by Sara Wolf
“And then Jack—” Mom inhales. “Isis’s friend from school, Jack, came in. I saw him over Leo’s shoulder.”
“Did Jack have a weapon on him that you could see?” the prosecutor asks.
“Objection, Your Honor, visual confirmation of the weapon at the moment isn’t relevant—” the defense starts.
Judge Diego shoots him a sharp look. “Overruled. Continue, Ms. Roth.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Mom’s prosecutor nods. “Mrs. Blake, did he have a weapon you could see?”
“Yes. A baseball bat.”
The prosecutor grills her about what went on—how many times Jack hit Leo and what happened after.
“And then he went downstairs, to where Isis was, and I went with him, and I started crying again when I saw her body so still. I was afraid. Terrified. You don’t know how— Oh God—” Mom cuts off, and the prosecutor looks to Judge Diego.
“That’s all, Your Honor.”
I get up to help Mom to her chair, but Kayla pulls me back down and I watch the guard do it instead. Mom smiles a watery smile at me once she’s seated, and she gives me a thumbs-up. She isn’t okay. But she’s not afraid. I can see that much.
They call Jack to the stand next. The defense attorney is startled at his lack of expression—it unnerves him. I smother a laugh. Welcome to the club, bucko.
“Did you, or did you not, break into the Blakes’ house without permission?” the attorney asks.
“Yes,” Jack says in a monotone. “I broke in. Through the open door your client left.”
A murmur goes around the courtroom.
Kayla pumps her fist and squeals. “Oh, he’s gonna kill this guy so bad.”
I twist my mouth shut. She has no idea.
“And what did you witness when you walked in?”
“I saw Isis Blake collapsed on the floor. There was a bloody smear on the wall and blood on the side of her head.”
“Did you see my client anywhere in the room?”
Jack narrows his eyes. “No. But I could hear him thumping around upstairs.”
“So you did not witness my client ‘assaulting’ Isis Blake?”
“No.”
The attorney smirks and paces. “And did you, or did you not, grab an aluminum baseball bat from your car and head upstairs to confront my client?”
“I did.”
“And was my client armed?”
“No. But that didn’t seem to stop him from trying to rape a terrified woman.”
I flinch. Mom is completely still, focused on Jack. The court rustles again, and the judge bangs her gavel.
“Order! Order in the court.”
When the murmurs die down, the defense attorney straightens.
“How do you know the Blake family, Jack?”
“Isis is an”—there’s the briefest pause as Jack thinks—“acquaintance. From school.”
“I’d like to present exhibit A.” The attorney walks up, holding a tape recorder and placing it on the table. It’s an interview with Principal Evans, who says Jack and I aren’t friendly, that we’re practically mortal enemies at school. The attorney tries to twist it like Jack came to my house that day to do something awful to me, out of anger. But Mom’s prosecutor immediately shuts it down.
Jack looks to me. If I strain hard enough, I can barely discern the tiniest sliver of worry in his eyes. The jury is looking at Jack like they’re suddenly suspicious. He returns to the seat.
“You…you all right?” I say. “I mean, other than the fact that you have a fat, arrogant tumor on your neck you call a head.”
“I’m fine,” he says softly. There’s a beat.
“I didn’t, uh, mean it. The tumor thing. It’s my instinct to be mean to you.”
A wisp of a crooked smile pulls at his mouth. “I know.”
And then they call for Leo. The defense attorney builds up his case—that he fought in Iraq, that he got a head injury there, that the army shrink had diagnosed him with PTSD. And with every little half-baked story, the fury in my guts burns hotter and hotter. It makes my stomach want to evacuate lunch onto his shoes. But I can’t do anything about it.
“Is it correct that you received a call from Mrs. Blake earlier that day, asking you to visit her at her home?” the attorney asks. Leo adjusts his cast and, with a mock-serious face, nods.
“Yes.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” I shout, standing and jabbing my finger at him. “That’s bullshit and you know it!”
“Order!” The judge bangs her gavel. “Miss Blake, be seated!”
“He’s lying, Your Honor! He’s a lying scumbag who ruined Mom’s life—”
“Order!” she shouts. “You either sit down right now, young lady, or I’ll have you escorted out.”
I’m breathing heavily, and my blood sings hot in my veins. I’m ready to punch, to fight, to kick and bite and scream. But I can’t do that here. Mom’s counting on me, on this trial, to give her some peace of mind. I push through the row and storm out the door. The marble halls of the courtroom are too pristine. They mock me, clean and shiny when my insides are dirty and filled with caked hate.
“Hey!”
I ignore the voice and stride down the hall.
“Hey!”
“AGHH!” I kick a bench with the flat of my sole. “Pathetic shithead! Lying monkey-anus-faced bastard—”
“Isis—”
“If I ever get within five feet of him, there will be blood. Of the not-fake kind.”
“Isis, listen—”
“I’m sure they make pitchforks that can fit inside a human mouth. And down the throat.”
“Isis!”
Someone grabs my hand. I whirl around and pull it away. Jack stands there, slightly panting.
“Listen to me: you need to calm down.”
“Calm!” I laugh. “I’m perfectly calm!”
