Ryan’s screams kill my good mood as soon as I enter the house. Before I can wonder if this is another before-bed tantrum, I catch another sound—a softer one. Tearful hiccups that are swallowed almost as soon as they are shed. Livy.
An alarm sounds inside me. I drop my bags to the ground. Livy’s in the kitchen, and Rosie is with her, putting ice on her lip, which is bleeding.
“What’s going on?”
They turn in my direction, fear on both of their faces.
I take the ice out of Rosie’s hand and look at the damage. “Liv…”
Tears spill down her cheeks, which are red from crying. “He didn’t mean it…”
I give Rosie the ice. “I’ll be right back.”
“Please, John, please, don’t!”
The dragon has taken over. My legs push me up the steps. I fling open the door. Ryan is in his bed, thrashing around, screaming. Mom’s standing over him, her hands out to try to calm him. “Sh, darling. Sh.”
“Stop it!”
Mom whirls to face me. “Not now, John.”
I push by her. “Stop it!” I make the sign language sign for stop that we learned years ago from a therapist who was teaching Ryan to speak again. And I’m glad for that, because it keeps my hands from smacking him or strangling him or knocking him the hell out.
“Nononononono!” Ryan screams.
I get in front of him. Right in front. My hands go on his shoulders, and I hold him tight so he has to look at me. “Stop it. Stop. You can’t hit Livy. You can’t hit my sister. Or my mother. You can’t.” I shake him once, hard.
Ryan’s eyes go wide.
I let go of his shoulders. Back away. I’m shaking. My mind is screaming at me to get out of there. To run.
Ryan starts to cry—real tears, not fake tantrum ones. The sound is awful, and I know with those tears comes Mom’s anger. Both are building. Both are because of me.
The dragon slinks away. I should leave the room, but for some reason, I’m stuck in place. I am frozen here. “You can’t hit people. You can’t just do whatever you want. You have to stop.”
It’s stupid to try to make my case. “Out.” Mom points to the door. She’s not screaming, but she doesn’t have to—the word comes out in a snarl. Ryan hits her, hits Livy, and I am the animal in her eyes. I’m the one who always fucks up. I’m the one who never gets it right. “Get out!”
I know she means Ryan’s room, but it reminds me of when I got kicked out that last time. Her face is exactly the same. Her eyes are staring at me like I’m a monster. Like I don’t belong here.
I back away. She’s so busy comforting him, she has no room for my misery.
I crash into my door, slam into the wall. My hands close around the bag of weed I stashed under my desk. Miss Quinlan’s warning me about my probation officer and the drug tests are pushed out of my head with just these words: fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Need. My hands claw at my backpack, unzip the front compartment, and grab my lighter, then I’m down the stairs, out the door, into the street.
“John!” Rosie calls after me.
“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!” I hear Livy too, but I can’t help her. I’m not here anymore. I don’t even exist. I am gone in a puff of smoke.
My legs propel me forward. I’m not even sure where I’m going until I stop at that tree in the park, the one where I sat with Emily the other day, watching Ryan and Livy. When things were fine. When I had Jack in my system and all was cool.
I slide down the tree, and the bark tries to dig through my sweatshirt, tries to claw its way into my skin, but I don’t care. I light a joint and let the smoke seep into my lungs. I hold it inside me like the scream I should have held.
A sound comes back to me. Crash. The sound of me throwing the china cabinet over. Smash. The crystal on the floor. Mom’s face that day seven years ago. I put my face in my hands. I don’t want to remember. When my breath comes out, ragged and worn, I let the tears come, since no one’s around. I rock on my heels and bring the joint back to my lips. Take another hit. Another hit. Another one. Finally, the pot settles me. My hands stop shaking. I sit on the dirt, my legs out in front of me.
A flashlight spears the night.
“John?” Emily’s voice. Livy must have called her.
“Hey.” I throw my hands in the air. “I give up.”
The flashlight beam falls to the ground, but it’s enough along with the nearby streetlights and the full moon and clear star-filled sky so I can see her face. And her face is not happy to see me. It’s worried and relieved and maybe a little annoyed too. I’m pretty expert at reading women’s moods.
“You OK?” She sits on the ground across from me.
