by Jenn Bishop
Kennedy pulled some face crayons out of her coat pocket. “Want me to do yours?” she asked me and Becca.
“Sure,” I said right away, pointing to my left cheek. “Can you write number twenty-two here? That’s Austin’s number.” When she finished, Lucy took a picture on her phone so I could see.
“Becca?” Kennedy asked.
Becca shook her head. “No thanks. I have sensitive skin.”
Sensitive skin? Since when? We’d been getting our faces painted since we were little kids. At town festivals, ball games, the zoo. I couldn’t remember a time when Becca had ever said no to face paint. But before I had a chance to ask, the loudspeakers began playing music and we were all on our feet, bouncing in the stands.
Right out of the gate, our high school’s team, the Tigers, scored a touchdown. My arms were doing their confetti rocket thing, but instead of basking in all of the confetti that had miraculously shot out of my arms, Becca was just standing there, clapping politely. Eventually I had to stop doing it. It didn’t work the same without Becca playing along. I just looked like a weirdo.
“What were you doing there?” Lucy asked once the crowds quieted down. “With your arms.”
I gave her some of the backstory. “It doesn’t really work with just one person, I guess.”
“Well, now that we know what’s going on, we can do it. Next time!” She turned to Kennedy and filled her in. Becca had her phone out, taking some pictures of the action down on the field where Austin was.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Let’s go, Tigers! Let’s do this!”
Ten minutes later, when GHS scored their next touchdown, we were on our feet again. I launched my confetti rockets in the direction of Kennedy and Lucy. They basked in the make-believe shower of confetti.
Kennedy took it to the next level, catching imaginary confetti in her mouth like it was snowflakes. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp!
“That was our thing,” Becca said, so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard her right.
“What?” I asked, turning toward her.
“Nothing.” She took her seat.
I wanted to say something else, but there really wasn’t time at a football game to have a whole conversation. Especially at the state finals.
“Let’s go, Tigers, let’s go!” Kennedy shouted.
“Yeah, Tigers!” I strained, trying to find my brother down on the field.
Austin was winding up to throw when a defender from the other team slammed into him from behind. That fast, my brother went down.
Lucy grabbed my shoulder. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, sure. He gets hit all the time.” I glanced over at Becca for confirmation that this was a normal part of a football game, but Becca’s jaw had tightened. Her gaze was fixed on the field. On my brother.
“No, Em. I’m serious,” Lucy said. “He’s not getting up.”
Down below, a ref blew a whistle. One of the trainers rushed onto the field, and another jogged out after him. The whole stadium hushed, everyone frozen in place. Except for the two people who stood up at the same time, pushing their way out of the row and down to field level. My parents.
“I’d better go with them.” I got up, my legs suddenly wobbly. My brother was still down on the ground with trainers hovering over him.
“I’m coming with you,” Becca said.
“Us too,” Lucy added.
I waved them all off, but Becca followed anyway. I scooted down our row, making my way to the aisle, and ran down the steps, nearly tripping on the metal bleachers. My hands balled into fists inside the sleeves of Austin’s old football sweatshirt, the one I wore for all his games. The one I always thought brought good luck.
So much for that.
All I could think about was what Dad said in the car. Three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds of solid muscle, slamming into my brother. Austin was big and strong, but he wasn’t that big, not that strong. I wanted to be on the field, right there next to him, holding his hand. Even if he didn’t want me to.
By the time Becca and I were a few yards away from my parents, down at the sidelines, Austin was finally sitting up, but the trainers were still squatting, huddled around him. Murmurs spread through the crowd. The knot in my stomach loosened the tiniest bit.
“Mom!” I croaked. And then I was right beside her as she hugged me close.
One of the trainers had his hand on Austin’s arm, trying to lift it, but not getting very far before Austin winced. Was something wrong with his shoulder? Was it broken? Can you break a shoulder?
Austin always talked away his aches and pains, said they were no big deal. But he cursed, his face twisting in pain, as one of the trainers popped his shoulder back into place. I couldn’t stop wincing, just watching all of it. Once the shoulder was in, though, his face calmed down, and that helped me calm down too. So did having Becca beside me. She was as quiet as I was, but that was okay. Sometimes there’s no right thing to say. Just being there is enough.
Soon Austin was up, walking off the field, the crowd cheering for him. The second-string quarterback ran out onto the field, a big smile on his face. Of course, this meant something different for him. He was going to get in the game now.
“Em.” When I turned around, they were right there too. Lucy, tugging at the little paws dangling from her fox hat. Kennedy, beside her, biting her lip.
“He’s going to be okay,” I told them, even though I didn’t know for sure.
CHAPTER FIVE
One of the team trainers offered to come with us to the emergency room at Mount Auburn Hospital, but Mom and Dad insisted they could take care of things from here, thank you.
Becca’s Bubbe met us at the hospital to take her home. Becca didn’t want to leave us, but her Bubbe insisted there was nothing she could do to help. They’d offered to let me stay the night at Becca’s, but I wanted to be here with my family.
Austin kept saying he was fine, he just needed a couple of Advil and some ice, that’s all the doctors were going to do anyway, but Mom said no way and Dad agreed.
