Will says, “Bababa,” in that teary voice, and Mom and Dad start arguing again.
So I enjoy my smoothie.
four
IT STARTED LAST YEAR WITH THE CAR ACCIDENT.
Mom was driving, I was shotgun, Jesse was in the back. On the way to a doctor’s appointment.
Mom ran a red light—barely—and we slammed into an overanxious cement truck. Mom was six or seven months pregnant at the time.
To this day, the smell of wet pavement makes me sick.
Mom got a nasty burn on her leg from the airbag, but no problems with the baby. Jesse was, for once, basically fine. I was the one who went sideways and broke through the latch on the door of Mom’s shitty van.
Jesse’s lip bled where he bit it through, and he looked like something from a horror movie when he knelt over me. He said, “Don’t move.” He said it over and over and over, like I’d try to sit up the second he was quiet.
Like I could sit up.
I broke 2 femurs + 1 elbow + 1 collarbone.
I don’t know what bones hit against the door, what I smashed falling into the street. I don’t know why it was me and not Mom and Jesse and Will the Fetus. I’d never broken anything before.
But I’d been in a shitload of ambulances before with Jesse, so that, at least, was normal. If not comforting.
All of a sudden my life was emergency room, splints, surgery, physical therapy. It was like a fucking Discovery Health special.
At the hospital, everyone thinks about dying. And I’d never been much for romanticizing death—especially not suicide. I’d always been a fan of staying alive.
After all, you basically do all you can to not die. All the time. The search for immortality isn’t just from story-books. Every day you do it. You buckle your seatbelt, you take vitamin supplements, look both ways before you cross the street. And you really think you’re doing all you can. Bullshit. We can lift weights for fucking hours and we’re still going to die.
And I didn’t truly get that until I was in the middle of a highway with a tailpipe between my legs, slathered in cement.
At the hospital, the answer’s all around you. You have to fight for your life. It’s the only way.
You only get so many chances to be destroyed. Got to make the most of them.
You’ve probably read that broken bones grow back stronger. It’s sort of a natural bionics thing. Break a leg, grow a better leg. Break a body, grow a better body.
The worse you’re hurt, the stronger you get. I see that every day in Jesse Who Will Not Die.
So I was lying in the street, I was broken, and I was fixed.
I was barely through with the mess from the car accident when I crashed my mountain bike during some trick. I’d always been a daredevil. No one was surprised I’d had a spill.
And it was just a spill. Just a mistake.
Of course.
It was a mistake worth 1 foot + 4 fingers + 1 ankle + 2 toes.
Naomi was there for that one. She drove me to the hospital and was catatonic the whole way.
“It was fucking beautiful,” she finally squeaked while the ER people pulled on my limbs. “The way you just flew . . . it was like art. I wish I’d had my damn camera.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe next time.”
So the next time, she helped me set up the skate ramp. And I let her film. And we started trying to fall. And four falls later, we got it—1 kneecap + 1 fibula.
“Holy shit,” Naomi said. “You just broke your leg.”
“Anything for art, babe.”
It’s been about six months since I haven’t had something in a cast. Kids at school laugh and call me a klutz. This girl Charlotte carries my books. My parents are baffled. Will cries. Jesse keeps getting sick.
You’re broken, and you’re fixed.
And you’re better.
five
I’M FILLING OUT THE SPREADSHEET WHEN NAOMI CALLS.
“You know each foot has twenty-six bones,” she says. “So just ‘broken foot’ doesn’t really count.”
“It’s good enough for me.” I type in 1 broken jaw. Total = 18. I’m seriously going to need to practice this one-handed typing. It’s almost as annoying as the whole talking-with-my-mouth-closed thing. “Do you have any idea how many bones there are in your fingers? If I tried for every single tiny bone, I’d be insane.”
“Yeah, then you’d be insane. You know your voice is ridiculous. You sound drunk.”
“Wish I felt drunk.”
“So how’d the parents handle it?”
“Oh, the usual. They hate hospitals, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“They’ve got to realize this isn’t about them. I wish there was some way to keep them out of it entirely. Or to explain it to them without scaring them shitless.”
“You can’t explain this, Jonah.”
“I know I can’t.”
She’s quiet. Naomi walks this fine line between enabling me and cautioning me. Between daring me and mothering me. When she gets too close to either extreme, she’s got to shut up. It’s the only way.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She does this irritating sigh thing. “I didn’t ask. So my video’s fucking awesome.”
“Yeah?” I pull my shirt up and look at the huge piece of elastic around my ribs. It feels like I’m wearing a corset, which isn’t as unpleasant as you might think. I wonder if I have to sleep in this thing. I wonder if it hurts if I poke it.
Yep.
She says, “Yeah. You look like fucking Silly Putty hitting the sidewalk. And you can totally hear your wrist shatter.”
“It’s not shattered. Just fractured. Shatter would mean surgery.” There’s a knock on my door. “Hold on. Jess?”
He pokes his head in and waves. There’s a baby on his shoulder.
“Yeah, it’s just Jess. Come in.”
He sits on my bed and bounces, looking through the books on my nightstand. “More Confucianism?” he says.
I cover the speaker. “It’s interesting. Give him to me.”
Jess shakes his head and gives Will a squeeze. “I think he’s quieting down now.”
“You cannot keep touching him. He is giving you hives. Look at you.”
Jess stretches his arms out and examines his skin. “I’m fine.”
“Hold on a minute, Nom.” I set down the phone and hold my hands out for the baby. Jess relinquishes him. “Go wash your hands,” I order, rocking whiny Will back and forth. “Take more Benadryl.”
He doesn’t stand up, just murmurs to himself as he flips through the pages of my book. “I’m going to turn into Benadryl.”
