by Leah Scheier
“How did I what?”
“How do you know about Liam?”
He grunts and reaches out for his untouched drink. “I can hear Hope’s voice through the walls.”
I drop my head in embarrassment. I don’t mind that he knows about my crush; there’s nothing so terribly private about it. And it’s not like he’s going to tell anyone. But now I can’t remember what else Hope and I had talked about in my room. I’m sure we’ve discussed Ethan dozens of times. What else has he heard?
I stand up abruptly and push away my milkshake. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell him shortly. I need a moment to myself, to think about what to say to him. This afternoon’s conversation is slowly coming back to me. One phrase in particular echoes in my mind: “Ethan will never get close to anyone…”
My guilty conscience follows me into the bathroom and pricks at me as I close the door behind me. How could I have said that about him? I’m supposed to be on Ethan’s side, his only bridge to the outside world. And while we’re together I’ve always done my best; I’m constantly encouraging him to try new things, to interact with people. But behind his back—when it really counts, I have no faith in him, and I’ll blab my doubts to anyone who will listen.
And he heard me. He must have heard me.
I have to think of some way to make it up to him. I bet if you relax you’ll actually enjoy talking to her. God, I’m such a hypocrite. No wonder he’d looked so pained. I’d just told Hope that he would never get close to anyone. And then gave him advice that directly contradicted what I’d just said to her. How could I expect Ethan to process my own contradictory feelings when I couldn’t even make sense of them?
It was all going too fast, I realize. Of course I wanted him to experience new emotions and forge new friendships. But the key to progress is baby steps.
I could start by offering to take him somewhere. A token of my trust in him. A trip to the mall or a movie. We hadn’t been out together in ages. I’d been too worried about Ethan dissolving into a panic attack. But I could try harder. Maybe Hope was right. Maybe he is lonely at home, even though he doesn’t show it.
There’s a muffled swell of voices from outside and a jingling sound of the bell on the ice cream shop door. Did Ethan actually leave without me? He used to have this tendency to wander off, but he hasn’t done that in years. I quickly dry my hands, push open the door, and glance around the shop.
Ethan is still there, sitting in the same place at the counter. But he’s not alone. I feel a queasy knot forming in my stomach. Oh no, I groan to myself. Not again.
A few people from our grade have just come in and are hovering by the counter, laughing and messing around. My brother hasn’t moved from his stool, but he seems to have sunk deeper into his drink, his back hunched over, his shoulder blades jutting out like skinny wings. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, and he appears to be trying desperately to ignore the teeming group around him.
Just leave him alone, I pray silently. For once, just order your stupid ice cream and leave my brother alone.
But even as I start toward them I know it’s too late. Ethan has always been an irresistible target for bullies and bored kids looking for a distraction. And Mike, the leader of this group, is obviously very bored right now.
Mike saunters over to him and throws a friendly arm over my brother’s shoulders. Ethan flinches beneath his touch and shrinks even farther, his chin almost touching his milkshake. “Hey, how’s it going?” Mike bellows inches from Ethan’s ear. I cringe in sympathy and step forward automatically to intervene. But even as I move to help him, I know there’s nothing I can do. This is the worst violation of rule one, the kind of overstimulation that can drive Ethan berserk. And yet—technically, Mike hasn’t done anything wrong, so scolding him for patting Ethan on the back or speaking too loudly feels silly, like telling everyone my brother is a sleeping baby who mustn’t be disturbed. I can’t do that to him, especially after what I’d said to Hope that afternoon. I need to let him deal with this on his own. That’s what I tell myself anyway as I stand by dumbly and watch Ethan’s world crumble into his half-finished strawberry shake. His face is practically in the glass at this point.
“Dude, it’s been forever,” Mike continues, whacking him again across the back and stepping closer. “Where’ve you been?” He’s grinning maliciously, and he winks broadly at Angel who skips over to him and snakes her arm around his waist. Ethan doesn’t answer, but I see his fingers begin to twitch around his glass. Oh no, I tell him silently. Please, Ethan, don’t do that. Not around these people. They’ll just make fun of you more.
