CHAPTER FOUR

I let go of the button, and the chair stops—finally!

But it’s too late. Lexie’s leg is pinned between the electric chair and the hard wooden stairs. Her foot in its black sparkly high-top is wedged between the edge of the stair and the motor of the chair. It is JAMMED IN. I can see it, and it is squished at the ankle between metal and wood. She tries to pull it out, but she can’t.

“OW!” she bellows. “My leg, my leg, my-leg-my-leg!”

I’ve heard that sometimes time stands still, but I didn’t think it was true. Or, I thought, Okay, but not to me.

Only, yes, it’s true, and yes, to me. Lexie’s leg is stuck, and so am I.

Then—pop! Time bubbles through and unfreezes me, and I sprint up the staircase and tug on Lexie’s leg. No good.

Tears stream down her cheeks, and she is scared, I can tell, because her face is red and blotchy and her eyes are trying to jump out of her eyeball sockets.

“Hold on, it’s okay,” I say. I’m scared, too.

She reaches for her button, the on/off button beneath the arm of the chair, and I say, “No!”

She pushes it, and the chair jumps forward another half an inch ON TOP OF HER POOR SQUISHED LEG.

“Owwwww!” she cries.

“Don’t do that!” I say. “You’re just making it stuck-er!”

“Help!” she wails. “It hurts!”

“I know!”

“It really hurts!”

“I know, but—” I close my mouth. But if you make the chair go forward any more, you’ll break it, I was going to say. Meaning, her leg. Snap. But I keep that thought to myself.

“So,” I say. “Um.” My heart bam-bam-bams. I tug again on her leg.

“OW!” she shrieks.

“Sorry!”

I bite my lip and glance at the top of the staircase, wanting my mom and my sisters to come running, but also not wanting them to come running. I don’t want to get in trouble. I do want Lexie to get unstuck.

No one comes running.

“You’re doing a very good job of holding still,” I tell Lexie, because she is, even with all the crying. “You’re being very very brave.”

“It hurts,” she whimpers.

Then! A storm in my brain! A good one! I squat and flip the “change direction” lever on the motor of the chair. Why why why did I forget about the “change direction” lever? I stand back up and reach for the on/off button.

“No!” Lexie cries.

Too late again. I’ve already pressed it. But this time there’s a happy ending, because with a creak and a groan, the chair goes down the staircase. Down the steel railing. Down away from Lexie’s poor squished leg and poor trapped foot.

She’s free! The disaster is over. PHEW.

• • •

It rains that night, and that’s good. It’s a good night for rain, especially since it’s just rain and not thunder and lightning. It’s a good night for hearing drumming sounds on the roof and for being snug inside with all the lights on and Parmesan chicken for dinner. I eat five pieces of French bread with butter, and Mom tells me I’m going to turn into French bread with butter, and what will she do with me then?

“Eat him up—yum!” Sandra says in a witchy voice, and I laugh with everyone else. The laugh that comes out isn’t quite my laugh, but close enough.

Still.

Witches and trapped legs and a stormy night, even without thunder and lightning, make it hard for me to settle down. Lexie didn’t tell on me when her mom came and picked her up, even though it was her fault for getting hurt since she was the one who wanted to play with the chair, but what if she decides to later? And when will Joseph ever come back? He’s doing well. The doctors are always saying he’s doing well. So why can’t he just be well? Joseph never tells on me. He also never gets stuck in the electric chair.

Also, my recitation. I haven’t done any of it. And a pet for Teensy Baby Maggie. I’m her big brother, and I made her a promise, and I need to keep it.

I’m actually ready for bed when Dad comes to tuck me in. Sometimes Dad tucks me in, and sometimes Mom, and there are pluses and minuses to both. But tonight it’s Dad, and he’s surprised to find me already in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin.

“Whoa,” he says, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He lifts the covers. “You’re already pajama-ed up. Good man.”

I shrug.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

I huff at him—though I am not the Big Bad Wolf—and he sniffs my minty breath.

“Impressive,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“So what are we reading, partner? Toy Dance Party or Lunch Lady and the Cyborg Substitute?”

I sigh. Dad is the smartest man in the world, and I like his shirts that are nice and soft, even if the buttons sometimes dig in when he hugs me. He uses deodorant (I will, too, when I’m old), and it’s called Axe. Mom tells him it makes him smell wonderful. I think it makes him smell safe. Maybe “wonderful” and “safe” are the same thing?

“Could we talk instead?” I say.

“Sure. What about?”

I look at him. I want to talk about Lexie. I want to tell him about the terrible thing that happened, but also how I fixed it, and how it ended up not being terrible after all. Just a red mark on Lexie’s leg, and nowhere near as bad as the bruise on her head.

“Ty?” Dad says. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I reach for his hand, and he wraps his fingers around mine. His skin is warm. “I have a friend—well, kind of a friend—and do you know what she told me?”

“What?”

“That she never gets in trouble, and that her parents never yell at her. And her name is Breezie. But I don’t believe her. Do you?”

“That her name’s Breezie, or that she never gets in trouble?”

“Ha-ha. Her name really is Breezie. But every kid gets in trouble sometimes, and every parent yells sometimes. Right?”

“Do I yell?” Dad asks.

“Well . . . no. But you have a stern voice, and you use that when I’m bad.”

“Hold on,” Dad says. “Have I ever told you you’re bad, Ty?”

“Okay, not when I’m bad, but when I make bad decisions.” I frown. “Do you think Breezie has never ever ever gotten in trouble, for real? Do you think her parents have never yelled at her or been stern with her?”

“Hmm. My guess is that every kid gets in trouble at some point, because nobody’s perfect. And if a kid does get in trouble, I’d hope the kid’s parents would make sure there was some kind of consequence. Otherwise, the parents wouldn’t be helping the kid learn about right and wrong.”

“What if the kid already knows right and wrong?”

“Sometimes it’s a lesson that needs to be learned again and again, I’m sorry to say. Even for grown-ups.”

So what happens when grown-ups mess up? I almost ask. Who yells at them, or uses a stern voice, or makes sure they get a consequence?

I decide not to, because out of nowhere an odd thought pops into my brain. Maybe, sometimes, a person can do a bad thing and not have to get in trouble. Maybe the person can learn the right and wrong part all by himself.

I feel lighter, as if an elephant had been sitting on my chest, but decided to get to its feet and lumber off.

“Okay,” I tell Dad.

“Yeah? No more questions?”

“Just one. Can I get a puppy?”

“You cannot.”

“I knew you would say that. How about a hyena?”

“No again.”

“How about a platypus? How about if it’s for Baby Maggie and not me?”

“And that’s strike three. You are officially out.” He flips off my light. “Love you, Ty.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

He leaves, pulling my door halfway shut behind him because that’s the way I like it. His feet go bum bum bum on the stairs. The rain goes drum drum drum on the roof. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling until my eyelids grow so heavy I can no longer keep them open. I drift off thinking a little about Lexie, and her cool high-tops, but also about getting older, and what I might be when I’m a grown-up. How, when I’m a dad, I’ll say yes to getting a dog, but no to getting a hyena.

Probably.