I put my face in my hand. “Better now that you’re here.”
She shakes her head and takes out her cell. She types. All her movements are in fits and starts. “Livy was really worried.”
That takes the buzz right out of me. “I know. I know. I just…”
“She told me what happened.” Emily goes back to being concerned. “The part I heard sounded awful.”
“You could hear it?” Perspiration beads on the back of my neck, and then I get a chill.
She puts her hand on my arms. “You’re cold.”
I give her my best pirate smile. “You could warm me up?”
“Nice try, Romeo. But if we are going to…do anything, I’d like it to be when you are sober enough to remember it.”
“So you’ve never gotten high?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s not like being drunk. It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
My hands frame her face. She doesn’t pull away, but she stiffens. Her eyes look into mine, deep, like she wants to find some meaning there. I would tell her not to bother, but that’s not going to help my game.
“This isn’t helping anything. You know that, right?”
I stay quiet.
“You’re angry all the time. I understand it. But…I just can’t…”
“I’m not asking you to do anything.”
“You scare me.”
I stand up. Fine. I scare her.
“And it’s not like you’re sober either. Is it?”
“I guess not.” I admit.
“I’ll wait.”
“So you do want to kiss me. I knew it!”
“Let’s get you home.”
I lean against Emily, milking this being high thing long enough to let her take some of the weight off.
• • •
The alarm is like a saw going through my head. I reach for my phone and knock a glass of water off the night table. Pain stabs my head from all sides as I pick up the glass and pull my T-shirt over my head to mop up the mess.
“That you, John?” Mom’s voice is icy. “You need to get up and get ready. I’m not driving you.”
“I’m going,” I call back, not wanting to be a smart-ass but wanting her to know that she doesn’t have to worry about me.
It’s not until I pass Livy’s room that the full weight of regret crushes me. Her door opens a crack. I turn to face her, crouch low, peer inside. “Hey, Livy, you wanna talk?”
She opens the door the tiniest bit more, her eyes so sad, I can’t stand it. “I don’t know.”
“OK. I understand. I just want to say I’m really sorry about last night. I lost my cool, and I’m never going to do that again.”
Her door opens more, but her little foot stops it or me from opening it any farther. “How do I know you mean it?”
My heart cramps. “I don’t know. You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.” Her face gets all scrunched, and I know she’s used to people saying one thing and doing something else. Which I never used to do. “I know it is going to be hard.”
She closes the door almost all the way. I’m losing this battle. “You didn’t even come talk to me last night. I kept waiting for you.”
I sit in the hallway with my back against the wall. “It was late. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” She sniffs.
“You’re right. I should have come to see you.”
“You didn’t want me to know you were stoned.”
It feels like she’s shot me with a cannon. “How…”
“I could smell it. I’m ten, not stupid.”
“You shouldn’t know anything about…”
“You can’t keep me from knowing things my whole life.”
“I can’t help wanting to.”
The door opens, and I turn to face my little sister, trying hard not to look at the cut above her lip or the red eyes I know I’ve made worse. “He doesn’t know any better.”
“He should. Someone should teach him.”
“Not that way.”
I swallow hard, look her straight in the eye so she’ll know I mean it. “I won’t. I promise.”
“OK.”
“Hug it out?”
She throws her little body against mine, and I try to choke back the tears. I never want to hurt this little girl again. “I’m sorry, Liv. I’ll be better.”
“Seven minutes, John,” Mom bellows up the stairs.
“I gotta go fix things with Mom. You should get ready for school.”
“Not going. Mom said I could stay home since it’s Friday.”
Rage fills me, but I damp it down. No way Mom lets her stay home for her sake. Everything is to protect him, my dragon tells me as if I couldn’t figure it out myself. “You don’t care about missing?”
“Nah. We’re just having a Reading Counts party anyway.”
I kiss the top of her head. “OK, I’ve gotta go.” I make it almost all the way to the stairs when she calls me.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
She points to her room. “I remember when you went away last time.”
My heart falls into my stomach. She was only three, and there’s no way I can explain how I was trying to protect her then too.
“You won’t leave like that again, right?”
“No. I won’t leave like that again.”
“You’ll always tell me before you go?”
“Always.”