I’m suddenly aware of the noise they’re all making around us, a pleasant roar of humor and fun to them—and a deafening screech to my sensitive brother. Jenna’s popping gum, the throbbing beat from Grayson’s iPhone, Nick’s drumming palms smacking against the counter, and Mike and Angel, the smirking twosome, flashing too-wide smiles and reeking of bad cologne and malice.
“Guys, leave him alone,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I have to say something, even if it makes no difference.
And it really doesn’t. Mike barely glances in my direction; he’s staring intently at my brother. Ethan’s hands rise involuntarily from his glass and begin to move, vibrating subtly at first and then in hypnotic rhythm, snapping over and over in front of his face, his eyes focused on his clicking, clicking, clicking fingers as if his life depended on it. Everyone in the room has dropped whatever they were doing and turned to stare at Ethan’s manic hands.
I need to get him out of here. When Ethan becomes anxious he sometimes calms himself by “stimming.” It’s a good coping tool when he’s among people who understand. But right now, I know it will only make everything worse. And I don’t want him to be in the middle of this crowd if he’s heading for a meltdown. I push past Angel and whisper urgently to him, “Let’s get going, okay?”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to be aware of me at all. Behind me there’s a rumble of suppressed laughter, and I turn to see Mike flapping his wrists, his face contorted in a goofy grimace, his tongue hanging out of gaping lips. “Stop it!” I scream at him. There’s no response from any of them, except that the giggling gets a little louder. I stomp my foot and shove Mike away from brother. “He can’t help it, okay? You’re just making him worse! He wants to be left alone!”
Manny has finally emerged from the back room. He hurries over to the counter and leans over to my brother. “You all right, buddy?”
A whining moan escapes from Ethan’s lips, and he slides quickly off his stool, upsetting his glass and spilling strawberry mush all over the table. He shudders when he sees me and closes his eyes. “Rain burrito!” he groans.
Oh, God, I think. Not that. No no no no no…
Behind me there are squeals of laughter and someone shouts out, “Try Taco Bell, freak!”
I can’t listen to them. I have to get him home.
“Rain burrito, Rain burrito, Rain burrito…” Ethan is muttering it over and over again. If anyone missed it the first time, they’ve definitely heard it now. As my brother rocks back and forth and chants the nonsensical phrase, Angel gives Ethan a sympathetic look and steps over to him. “Are you okay, honey?” she murmurs, and puts her hand out to touch his face.
It’s the final straw. He lets out a sound between a yelp and a sob and bolts for the exit.
The bell dings, the door swings open, and then he’s running, racing down the street as if a mob is chasing him down. I shout a vague apology at Manny and then take off, calling Ethan’s name as I sprint after him.
I’ve never seen my brother run this fast. I’ve never seen anyone run this fast. He covers the entire road and half of our street before I finally manage to catch up with him. We’re both panting and gasping as the cold air stings our faces, but Ethan’s voice comes out clear and urgent as we round the corner to our house. “Please, Rain,
please—”
“I know, I know, we’re almost home,” I shout. “We’re almost there, I’ve got you.”
We burst through the front door and clamber for the stairs, tripping and grabbing for the banister as we go. From the corner of my eye I register the surprised faces of my mother and Hope (who’s still at my house for some reason), and then they’re gone as we race past them to my brother’s room.
“Lie on your side and inhale deeply,” I order, but he’s collapsed in a heap already, a long, quivering figure on the threadbare rug. I rush over to the closet and pull out Ethan’s “heavy” blanket, the weighted fifteen-pound comforter he’s used for years, ever since my weight stopped being enough to calm him. I haul it over him and lay it down over his trembling body, spreading it out carefully to cover all of him. “Please, Rain—” he gasps, again, his voice catching on my name. “Please. Rain burrito.”