“What are you doing with your hands?”
“Practicing.” I wiggle my fingers.
“For what?”
“For when I get my hands inside his guts.”
“He’s not going to get away with it. Even a moron freshman in law school can see that. So don’t get worked up like this. It’s not helping anyone, and it’s certainly not helping you.”
“Oh, you wanna help me now? That’s weird, because last time we talked, you basically told me you’re going to make my life hell.”
“Do I? Make your life hell?”
His voice pitches down, low and deep and cracked through. The sudden change startles me.
“No.” I inhale. “You just make it a little harder.”
“Your mom needs you,” he presses.
“I can’t—can’t go back in there. Not for a while. If I see that Neanderthal’s face again, I’ll—”
Jack quirks a brow. “A word more than four letters long. I’m impressed.”
“You should be. I spent an entire year of middle school studying them. And their hairy crotches. But mostly them.”
“Would punching me again help ease your fury?”
I scoff. “Maybe. Probably not. It’s him I want to hurt, not you.”
Jack looks outside the courthouse window, to the playground across the street.
“There’re two things I know that calm you down—violence and sugar. Ice cream.” He points to an ice cream cart on the sidewalk. “C’mon. My treat.”
“Ohhh no. I know how this works. First it’s ice cream, then it’s marriage.”
“Marriage, huh? Tell me,” he says coolly as we both walk toward the cart anyway, “who’s the lucky sea slug?”
“Why sea slug? Why not, like, a sea dragon?”
“Because a sea slug doesn’t have eyes. Or a nose. Or any discernible intelligence beyond eating and shitting. You’d make the perfect match.”
I snort. The sun and clear blue sky are a sign February landed on its head when it got out of bed this morning. It’s too cold for ice cream, but we’re eating it anyway in an attempt to escape t
he stuffy courthouse. I pick a strawberry cone and Jack gets mint chocolate chip. There’s a bench, but I sit on the yellowed grass under the tree instead. Jack sits with me.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“It’s comfy here,” he counters.
“Some butts are better off miles apart.”
“No.”
With that clarifying sentence, we enjoy our ice creams in the relative chilly peace shared only between two people who are complete opposites. Jack looks ridiculous in the wintery sunlight. Ridiculous and handsome and puke-worthy.
“Can you go back to Abercrombie?”
“What?” Jack looks at me.
“Just, you know. Crawl back into the magazine you came from. So I can hide it under my bed between two National Geographic issues on recycling elephant waste and never read it again.”
“You’re insane.”
“You know how people talk about being beautiful on the inside and stuff,” I start.
“Yes. And?”
“I just realized people don’t have X-ray vision,” I whisper in awe. “They can’t see your insides.”
He rubs his forehead tiredly.
“My zodiac sign is Cancer,” I insist.
Jack licks his ice cream, impressed.
“One time, when I was seven, I cried so hard I rehydrated a raisin.”
My babbling doesn’t scare him off like the other 99 percent of the population with dangly bits between their legs. He just grunts.
“Do you know the alphabet backward?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Fast?”
“ZYXWVUTSRQPONML—”
“Can you make cinnamon sugar doughnuts?”
“I can make cinnamon rolls.”
“Can you jump rope?”
“Yes.”
“A million times?”
“If you gave me cybernetic knees, there’s a slight possibility.”
I stare into his face. “You don’t have bright green eyes.”
“No.”
“And you’re not left-handed.”
“No.”
“And you probably can’t play an ocarina.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
I lean back and elegantly smash my ice cream into my mouth hole. “Good.”
“Those were awfully specific,” he says.
“Requirements of my dream man. Sea slug. Whatever. Are you even supposed to leave the courtroom if you’re a witness?”
“I already gave my testimony don’t change the subject you have a dream man?” He says it all in one breath and has to gulp air. I laugh.
“Didn’t think ice princes ran out of breath.”
“Your dream man is impossible.”
“Bingo.” I point at him.
He narrows his eyes. “So that’s what you do when you get hurt? You construct a dream man who can’t possibly exist, so no one will ever live up to your standards and you won’t have to look their way twice?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t face the pain? You put up a wall between it and you and pretend it doesn’t exist?”
The sun filters through the leaves. A dull ache forms above my stomach.
“Yeah.”
“You’re torturing yourself.”
I know. “I’m fine, bro.”
He snorts. “You’re the furthest thing from fine, and you choose to keep it that way.”
“What about you?” I snap. “What about Sophia?”
“What about her?”
“She’s dying, jackass. She’s dying and you’re here with me, buying me ice cream and asking me about my dream man! She’s dying and you kissed me—more than once, apparently! How fucking selfish are you? Are you just setting me up so you have someone to pity-fuck you when she dies?”
His eyes flash with an arctic chill. “Shut up.”
“All we do is argue. Sure, respect or whatever, but respect isn’t enough. What’s enough is tenderness, and love, and you have that with Sophia.” I feel something hot prickling in the corners of my eyes. “So fuck you, actually. Fuck you. Don’t try to get close to me. Don’t try to fucking fix me. I’m not the princess, I’m the goddamn dragon, and you can’t seem to see that. So stop! Stop being nice to me! Stop being not-nice to me! Just stay out of my fucking life!”