“OK.” I can’t help but notice how saggy her shoulders are. “I’m going to binge-watch Switched at Birth.”
“Good plan.”
I go down the stairs, not wanting to face this next part. Mom’s not on her stool. She’s at the sink. She points to the coffeemaker. My to-go cup waiting. I pour the coffee and put the top on.
“Lunch is in the fridge.”
“OK. Thanks.”
I open the fridge, thinking she means I need to pack something for myself but am shocked to find that she’s packed for me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying like a baby. I turn to face her. “I’m really sorry about last night, Mom.”
She doesn’t face me. “I know, but he doesn’t understand how strong he is. He doesn’t mean…”
“He can’t keep hitting people.”
She turns holding a protein shake, maybe deciding if I deserve it. This milk shake is more than an olive branch she’s extending. It’s the core of how she loves. And her willingness to withhold it pisses me off more than anything in this wide world.
“I know he can’t, John. But you can’t…”
I don’t even listen. I summon sounds of waves crashing inside my head. If I heard what she is saying, really heard, I’d go completely mental. I’d be ten-year-old me and smash every single thing in this house and leave for good this time. But that’s not going to help Livy. Then she says something that snaps me out of my fade-out.
“He’s not going to be here forever, you know that?” Her eyes fill, and tears run down her face. She swats at them, but my heart is all jacked up.
“What do you mean?”
She shakes her head. Wipes her face. “You remember what the doctors said.”
More like I couldn’t forget what one insurance adjuster actually had the balls to say in front of my parents right after Ryan’s accident, before they settled the claim. All of a sudden, I feel like the worst person in the world.
“It’s OK, Mom. He’s going to outlive all of us.” That’s what my dad used to say to her when she got like this.
She nods. “I know. I just…I worry about you kids.”
“I’m sorry about last night, but we have to help him learn boundaries.”
“You’re right. I’m bringing in a behavioral therapist. I’ve already called one.” Mom moves closer to me now so I can see how bloodshot her eyes are. I try not to give her attitude, because bringing in a therapist is shit. Ryan needs discipline and drugs. Ha! My prescription for everything, I guess. But the memory of that man, the one who said Ryan would die sooner than most people, is too fresh to reason with her now.
“Good.”
Beep. Emily’s here. Mom and I stare at each other for a second, and then she hands me the shake. “Good luck with your new classes.”
“What?”
“Your guidance counselor called. You’re so smart, John. I want you to start acting that way.”
I glom down the shake, leave the cup on the counter.
“I’m getting you a computer with that program you need for your drafting class. It’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”
I’m so completely floored by her comment that I almost run into the wall on my way out. “Thanks,” I call back, and I don’t even care that she’s trying to buy my love with her expensive presents, because this one is about me doing something important and that I like. This one is because she noticed.
• • •
Emily smiles at me when I get in the car. “Hey,” she says.
I’m so grateful she’s not shaming me or taking the temperature of the stupid mistake I made last night. “Hey,” I say back.
“How’d it go?” She motions with her head toward my house before looking in her rearview and backing out of the driveway.
“Livy’s mad, but we made up. Mom’s OK surprisingly.”
Emily laughs. “Never can predict the parents, can you?”
“No. What about you? I’m sorry you had to come get me last night.”
“I should actually thank you. Got me out of the house at a very opportune time. You saved me from getting into it with my mom.”
“Happy to be of service. What could your mom take issue with you over? I mean, aren’t you the quintessential good girl?”
Emily’s face scrunches up. “They definitely don’t see me that way.”
“Well, if you can’t convince your parents, there’s no hope for me.”
“Let’s just say that you are not the only one planning for next year, when we can get away from all this crap.”
It makes me feel sad that someone as great as Emily feels like she has to escape.
“College is going to be the best,” she says, almost as if she’s talking herself into it.
“That’s what they say.”
She arches an eyebrow. “But until then, we can just have some fun.” Her voice sounds confident, but it hitches a little.
“Fun?”
She giggles a little too forcibly. Recovers. “Fun. You ever heard of it?”
“I think you know I know what fun is…” For a moment, I’m reminded of Leah, how she never wanted people to know about us. How I was her secret go-to guy. I don’t want to be that person again, not for anyone. And I’m not even sure I know how to have fun anymore. But it’s not like I’m going to admit that.