I nod silently and kneel down by his side, then slowly, gently wrap my arms around the blanket and push my shoulders into his back. “You’re okay, now,” I murmur. “I’ve got you now. You’re okay.”
It’s strange and magical at the same time. Beneath the blanket, my brother’s shaking quiets and then stops, and he exhales weakly into the floor. I can feel the tension and pain seeping out of him. All I have to do is hold him for a little longer. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
“Rain burrito,” he sighs, and buries his face deeper into the rug.
“That’s right. A couple more minutes of Rain burrito and you’ll be as good as new.”
I hear a rustling noise at the door and glance up to find my mother and Hope standing at the entrance. Mom looks tired and washed out; she’s leaning against the doorpost and rubbing her forehead. Hope just looks stunned and helpless. She’s never seen Ethan at his worst.
“What’s a Rain burrito?” she whispers to my mother.
“It’s—it’s one of Ethan’s coping tools,” she explains quietly. “Our therapist recommended a deep pressure hold to calm his panic attacks. I used to wrap him in a bear hug when he was little. But Rain was always better at it—even though she was smaller than him. She’d take a beanbag and put it on top of him and then lie down on it. They called it a Rain burrito, because Ethan was wrapped up snugly like a—well, like a burrito.” She laughs weakly. “He hasn’t needed one in a while. I don’t know what happened.” She can’t keep the disappointment from her voice.
“What do you think?” I growl at them. “People happened.”
My mother nods and turns away. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me, Rain.”
Hope follows her out, and I hear her voice echoing from the first floor. “I don’t get it. What happened?”
“He gets teased when he goes out,” my mother tells her. “Sometimes he can handle it. And sometimes—”
I scramble up from the floor and shut the door to block out their conversation. He doesn’t need to hear them. “Are you okay?” I ask my brother as he shifts uneasily under the blanket. “Do you want me to press on your shoulders again?”
He sits up slowly and pushes the comforter off his back. His face is still flushed and damp with sweat, but his breathing is slow and normal. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He gazes silently at his hands for a moment. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “You don’t need to stay.”
I rise to my feet. “Okay. I’ll go start dinner then?”
“I have to study my Netter’s,” he says, reaching out for his anatomy textbook and flipping it open.
“I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
He nods and seems to focus on his book, but as I push the door open he suddenly looks up at me. “Rain, wait.” His finger is still poised over his book.
“I don’t have time for an anatomy lecture, Efan.”
“It’s not about anatomy. I want to ask you something.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
He hesitates and drops his head, his eyes focusing on the heavy blanket on his knees. His hair falls over to cover his face so I can’t quite read his expression, but his shoulders are slumped forward. “Just now…” he stammers. “When I was on the floor—”
“Yeah?”
“With the blanket.”
I step forward and kneel down in front of him. I still can’t see his face; as I move toward him he ducks his head even lower. “What about the blanket, Efan?”
He lifts tortured eyes to mine. “She saw that, didn’t she?”
I don’t understand what he’s asking for a moment. “Who?”
He brushes the hair back from his forehead. “Hope. She saw that.”
I’m not surprised the last few minutes are a bit blurry for him. Ethan’s meltdowns are like painful sunbursts in his head, obscuring everything.
“I guess she did,” I admit. “I’m not sure why she didn’t go home when we went out for our run but…yeah. I suppose she did see it.”
“Oh.”
He drops his head again, and his shoulders droop even lower.
“Maybe it’s a good thing that she saw—” The words are out before I have a chance to reconsider. I realize even as I say it that I’m making a mistake. I was just trying to comfort him. But you can’t blurt stuff out without explaining your meaning. Not with my brother. Rule number three. Be as honest, direct, and truthful as possible. No hints or subtlety. What was I thinking?
And sure enough, Ethan lifts his head and looks directly at me, his eyes widening with curiosity and hope.
“It is? Why? Why is it a good thing?”
