What About Will

by Ellen Hopkins

  stopped, replaced by

  gasps

  moans

  a chorus of nos

  a wail in my ear

  that turned out to be Mom.

  Players froze on the field.

  Coaches and refs ran

  to assess the wreckage.

  At least one somebody

  called 911.

  Mom jumped up, but Dad

  held her back.

  No. Wait. We’d just be

  in the way. He’ll be okay.

  She grabbed my hand,

  kept repeating Dad’s

  words:    He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.

  We believed it because

  in that moment, we had to.

  Sirens.

  Paramedics.

  Gurneys.

  Through it all,

  Will and one defensive

  dude lay very still.

  I watched warm clouds

  of breath hang

  in the cold November air,

  thinking how weird

  it was for a crowd that big

  to be almost silent.

  I Don’t Know

  What happened

  to the other guy,

  but what happened

  to Will turned our lives

  Okay, look.

  I get it that this isn’t all about me.

  I’ve heard that at least

  a thousand times in the seventeen

  months since Will’s “incident.”

  That’s what they call it,

  because it wasn’t exactly

  an accident, even if

  it wasn’t exactly on purpose.

  Will was knocked out,

  and he stayed that way for hours.

  At the hospital, we didn’t hear

  much for a long time

  while the doctors tried

  to figure out what was wrong.

  Mom was a basket case.

  I don’t think she sat once

  the whole time. Mostly

  she wandered the hallways.

  Anytime Dad tried to make

  her chill, she’d shoot an evil glare.

  Even without words,

  her message to Dad was clear:

  This is all your fault.

  That wasn’t fair.

  But when you’re scared,

  blame comes easily.

  We waited. And waited.

  Guess that’s why

  they call them waiting rooms.

  That one was painted pale

  orange, like an unripe peach.

  But it didn’t smell like peaches.

  It smelled like floor cleaner

  mixed with B.O. mixed

  with a faint stink of cigarettes,

  like someone sweated smoke.

  My mouth filled with

  a taste like vinegar.

  It was the flavor of fear.

  The TV droned.

  Dad stared at the screen.

  Don’t think he watched.

  Mom paced the tile.

  I played games on her phone

  until I dozed off.

  Heavy-Duty Whispering

  Woke me up.

  At first, I only caught pieces.

  . . . coma

  . . . swelling

  . . . brain injury

  . . . nerve damage

  . . . paralysis

  Luckily, that last one

  came after the word “no.”

  All those sentence

  fragments added up to this:

  Will wasn’t dead.

  His arms still worked.

  And so did his legs.

  But his brain had volleyed

  between the sides of his skull

  so hard, it was swollen.

  He was in a coma—that means

  knocked out—but on purpose.

  The doctor explained:

  With a brain injury, some regions

  don’t get enough blood flow.

  By keeping him asleep, those

  areas require less blood circulation.

  As the organ heals and the swelling

  goes down, there will be less damage.

  He Gave Will Drugs

  To keep him deep asleep

  for a couple of days.

  Some brain injuries are easy

  to spot. Others, not so much.

  When it was safe for him to wake

  up, we found out about both kinds.

  The first was a thing called

  cranial nerve damage.

  Your cranium is your skull.

  Under it is your brain.

  On the bottom of your brain

  are twelve pairs of nerves.

  Some are connected to organs,

  like your heart and lungs.

  Others send info that helps you see,

  hear, smell, taste, and feel pain.

  Still others control muscles

  that let you stick out your tongue,

  turn your head from side to side,

  and make your face show emotion.

  Imagine

  If you couldn’t

  smilefrown

  pout

  sneer

  lift your eyebrows

  scrunch your nose

  jut your jaw

  Kinda like your face

  was frozen

  except

  for the obvious tic

  that twitched one

  cheek regularly.

  Well, that’s what can

  happen when your

  facial nerve is wrecked.

  I’d say to ask Will,

  but that isn’t a great idea.

  Because the second kind

  of brain injury—the one

  you can’t always see—

  lights his anger on fire.