Emily plays with the dial on the radio. Switches off the idiots and onto a rock station I like. “You know what’s going to be fun? Watching you play today. You ready for your big scrimmage?”
“Not even close.”
“I’ll be watching. No pressure.” Then she punches me in the arm and laughs.
And I laugh too. “Thanks for the support.”
“Radar Love” comes on the radio, and she turns it up and belts it out while I kill it on the imaginary drums. She bounces her head as she sings. And all I can think is this girl could be dangerous for me if I let her. Which I won’t.
• • •
The fog I feel in my head travels to my body, and I make stupid mistakes the entire day. Seventh period finally comes, and I’m in my favorite class with Mr. Bonham.
“You had a conversation with my mother?” I ask as I sit at the computer and pull up a project I was working on. It’s a photograph of a bunch of different arches.
He shrugs. “She called and asked what she could do to support you in this class.”
“So you told her to buy me a laptop and a CAD program?”
He laughs. “Hardly. I just told her what we used in class. The rest was her idea. That program’s not cheap. I told her to wait to see what you did with it, if you were even still interested by the end of the term.”
I can just imagine that conversation. “Turns out she went completely the other way.”
He chuckles. “Moms. What are you gonna do? Anyway, she said you were a child prodigy. Always building amazing structures with LEGOs or blocks or sticks and rocks in the backyard. She even mentioned a particular Cheerio creation.”
I hold up my hand. “I get the picture. Wow.”
He puts his hands in his pockets, then puts up a finger like he just remembered the secret to the universe or some shit. “Wait.” That finger points emphatically. “She actually sent me pictures of some of them.”
Heat fills me—and not my dragon’s heat.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nice. Plus, she’s right. You had an eye for design even back then. I have no idea what kept you away from architecture, but I’m glad you’re back.” He hands me printed copies of the pictures Mom emailed to him.
Looking at the photos, I see six-year-old me next to the structures I’d built. Stupid fucking smile on my face. But there they were. My bridges. Tunnels. Buildings. All made from whatever I had around me. I haven’t thought about any of these pictures in the longest time. I flip to the last one. It’s the igloo Ryan and I made, and a sickening feeling spreads through me. I screwed that up too.
If I close my eyes, I can hear Mom laughing. “My little architects.”
Other kids start filing into the room. I don’t listen to them talking to each other or the chairs squeaking as they are dragged across the room. I’m focused on the pictures Mom sent to Mr. Bonham. I can hardly believe that part of me ever lived. I file the pictures into my backpack and stare at my computer.
Mr. Bonham addresses the class. “Today, you are going to analyze the arches in the picture and then recreate them on the next page. Once you’ve done that, I’ll come around and check your work for you.”
I stare at the photograph I’ve chosen to work from, its beautiful form. I start to think about the numbers that make each one up. My clumsy fingers and foggy head make a mess of my drawing.
“Some of the data points are incorrect,” Mr. Bonham says as he points to my screen. “Check them again.”
I stare at my mistakes and think about corrupt data in my drawing and myself. I page back to the original drawing, allow myself a moment to enjoy the correct angles. I page back. Page forward. Page back. The wrong plot points don’t show themselves to me, and I feel completely stupid. This class was a horrible idea.
Mr. Bonham’s shadow falls on me. “This is motor memory for you. You were used to building with your hands. Not with a computer. Maybe you should go back to doing 3-D until you figure it out.”
My thoughts slip. I’m not sure if it’s the weed hangover making me dumb or the memories that are clawing their way into my mind.
I clench my teeth. The pictures Mom sent are just an embarrassing stunt and nothing more. But that igloo started everything, the destruction snowballing into our family’s personal avalanche.
I force my attention back to the CAD screen. Try to see what’s wrong, but I don’t. And now I can’t remember any of the commands that make the computer draw what I want to see. I can hardly remember how to do any of this. With or without a computer. I am still the stupid little kid who can’t do anything right. Everything’s a mess. And this is exactly what comes from trying to challenge myself. Better to stick to my plan. Don’t get close to anyone. Finish my high school sentence and then go to California, where my skill for rolling a righteous blunt will be appreciated for what it is: my only talent.