Why did I open my big mouth? What am I supposed to say to him now? There’s no reasonable answer that will make him feel any better.
“I don’t know.” I falter to a stop, confused and embarrassed by the desperate question in his eyes. Damn it, the one time he remembers to make eye contact, he has to burn through me with that intense stare of his. “Well, you said you didn’t like her—”
“So?” He doesn’t break his glare. “How is it good?”
“I—I don’t know.” I hesitate, and glance toward the open door uneasily. I lower my voice a little before continuing. “Maybe now that she’s seen a meltdown she won’t want to hang around here so much and bother you—”
“Oh.” He exhales sharply, as if I’ve smacked him. When I look back at him he pushes the blanket off his knees and scrambles to his feet, turning his back to me as he does so.
“Wait, Efan, hold on. I…I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You should go make dinner. You said you were going to make dinner.”
“But…I thought you wanted Hope to leave you alone—”
“Mom can’t cook. You always make dinner.”
“I was trying to help—”
“Just go away!”
I open my mouth to protest, to apologize, to say something, but I catch a glimpse of his wounded, baffled face and shut my mouth again.
When he doesn’t speak, I leave the room and close the door quietly behind me.
Cooking with Rain
SERENITY THROUGH YOUR GUT
Where I answer all your burning food-related questions!
Dear Rain: I tried your mac ‘n’ cheese recipe. I couldn’t find almond milk (and I was out of normal milk) so I used coffee creamer. No nutmeg so I topped it with Funyuns. It was okay.
—Wacky Mac from Missoula
Dear Wacky: I encourage experimentation; that’s how great recipes are made! But—coffee creamer and Funyuns? Not okay. :-)
ETHAN’S JOURNAL:
Three Most Likely Causes for Manny’s Heavy Wheezing:
1) Severe asthma
2) Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (less likely as he is not a smoker)
3) Heart failure/pulmonary edema
Need further history for a more accurate diagnosis,
but can’t go back to Manny’s Ice Cream Shop anymore.
Chapter 4
No matter what Hope had said about chemistry lab and natural conversation starters, I had no faith I would actually figure out how to speak to Liam when the time came. Definitely not on our first lab date, anyway. Still, if I was going to be struck dumb like the Little Mermaid when I mixed hydrocarbons with Prince Charming, I figured at least looking perfect would be a good start. Then maybe he wouldn’t notice I couldn’t talk to him. After a few more consultations, Hope had decided I should just work the silent, smoldering look until I scraped up enough confidence to speak. She also suggested vanilla shampoo and cinnamon pumpkin lotion, which was my favorite part of the plan. (Hope’s compromise: I could smell like food, but I couldn’t talk about it.)
In addition to smelling like a bakery, I’d also planned my outfit the night before. I sent pictures of half my wardrobe to Hope and got her vote (white top because it brings out my olive skin, skinny jeans, high-heeled ankle boots and black opal earrings to match my eyes). Her makeup tips were to go heavy on the mascara, light on lip gloss. Then hair—straightened and pulled back to bring out my cheekbones and eyebrows. According to her I’m all about the eyebrows—whatever that means.
So when I walk into school the next morning I feel polished and ready—but, just in case, I stop by Hope’s locker to get a final touch up. She’s talking to Kathy and Marcus—or “the octopus” as we call them in private—and they wave me over as I approach. Kathy has her hands in Marcus’s pockets and Marcus’s fingers are lost somewhere in her sweater. Those two are that couple, the one you can’t look at for longer than ten seconds before their PDA hits you in the face. They’ve been together since the fourth grade, first as best friends and then eventually as a couple, inseparable and adorable in a way that’s a little gross. They’ve even begun to look alike—slim and small with large, dark eyes and straight black hair cut in matching styles. Nobody can picture them as anything but the octopus, two heads merged into one and eight limbs wrapped around their common body. Hope thinks that if they ever fought there would be an awful rending sound like a giant piece of Velcro being ripped in half.