We’d been sitting for half an hour and still nobody had called Austin’s name. Mom flipped through an old Runner’s World she’d brought in from the car, too fast to be reading any of the articles. Dad was on his phone, researching shoulder dislocations.
Austin’s phone vibrated and dinged as friends sent updates from the game. The score had tightened since we left.
I’d been in an emergency room only once before, two years ago, when Dad was in Florida covering a hurricane. Austin had been helping Mom make dinner when he cut his thumb on one of the sharp knives. He ended up needing only two stitches, but that was hard to tell because Mom had wrapped his hand up real good with a kitchen towel.
It felt scary that time, but I think only because Dad was so far away. Mom had assured me that Austin was going to be fine. These things happen all the time. Just a little accident. Nothing to get too bent out of shape over.
But no one was saying that now, and I couldn’t tell if that was because they didn’t want to make Austin upset, or because there was still a good chance this could end up okay. I’d watched enough sports with Dad to see that sometimes things could look really bad on the field, but then his favorite player would be back the next weekend.
I didn’t know what to think, only that Mom and Dad didn’t want to say anything until Austin had seen a doctor, so I kept my questions to myself. All I knew was, Austin seemed pretty much okay. Okay enough to be on his phone. And he wasn’t bleeding anywhere, so that had to be good, right?
A TV perched in the corner was running an episode of Dateline NBC about some twenty-year-old unsolved murder, but they didn’t put the sound on, so it was impossible to follow. It was more interesting to watch the other people who were waiting. A woman in her twenties who was there by herself, her legs crossed, one foot swinging in the air. A man trying to calm a toddler who kept wailing and wailing.
“Noooo!” Austin shouted out of the blue.
; “What happened?” I asked.
Austin leaned forward, wincing for a moment. “We lost.”
Mom and Dad exchanged a nervous glance.
“I’m so sorry, A,” Dad said. “What was the final score?”
“Twenty-four to twenty-two.”
“So close,” I said.
“God, if I’d still been there, maybe—”
“Austin O’Malley?” A male nurse carrying a clipboard stepped into the waiting room.
Austin slowly stood up. Dad tried to help him, but Austin shooed him off.
“Can I come too?” I asked.
Mom put a hand on my knee as if to hold me in place. “Those ER rooms are tiny, hon. Let’s let Dad and Austin go in.” She added to my dad, “Holler if you need me. And take good notes, please.” They followed the nurse through the closed doors.
When Dateline ended and the local news came on, Austin and Dad still hadn’t come back out. I couldn’t stop yawning. Mom put her arm around me, and I nestled my head onto her shoulder, trying not to look at the strange stains on the carpet and wonder where they’d come from. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, Mom was talking on her phone.
“Oh, Dee. I don’t know. You know kids these days. He’s surely thinking there’s some quick fix, but nothing I’ve read online makes me think…”
It had to be Delia, her best friend from college who lived in Wyoming. Even though they sometimes didn’t see each other in person for a few years, they talked or texted nearly every day.
“I know. You’re right. Let the doctors do their work. No WebMD for me. Thanks, Dee. You’re the best. Ooh—here they are.”
Dad and Austin came out the double doors. Austin’s arm was in a sling.
“What did they say?” I asked.
But Austin only shook his head. His eyes looked pink and watery.
“Dad?”
“We’ll need to see a specialist to figure out the next steps, E.”
I rubbed at my eyes. Next steps? “Is he going to be able to play basketball?”
“Emma!” Mom shot me a look, except I didn’t get it. What was so wrong with my question? Wasn’t that why we were here? To figure this out? To fix Austin?
As we trudged out to the car, a nearly full moon shining down on us, I asked Austin again. “What did the doctor say?” I asked it quietly this time, so Mom and Dad wouldn’t hear.
His nostrils flared. “She said I’m screwed, Emma. Jesus! Read the room.” A choking sob caught in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the car honked twice from Dad unlocking it with his key fob. I wanted to say something more, anything to make him feel better. But I was afraid if I said the wrong thing again, all I’d do was make him even angrier with me.
When we got home, no one said a word. Not Mom, not Dad. Not Austin.
I was still untying my sneakers when Austin stomped up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
I thought maybe Mom or Dad would say something. Tell him to calm down, that everything was going to be okay. But they didn’t go up after him.
“Leave him be,” Dad whispered as I started up the stairs. “We’ve all had a long night.”
There was a small line of light peeking out beneath Austin’s door, but he wasn’t making a sound. I hesitated right outside his room. Downstairs, Mom and Dad were talking. Dad wouldn’t even know if I went in. I wouldn’t ask any dumb questions, not this time. I’d just listen.
I grabbed some scratch paper from my desk and scrawled out a note. If you change your mind and want to talk, I’ll be awake. Just as I was about to cap my pen, I added, Sorry about earlier, and then I rapped lightly on Austin’s door and slid him the message.
I waited outside, listening as the floorboards creaked.
A minute later, the paper poked back out beneath the door. Sorry for blowing up at you, Austin had written. This whole thing sucks but I’ll live. He’d drawn a stick figure with a smiley face and a big Band-Aid over its shoulder. For someone who liked looking at art, Austin had always been pretty awful at making it.