She comes like a storm, and she leaves like one, heavy steps and hands clenched and hair whipping behind her in the bare winter breeze, amber eyes molten with fire and resentment.
Something in me grows heavy, and then wilts.
I don’t go back into the courtroom. I wait in the park and listen to the chatter from across the street as people leave. Leo gets three years’ jail time for “assault and battery” and “breaking and entering.” Mrs. Blake waves to me. Isis ignores me and walks to her comically misshapen VW Beetle.
She ignores me. Completely. No sneers, no wicked little smiles, no flipping birds. Nothing. Just complete emptiness.
Chapter Eight
3 Years, 26 Weeks, 6 Days
There are three constants in the world: those who like pineapple pizza are criminals, death comes for all of us, and hospital wards never change.
It feels like ages since I stepped through the sliding door, the rush of sanitized air greeting me with a pungent ferocity only achievable by bleach and misery. The hospital looks the same as always—the same night-shift nurses scurrying to and fro, the same tired security guard pouring himself a third cup of lukewarm coffee. The oncology doctor I can never remember the name of walks briskly by, white coat flapping like seagull wings. Everything’s normal, so normal it nearly soothes my writhing angsty-filled teenage soul.
“Isis!” A nurse at the front desk smiles. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hi,” I say. “It’s good to see you again, too. This time without a broken head.”
“The kids have missed you,” she insists. “Do you want me to take you to them?”
“I’m actually going to visit Sophia first, if that’s okay.” I hold up a bag of warm Subway sandwiches. “Delivery for two, her hands only.”
She waves me down the hall. “All right. Just let me know when you’re ready to see the kids.”
I shuffle warily toward Sophia’s room. Hopefully she’s in a good mood. Or a mood for sandwiches. I’d take either.
Thankfully, Naomi is coming out of Sophia’s room. She flashes me a weary smile when she sees me.
“And here I was, thinking our resident troublemaker was gone forever.”
“Nice to see you, too, Naomi.”
She laughs and pulls me into a one-armed hug. When we part, she sniffs the air.
“Is that a meatball sub I smell?”
“Good goddamn, Naomi. Not only are you beautiful and charming, you have a nose like a bloodhound. Your worth on the marriage market is astronomically high, I bet.”
My sass has little effect on her, as per usual. She motions to Sophia’s room.
“She’s just about to go to sleep. It’s been a long day for her.”
“What happened?”
“Just some physical therapy. Her muscles are—” Naomi frowns. “Not in the best condition.”
“Are they getting worse?”
“The tumors press down on a part of her nervous system.” She sighs. “It makes it very painful to move. The longer they stay there, the more damage they do.”
I’m quiet. Naomi puts a hand on my shoulder.
“It’ll be all right. Go in and see her. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Will she?”
“Of course. You’re all she talks about these days. You and Jack, of course. Thank you for texting with her, by the way. It just makes her day to have someone to talk to.”
Sophia and I’ve been texting, it’s true. At first I just sent her cat pictures I found on the internet, like I used to do when I was in the hospital. She’d respond with equally adorable dog pictures, and we’d have a sort of cute-animal war back and forth. But the cat pictures turned to talking ab
out our days. I told her about the trial, and she told me about how much it hurt to just live, to exist, to breathe and wake up every morning. One of us was in more pain than the other. One of us felt guiltier about the pain than the other.
I clutch my guilt sandwiches to my chest and open Sophia’s door. She’s propped up on pillows, an IV of painkillers attached to her wrist. Her hair and skin are the same pale color, practically blending into the white sheets. She scribbles in a black journal, but closes it and tries to hide it when I walk in. She doesn’t smile when she sees me, but I can see her try to look happier. Healthier. Not in pain. It’s a brave, taxing front for an audience of one.
“Hope you like wads of meat on bread.” I hold up the bag. Sophia snickers, the sound so faint and low it’s like a cat’s hiss.
“You’ve found my only weakness.”
She’s weak all over. But I don’t say that. I sit on the chair by her bed and hand her a sandwich. She unwraps it slowly, eyes widening.
“It’s been a while,” she says.
“Since I’ve come to visit you? Yeah, definitely. Sorry about that, school and the trial—”
“I meant it’s been a while since I’ve had Subway.” She takes a delicate nibble of bread. “Not everything is about you.”
Humbled, I take a massive bite of sandwich to stop up my blabbering mouth.
“It feels like everything is about me all the time.” I swallow. “Is that bad?”
“No. It just means you’re alive—you, a single person with a single brain and a single life, with two eyes and one point of view. Everybody thinks they’re the main character of their own story. That’s just what being alive means.”
“When you put it like that, we all sound like assholes.”
“We are,” Sophia insists. “But you happen to be an asshole who brought me food not of the hospital variety, so you get a pass. And I’m the asshole who’s stuck here, who made you come out all this way. So.”
“You can’t be an asshole when you’re sick. Your body is hurting. You’ve got every right to be an asshole,” I say. Sophia gives me a pointed, half-amused, half-irritated look.
