fish don’t spoil.

The footprints in the sand are small, and the note says:

Mom’s sick, could spare this, hope it helps. –D.

My parents act all grateful, like they don’t know that half a fish isn’t going to do shit.



Dylan is worse today, but something inside me has let go a little, and when Mom tells me to go down to the marina again to check for more fish, I go. I’ve gone a few times most days, just to beg for something. But they’ve been holding on to what they’ve caught this week very tightly, selling it to the rich old women on the island whose hearts haven’t been beating right since the shortage at the market. Even though Dad tells me to spend whatever I have to get my hands on a fish, one single f*cking fish, they’re always already reserved for someone else who’s paid even more. I can’t believe this. It’s like nobody in the world cares about a dying kid anymore. Except Diana, and even she didn’t care enough to matter.

If I steal one, they’ll never give my family another fish again, but I don’t know how long that will be a problem for us.

“Rudy.”

I look over and there he is, bobbing in the water. He looks worse than I’ve ever seen him. He has bruises and scabs all across one cheek. I knew by the screams that the fishermen were really punishing him, but I didn’t know he’d look this bad. It’s more bruising than I’ve ever seen, and he’s wearing this expression like he doesn’t even notice. And it makes it very hard for me to be as mad at him as I want to be. My anger’s more a thought than a feeling. Maybe I don’t have room for any more feelings right now.