I stuck the drawing in one of the boxes under my bed. Maybe Becca was right that time she said my shadow boxes were a long-con cover-up for my hoarding tendencies. Maybe I was a little bit of a hoarder. But at least my brother wasn’t still mad at me.
* * *
Austin wasn’t able to see a specialist for his shoulder until Thursday. When Becca and I got to my house late that afternoon, Mom’s car was already in the driveway. They were back from the doctor but they hadn’t texted me?
“Do you want to come over?” Becca asked.
“I should probably see how Austin’s doing.”
“Right, right. I’ve been thinking about him all week. Is there anything I can do to help? Anything I can bring over? Bubbe just made some chocolate babka this morning.”
My stomach rumbled at the sound of that, but I shook my head. If things hadn’t gone well today at the doctor’s, I was afraid Austin would be too upset for company. Even Becca. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Okay.” Becca’s voice sounded flat.
I turned to head toward my house.
“Wait—Emma?”
I spun around. Becca had her arms folded across her chest. “Text me when you find out, right?”
“Of course.”
But Becca was still looking at me funny. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was about to start crying.
“Becca, what is it?”
“It’s just… you didn’t want me at the hospital. And you didn’t want to come over to my house. Ever since you started hanging out with them, I just…”
Them? Who did she mean? My family? “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” she said. But obviously it wasn’t nothing because her face was getting red and her voice had gone up an octave.
“Becca, I had to stay with Austin in the hospital. He’s my brother, and he was hurt. You didn’t miss much, promise. Besides, hospitals are gross. I mainly just fell asleep on my mom.” I glanced back toward my house, somehow both eager and nervous to find out what had happened at the doctor’s.
“You should just go. Sorry. I’m—I shouldn’t have even said anything. I always get like this before my—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what word she’d left off.
Except she’d never said anything before. We had promised we’d tell each other when we got our first period. Why hadn’t she told me?
“Never mind, okay?” Becca said. “Just pretend I never said any of this.”
“Okay…,” I said, finally heading up the walkway to my house.
“Austin, calm down,” Mom said. Even from in the entryway, I could hear them like they were right in front of me.
“No!”
I crept into the kitchen, out of sight of the two of them in the living room, and filled up a water glass at the fridge.
Mom was clearly trying her best to be calm, but Austin was testing her. “We have to look at the positives. Remember what the surgeon said? You’ll be back in time for the end of basketball season, A. And you’ll have the full track season to rebuild and strengthen and—”
“I don’t care about track. That’s your thing. Stop pushing it on me, all right?”
“Austin…”
Austin slouched on the sofa, his right arm in a sling. His eyes were puffy from crying, even though Austin never cried. Not even when Grandpa Bill died and he spoke at his funeral.
“When’s the surgery?”
I meant to ask Austin, but it was Mom who answered, “Not until just after Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to me, huh?” Austin sighed.
I stared at my brother, trying to come up with the right thing to say. But there wasn’t anything to say that would make him feel better. It sucked, plain and simple. If someone took art away from me, I’d throw a full-on tantrum too.
“That sucks,” I said.
Mom eyeballed me. “Emma.
Language.”
“Oh, come on. She said ‘sucks,’ all right? It’s not like we never hear you or Dad swear.”
I sat next to him on the sofa. “Will you get to miss school?”
Austin glanced up at Mom.
“The recovery from surgery should allow you to be back in school after New Year’s. But how about this: you can have tomorrow off. Let’s call it a mental health day.”
“Can I have one too?” I asked.
“Do you have a torn labrum?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said meekly.
“As it is, this temporary disability is going to throw a wrench in your studies, A. I know Savannah means well, but I don’t want to take advantage of her. You know, I’ll call the front office tomorrow and see if there’s anyone else who can help.”
“Great. So some rando can shadow me all day and take notes for me?”
“Can I help?” I said. “With homework and stuff?”
“I’ll learn to write with my left hand before I’m letting a sixth grader do my assignments for me. No offense, Em.”
The thought of asking if Becca could help flitted across my mind. Though if Austin didn’t want my help, he probably wouldn’t want Becca’s either.
Mom made sure Austin was okay and told us she needed to run over to the store for a few hours. Once she’d left, Austin turned on the TV, flipping through the channels for a while before settling on a Saturday Night Live rerun.
I should’ve gotten started on my homework, but instead I stayed on the couch with Austin. The episode was a good one, too, with Melissa McCarthy. With each skit, Austin calmed down more. First laughing just a little, then laughing so hard he grimaced because the laughter shook his shoulder.
I was nervous about his surgery—none of us had needed surgery before, not even Mom or Dad—but relieved he didn’t seem annoyed at me anymore.
We watched Austin’s and my favorite skit twice, the one where Melissa dresses up as Barb Kellner and tries to start a business for eating old pizzas. BARB KELLNER, PIZZA EATER, it would say on the side of her van. It reminded me of Kennedy and her obsession with our middle school’s cafeteria rolls, so I searched for it on YouTube and texted it to her.
