I’m staring out Sam’s passenger-side window at the cotton candy skies, waiting for Caroline’s responses to my ecstatic texts about the successful first move with Nico.
That’s when I see him.
“Oh, no.”
“Hey, isn’t that your brother?”
I want to tell him no. I want to tell him to keep driving, to take us away from this street, somewhere else. Anywhere Miles isn’t sitting on the corner, screaming at passing cars, and crying so hard snot drips down his face.
I close my eyes, my chest getting tight as the panic sets in. “Yes.”
Miles’s scream is unique to Miles, just like his laugh. It shakes my bones. And it’s so loud now that we can hear it through the car doors, over the music.
How is this happening? Where is Mom? Did I forget I was supposed to watch Miles?
I notice Mom’s car in the driveway, though, and then our front door hanging wide open. Did something happen to Mom? Is she hurt? All the worst-case scenarios play like a horror movie in my head.
But then I see her, standing on Mrs. Hutchinson’s front steps, face frozen in disbelief. And then, like a switch flips, she jumps into action, sprinting over to Miles.
We pull into Sam’s driveway, and I start gathering my stuff, frantic.
“I—I’m so sorry. This is so—”
“Don’t be sorry.” He cuts me off, putting his hand on my arm and giving it a light squeeze. His green eyes are soft. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Your brother has nothing to be sorry for.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I . . . I don’t know, help in any way?” he asks.
I’m getting out of the car now, my heart beating fast. Mom’s already made it to him, and I can see her talking in his ear, rubbing his back. But his shrieks still echo across the street.
“No, we’ve got it. But thank you.”
This happened all the time at our old house. Miles always runs when he’s most upset, like he can escape whatever is causing him trouble. Usually it wasn’t a problem. The neighbors knew him, and they’d just let us handle our family business. They wouldn’t even come outside unless we asked for their help.
But one time, the Wachowskis’ cousin was house-sitting for them, and I guess it scared her, Miles out there screaming and crying. I was supposed to be watching him, but I went to Caroline’s house down the street real quick to grab a book she was letting me borrow. Miles didn’t want to come. Dream Zone was doing, like, a Where Are They Now? special on some cable channel, and I knew I would be gone for just a second.
Then the stupid cousin called the cops. And there’s no tragic ending here. I want to make that clear, because that’s where my mind goes first too. But the officers didn’t lay a finger on Miles. They were nice and patient with him, even. I mean, we lived in a pretty tight-knit neighborhood and all of the neighbors came out to vouch for our family (except for the stupid cousin). Though I know even that doesn’t make a difference most of the time.
But none of our new neighbors in Long Beach really know us yet, except for Mrs. Hutchison, who’s standing on her porch looking irritated. And Sam—he’s at least going inside. The Hwangs, the old couple that lives next to him, though, are standing at their door now, staring at Miles. And I can see the curtains moving on the Agrawals’ window too. They may be hesitant to come outside and gawk, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be too hesitant to call the police.
We need to get him inside.
“She wanted to talk about the tree again. I was just next door,” Mom says quickly when I get there, like she owes me an explanation.
“Fuck you!” Miles screams, his anger directed at a BMW turning the corner. The windows are tinted, but I can imagine the wide eyes of the person driving it. “Fuck you! Fuck everything!”
“Miles, honey, what happened?” Mom asks. Her arms are wrapped tightly around him, and she’s speaking softly in his ear.
“My DVD . . . ,” he moans. His body rocks back and forth, and his hearing aids ring. His glasses are gone, probably discarded on our lawn. “It broke! It broke! Fuck everything! EVERYTHING!”
We don’t need him to explain which DVD it is. And it’s easy to think it’s a little thing—inconsequential, stupid. A DVD broke, whatever. But to him, it’s a big deal. You can see it in his eyes. He looks as if he’s in physical pain.
It actually pains me too, to see him like this, to know that there’s nothing I, or anyone, can do to make him feel better. It’s like the earthquakes that appear out of nowhere and make the floor roll and rock a few times per year. Everyone outside California thinks they’re a huge deal, terrifying, but when you’ve grown up here, they’re just something that happens, a normal part of life. Miles’s tantrums are our family’s earthquakes. We just need to get him somewhere safe and ride it through.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Mom says, rubbing his back. “Maybe we can fix it.” He must know that’s a lie, because he screams even louder. “Or we can find another one.”
“NO!” Miles yells, throwing her off him. “NO, NO, NO! I want that one! THAT ONE! FUCK EVERYTHING!”
“Okay, Miles, now I want you to take a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out.” Mom stands up to do it with him, modeling the breathing with exaggerated movement, but it’s doing nothing. Miles shrieks again. A blond lady walking with her daughter a few houses down grabs her little girl tightly by the shoulder and turns her around.
“Mom, maybe we should just—”
“Miles, would it help to meditate?” she says, ignoring me. “We need you to be calm, so we can talk about this. I have the meditation app on my phone.”
“FUCK EVERYTHING!”
She scrolls to the meditation app, like she doesn’t hear him, and starts playing this guided meditation, as loud as her phone speakers will go.
“Let’s calm your body, Miles. It’s okay, honey.”
I look around again, and another neighbor whose name I don’t know—a red-haired woman wearing an apron—is standing on her porch staring. We are officially a scene.
“Mom, I have headphones,” I whisper to her. “Can he put in headphones?”
Mom turns to me, and her blue eyes are cold.
“Are we embarrassing you, Tessa?” she asks. It sounds like a challenge.
“I’m not! It’s just . . . I don’t want . . .” I can’t finish a sentence. I’m not embarrassed by my brother. It’s not like this is his default setting—he’s upset. But I don’t want to be the center of any kind of attention at all, and this situation is bringing on all of it. Is that so wrong? Who likes to have their new neighbors standing outside and shaking their heads? Who likes to have all eyes on them in this way?
“The neighbors . . . ,” I finally say, feebly.
“He is your brother, and he is sad. That’s what you should be worried about right now. Not what the neighbors think.” She sighs heavily, like I’m some nuisance. “God, Tessa, I can’t believe you. I really wish—”
But she doesn’t finish the sentence, interrupted by another one of Miles’s wails.
I really wish you weren’t such a disappointment? I really wish I only had Miles to deal with and not you too?
I don’t want to know the end of that sentence.
Miles continues to cry and Mom continues to instruct his breathing. And I stare at the street, trying not to cry, because that will only make Miles more upset. It will only make a bigger scene.
A dark gray truck slows, and I’m ready for someone else to stare at us, to shake their head. But the truck stops at the corner and throws its hazards on, and I realize with relief that I know this truck. It’s Dad. He’s dressed nicely for work—a baby-blue button-up, dress shoes, and slacks—but he strides over to us and gets down on the ground next to Miles.
“It’s okay, my boy,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.”
He scoops Miles up with his strong arms, carrying his nineteen-year-old body like a baby’s. My tears come now.
I keep my head down—avoiding the neighbors’ eyes, avoiding Mom’s—as we walk home together, all four Johnsons.