Just then, my phone gets a text. I pull it out, hoping against all hope that Pete’s dealer is finally going to do business with me. At first, I don’t recognize the number, but I definitely know the name. It’s Allie. Leah’s little sister.
Hey. Hope it’s OK I texted you. Just wanted to check in with you.
I text back. It’s fine. I’m here if you need me. Always.
I know you are. It’s just hard starting senior year without her, you know?
Yes it is.
I want to be happy about painting and applying to college but it feels wrong too.
You have to.
I guess.
You do. She’d want you to. Besides, you are supposed to make art.
OK. I will if you do too.
If I do what?
Make whatever art you are supposed to. Weld. Build things.
My body flushes. How could she know I’m looking into that now?
Or whatever makes your heart pump faster.
OK. Build was a placeholder for whatever she thinks I want to do. Something about being almost found out for wanting to be good at architecture shakes me to the core.
So will you?
Will I what?
Will you keep going? So I can too?
Yes.
Promise?
I said yes.
OK. So I promise too. And that means dating for you. I mean that.
OK. But even as I text that, I know I don’t really mean it. Emily may be cute, but it’s not like it was with Leah. It can’t be. You can only be that stupid once in your life. Allie needs to go on. Leah would want that. Even though moving on without Leah is hard for both of us.
• • •
I’m grabbing a drink from the water fountain, coasting through the end of seventh period, trying to damp down the feelings that Allie’s texts have lit inside of me, when a guy in a suit pushes past me into student services. Something about his crew cut and straight-backed walk makes me nervous.
Miss Quinlan exits the office, Mr. Perfect in tow, when she notices me dawdling. I figure she’s going to lecture me about not being in class, but instead, she beckons to me. “John, just the person we were looking for. Do you have a sec?”
I want to answer her all smart-ass, but the feeling of cement filling my stomach stops me. This must be my probation officer, and I smoked weed, like, last night. Not only not smart, I may be in for it this time. I frantically try to think of the length of time people get in prison for a probation violation in Connecticut. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. The judge told me I could choose to live clean with my mother or go to juvie. All of a sudden, that feels very real.
“I’m Mr. Wexler.” His hand shoots out, straight and firm.
I shake his hand, meet his eyes, hoping like mad I’m passing all the obligatory tests. He doesn’t have a briefcase or any kind of bag with him, so unless that suit is less tailored than it looks and he’s got a pee cup in his pocket, I might be OK.
Miss Quinlan’s hand to my arm. “Let’s talk in the conference room.”
The twenty steps it takes for us to land in this room, the one with the big fancy table and windows and plants and pictures, gives me enough time to hate myself completely. Why can’t I ever do the right thing? Why do I always fuck up? Why can’t I follow the rules? Simple fucking rules.
Mr. Wexler reaches into his jacket’s inside pocket. I almost can’t stand to look, but when he pulls out papers instead of a specimen cup, my heart stops racing and slows to a slightly elevated drumming. He slides the papers in front of me.
“We are supposed to meet once a week. Give or take. Some of the meetings, Miss Quinlan and I can do over the phone as long as everything continues to go well for you.”
I nod. Try not to lick my lips.
“We do need to figure out when you’ll come in for your first drug test.” He flips through the papers again. “We are required to do nine of those, roughly once a month.” He looks up at me. “They are pretty serious. Most of them will be random, but let’s plan on doing our first one three weeks from Friday. Cool?”
“Extremely.”
Mr. Wexler smiles at me, a thin smile. He’s not Steve. And he’s not Miss Quinlan. He knows he’s just given me a break. It’s up to me not to fuck with that. The question remains, can I follow these rules?
“All right then. I hear you play lacrosse?”
“Sort of.”
He claps me on the arm. “I played myself. Starting goalie for Townsend four straight years.”
He’s letting me know about him. Telling me I can’t put anything past him. Gotcha.
“Cool.”
Mr. Wexler stands, removes his wallet, extracts a business card, and holds it out to me as he says, “I’ll stop by to see about you next week. Keep straight, and this will all be painless.”
“Count on it.”
He smiles and lets go of the card, releasing it and me with one fell swoop.