  I Mean, I Get It

  Will’s afraid to do all the things

  he used to love. No more

  football

  skateboarding

  snowboarding

  mountain biking

  because another blow

  to his head could cause

  worse damage.

  That makes sense.

  But he doesn’t even watch

  sports on TV anymore.

  We used to do that together.

  Mom wasn’t much into

  them, but Dad passed out popcorn

  and soda like we were sitting

  in the stands, watching in real time.

  Baseball.

  Football.

  Basketball.

  Soccer.

  And skiing/boarding, of course.

  The Winter Olympics

  were, like, sacred.

  Even Dad would plop down

  in his chair and cheer.

  TV snow isn’t cold.

  I miss stuff like that so much.

  And other simple things,

  like playing video games

  together. Or board games.

  Or trading comic books.

  Will gave me my first

  Lego Boost robot kit.

  It was the coolest thing

  ever. Not just the kit,

  but how he helped me build it.

  Probably what I miss

  most of all, though,

  is having a big brother

  to talk to. Some things

  you can’t tell just anyone.

  Like how mad you
are

  at your mom for walking

  away when things got hard.

  Like how when she left

  she slit a hole in your heart,

  and it bled a lot of love.

  Like how you spend

  way too much time hoping

  something—anything—will

  bring your mom home.

  Will Would Understand

  If he’d kept that door open,

  but he slammed it shut,

  and it wasn’t the only one.

  In ninth grade, he fell in love

  with this girl named Skye,

  and man, were they close.

  When Will was in the hospital,

  she visited almost every day.

  And when he came home,

  she was there for him.

  Until one day when his depression

  kicked into high gear.

  I was in the kitchen,

  but couldn’t miss hearing.

  Look at me! Will yelled. Look

  at my face! I’m a freak!

  She mumbled something

  in a low, low voice.

  How could you—how could

  anyone—love someone like me?

  No! Go away. Leave me alone.

  Her voice rose then.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  You’re going to get better.

  I want to be here for you.

  Eavesdropping Is Bad

  But I couldn’t help it.

  I sneaked into the hall,

  where I could hear better.

  Skye was crying. I love you,

  Will. What kind of a person

  would I be if I stopped caring

  about you because of this?

  A smart person. Skye.

  You are beautiful. Perfect.

  You deserve better than me.

  She tried to reason with him,

  but he stopped listening.

  Stopped talking.

  Finally, he left her sitting

  on the couch, went into

  his bedroom.

  Closed the door.

  If he noticed me standing

  there, he acted like he didn’t.

  I wasn’t sure how

  to make Skye feel better,

  but thought I should try.

  I liked her a lot.

  Her eyes were dripping

  into the palms of her hands.

  When I reached out and nudged

  her shoulder, she jumped

  hard enough to spill brass-blond

  hair from her loose ponytail.

  Oh. It’s you, she snapped.

  You shouldn’t sneak up on people.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She wilted. It’s okay. I’m fine.

  “I get that you’re upset. But I bet

  he’ll change his mind. Mom

  says he needs time to adjust.”

  Like, how much time?

  It’s been almost two months.

  All I want is to help him.

  “He’s stubborn, you know.

  But he’ll come around.”

  We agreed he probably would,

  and I walked Skye to the door.

  She hasn’t been here

  in the fifteen months since.

  And Will still hasn’t come around.

  I Wish I’d Fixed That

  I tried. I did. But I only

  made everything worse.

  Not just between Skye and Will.

  Between him and me, too.

  A few days after their argument,

  he was sulking around,

  griping about not being able

  to go anywhere. He still

  hadn’t been cleared to drive.

  His doctor was working

  to find the right combo

  of medications to fight

  his depression

  his anxiety

  his pain

  his muscle spasms

  his aggression

  all because of his messed-up

  brain. Regulating it

  wasn’t going to be easy.

  I hated to see him wrestle

  with that, so I said,

  “Maybe you should call Skye.

  She always makes you feel better.”