I return to Naomi. “Sorry.”
“How’s Jesse?”
I say, “Jesse, how are you?”
He shrugs.
“He’s all right.”
“Tell her hi,” he mumbles, turning a page.
Naomi says, “Jesus Christ. Isn’t Will a little old to cry this much?”
“Well. Yeah.”
Jesse shifts awkwardly, showing no signs of leaving.
Naomi’s back to the subject at hand. “You just slam against the pavement. That’s the exciting part. The collision. The whole fall is anticipation, then—wham.”
“Do you have my groan of pain?”
“I have no groan, no. I have you whining like a little girl.”
“Edit that out.” I raise my eyebrows to Jesse and mouth, Need something?
“Uh-uh.” He’s got this little mustache growing in. It looks like he hasn’t washed his face. I mime shaving and he shakes his head vigorously.
“You’re not even listening,” Naomi complains.
“Oh, be quiet.”
She hangs up. I smile and lower the phone into its cradle. “What’s up, kid?”
Jesse stretches out with his feet on my pillow. “Checking up on you. How’s the wrist?”
“Fine.”
“And the ribs?”
“Fine.”
“And the jaw?”
“Well, you know.”
Will slips against my cast. It’s hard to hold a baby with one arm and a chest that feels like it’s collapsing.
Jesse shakes his head. “You’re an idiot. Mom and Dad are freaking out about you.”
“You should be happy they’re not bugging you so much.”
“Yeah, I would be. If my big brother didn’t have to be a broken fucking idiot to make them leave me alone.”
Jesse won’t give up the idea that I’m doing this for him.
I really can be selfish, Jess.
“Just be careful, okay?” he says.
“Okay.”
He leaves, and I set Will on my lap so I can jot down which bones I’m going to break next. + 1 hand + 8 toes + 1 cheekbone. Total = 28.
six
I COULD BREAK MY FUCKING NECK AND MY MORNING routine wouldn’t change. Alarm at 5:57. Lay in bed until six listening to the squeaky-squeak of Jess on the rowing machine and the roar of baby Will that’s kept me awake since two in the morning. Sit up and feel dizzy.
No. Wait. The dizziness is new.
Ugh.
Will’s even louder when my head’s off the pillow.
My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on broken glass. The wrist is fine, but my chest is vibrating, it’s throbbing so hard. God, I need a day off.
But pussying out is so not the point.
I trudge downstairs and start boiling some water. Mom’s at the table, trying to get Will to drink.
“Maybe it’s an ear infection!” I shout over his screams.
She shakes her head. “Doctor said his ears look fine.”
“Did they check his throat? Maybe it’s a cold.”
“No fever.”
What kind of cold lasts eight months, anyway?
I gesture to the milk dribbling down Will’s chin. “You’ve got to clean him up. Jesse will be coming up for breakfast.”
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 fucking 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.”
He laughs, and she says, “There we go.” She switches the camera to me. “What are you doing, Jonah?”
I draw a hard line. “I’m designing an ice rink for Jesse.”
“My little future architect.” She zooms in close to me, and I duck. “When are you gonna be famous, Jonah?”
“When my physics grades come up.”
Jess says, “Add a supply closet there. But don’t make it ugly.”
“I never make anything ugly.”
Naomi jumps out of the way to avoid being hit by an incoming car. It’s heading for the space next to us. I catch sight of the driver and smile.
“I’m jumping,” I say.
Jess says, “Don’t.”
“No, I am. Nom, get this filmed.”
As soon as the car starts to brake, I leap from Naomi’s hood and land squarely on the trunk of the other
car with a huge thump. Charlotte shrieks inside and whips the door open. “What are you doing?”
Jesse is laughing so hard he’s got his arms around his stomach to keep from splitting in half. Naomi giggles, and the camera shakes.
Charlotte runs over and shoves me in the chest. “You could have broken my car, you psychopath!”
I smile and tweak her on the nose. “Frankly, Charlotte, I don’t give a—”
“Ugh, I hate it when you do that.” She waves at the camera. “Hey, Naomi. Jesse.”
His cheeks blush pink. Even my celibate brother isn’t resistant to Charlotte’s charms. Nobody is.
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m late for Bio, and you’re late for Calculus.”
“All the more reason to hang out here with me.”
She squints, examining me. “Naomi was right. You do look pretty awful.”
“Thanks, babe.”
She’s not my girlfriend. I call everyone babe.
Seriously. Charlotte is not my girlfriend.
She touches my face. “You’ve got a black eye.”
Naomi shuts off her camera in disgust. She likes me, and likes Charlotte, but isn’t a fan of the two of us together.
I say, “Yeah, I painted it on this morning. Thought it made me look kind of badass.”
Charlotte says, “Mission accomplished. What’d you use, makeup?”
“Yeah. Jesse’s.”
Jesse squawks, and Charlotte laughs. Naomi pulls her baseball cap down farther and rolls her eyes.
I continue. “He’s a cross-dresser on Saturday nights. You didn’t know? He goes to karaoke bars and struts around to ABBA. He’s like six foot five in high heels.”
Jesse shrugs and pulls his feet up on Naomi’s fender. “It’s true.”
Charlotte lifts her finger toward my cheek. “So I could just rub this off—?”
I jerk away. “It’s actually this kind of makeup that hurts when you touch it.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Jesse’s into the S and M.”
She winks at him. “I knew that kid was twisted.”
“Yep. He’s got a freaky soul under that allergic exterior.”
She turns to him. “You don’t really—”
He shakes his head apologetically.
I say, “Ha-ha, no. Although I should start telling people he does. He’d probably appreciate people recog-nizing him for something other than his immune system.” I hand him what I’ve finished of his ice rink, and he looks it over, his smile widening.
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