  His Anti-Aggression Pill Wasn’t Working

  What do you know about Skye

  and me? She and I are none

  of your business, anyway.

  His fingers folded into fists

  and I really thought he might

  come after me.

  “Hey, Will? I’m just trying

  to make you feel happier.

  I don’t know how to—”

  Don’t you get it? You can’t

  make me happy. And neither

  can Skye, or anyone else.

  “Not even if I do your homework?”

  Joking with Will always made

  him smile. Except not anymore.

  You’re just a dumb kid!

  How could you do my homework?

  Dumb. That stung, because

  I always thought my big

  brother respected how hard

  I worked to get straight A’s.

  It was the first time

  I saw he didn’t care.

  I Don’t Joke With Will

  Very much anymore.

  Sometimes a funny slips out.

  Sometimes he even laughs.

  But mostly he acts like I’m invisible.

  Even when we’re together,

  which isn’t so very often.

  He drives me to and from

  school, and sometimes

  to Little League practice.

  But he only goes to games

  once in a while, and when he does

  he pretty much keeps his face

  glued to his phone. He used

  to cheer for me. Of course,

  once upon a time, so did Mom.

  I remember waiting to bat

  and seeing them together

  in the stands. They looked

  so much alike, with sun-

  toasted skin and black hair,

  hers cut almost as short as his.

  And if I got a hit or caught

  a fly ball, they’d jump to their feet

  and yell some combination of:

  Way to go, Trace!

  Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo!

  That’s how to do it!

  But Now Nothing’s the Same

  I keep thinking if I

  stay cool

  wait patiently

  cause no problems

  Will’s brain will

  unscramble itself.

  I keep thinking if I

  take up the slack

  make things easier

  don’t push too hard

  my brother will want

  to hang out with me again.

  I keep thinking if I

  keep his secrets

  don’t tell Dad

  don’t bother Mom

  he’ll trust me enough

  to tell me why he hardly

  ever leaves his room

  when he’s home, and where

  he goes when he ducks

  out the door the minute

  Dad’s back is turned.

  I miss the original Will.

  I bet his old friends miss him, too.

  Will Has New Friends

  I mean, I guess that’s what
/>
  you could say they are.

  Not sure they actually

  enjoy each other’s company.

  Not like the guys Will

  used to hang out with.

  They used to joke and talk

  about girls and watch

  games on TV.

  These dudes look tough.

  Not football kind of tough.

  Rough kind of tough.

  Mom would probably call

  them a bad crowd.

  But Mom’s never around.

  Yeah, she was gone a lot

  before Will’s incident.

  But after, her music gigs

  lasted longer and longer.

  One day she went off with

  her band and never came

  back, at least not to stay.

  I think it’s half because

  she can’t forgive Dad and

  half because she can’t forgive

  herself. She can barely look at Will.

  And Dad? Most of the time

  he’s working, or chilling

  after his casino shifts.

  Usually we see him

  at breakfast. Sometimes

  before we go to bed at night.

  Which mostly leaves Will

  and me on our own.

  Which mostly leaves

  me on my own.

  Not sure where Will goes

  when he leaves with his new

  buddies. I have no clue

  what they might do.

  But I’m almost positive

  they don’t watch sports.

  They might talk about girls,

  but I bet what they say

  isn’t very nice. I just hope

  Will stays out of trouble.

  Seems to me

  he’s looking to find it,

  and there’s plenty around

  on the streets of Las Vegas,

  especially right now.

  It’s Spring Break

  People always come to Vegas

  to party, but April is crazy.

  Not only are people out

  of school, but the weather

  is hot, not blistering.

  I’ve heard about kids

  even younger than Will

  bumming beer and cigarettes

  from tourists. Will’s new crowd

  seems like those kind of people.

  I worry about what he does

  when he’s with them.

  As for me, I’d rather get attention

  by doing regular stuff well,

  like acing report cards and

  building my Little League

  batting average. I’m a pretty

  good hitter, a decent pitcher,