For the first time ever, I’m ready to go back to school before vacation ends. Although nothing bad has happened, nothing good seems to be happening either. My brother comes downstairs for meals and answers questions if you ask him, but he doesn’t seem interested in anything except listening to music in his room. My mom stops going into Ginger’s so she can take him to various doctors’ appointments. Ray’s filling in as assistant manager of CinnaYum!, and since my parents need even more babysitting, I spend a lot of time watching the twins, who get to watch a lot of TV.
I swear my dad calls me “good egg” more than my name. I don’t say anything but I don’t feel good about anything at all.
I start a hundred texts and fifty emails to Epstein, but I don’t send a single one. I don’t know how to explain why I left.
One morning my parents spend hours on a conference call with the high school principal and Toby’s guidance counselor. I don’t know what they talk about, but my mom looks even more miserable when the call ends.
I watch Sherman’s March again, and even though I really like it, I wonder if I spend too much time watching movies and if I should try to do something more meaningful with my time.
The night before school starts I call Ray to confess that I lost her bag.
“Really?”
“I left it on the train,” I say. “They’re looking for it, but it doesn’t look good. I’m really sorry. I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh. That’s okay. No biggie. I made mad cash this week. How was New Year’s in the big city?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay? I thought you’d be out till dawn, walking home across the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Did you binge-watch Sex and the City with your mom again?”
“Sadly it was my best New Year’s option.” Ray sighs. “That or hanging out with Muppet and Toast. Should we call them Moast from now on?”
“It wasn’t like Sex and the City.” But it kind of was, I think, picturing the trendy sushi place and Sky’s loft. There was a time when I would’ve loved describing the details of my night in New York to Ray, but now I can’t bring myself to tell her anything.
“So how’s Toby? He hasn’t texted me back.”
“Um . . . pretty good. His phone isn’t on.”
“Oh.”
I want to say something more, something about how not okay Toby is, but I can’t.
“Do you guys want a ride to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind. That would be great.” If he can’t drive Prudence, it will be better for Toby to go to school with a friend rather than our parents or the bus.
“I’ll pick you guys up at 7:15. I can’t believe I haven’t seen Toby since he’s been home!”
“You’ll see him tomorrow.”
Before I go to bed, I knock on Toby’s door. He’s wearing a green hooded sweatshirt over his baggy white T-shirt, which I try to see as an improvement.
“Hey,” I say. “Ray said she’ll drive us to school tomorrow.”
I wonder if he’ll say something about Prudence, but he just says, “I can’t go back to school.”
“It won’t be so bad.” My heart starts thumping. What is school going to be like for my brother? If he can barely have a conversation with our family, how’s he going to deal with classes? What are his friends going to think when they see his clothes and beard?
“It’s going to be hell,” he tells me matter-of-factly.
“You’ll be okay. I’ll be there.”
He shakes his head.
“Ray’s coming at 7:15,” I say lamely.
He shrugs, then turns around and closes his door. I look at my phone, but I think Epstein has officially stopped communication. I don’t feel exactly ready to talk to him, but what if I never talk to him again?
The next morning, after I shower and dress, I knock on my brother’s door, but he doesn’t answer. I don’t know what to do. At 7:10, when he still doesn’t respond, I take a deep breath and open the door. To my surprise, he’s sitting at his desk, still wearing the green sweatshirt.
“Ray’s going to be here soon.”
“I already told you, I’m not going to school.” He sounds annoyed.
“Really? Can you do that?”
“Of course I can do that,” he says confidently. For a second I get a glimpse of the old Toby, the healthy Toby, who would give me a look like: Of course you can skip French to smoke a joint with me.
“Mom and Dad are okay with that?” I feel like a goody-two-shoes, but I can’t help it. He’s missed a lot of school. I wonder if that’s why Mom was so upset after the call to the principal.
He nods. I look at him. Despite the stubble and acrid rankness that seems to emanate from him, he’s tall and thin, his eyes are a piercing blue, his eyelashes thick and long and dark. I would love to see him shave off his stubbly beard thing and get a haircut, but I would never suggest it. “See ya,” he says, getting up and closing his door.
Only my grandmother is home, but she’s so busy hustling David and Sam that I don’t tell her that Toby’s not going to school. The Secret Sibling Society lives, I think. But what’s Toby going to do at home all day? Does schizophrenia mean he’ll spend his life in his room?
Ray is visibly disappointed when I get into her car alone. “Where’s Toby?”
“He needs another day.”
“Another day?” She sounds shocked.
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“But he’s missed a shitload of classes. Do you think he’ll be able to graduate?”
“I don’t know! But we’re going to be late. Can we go?” I sound harsher than I mean to. Ray backs down my driveway fast and I clutch my seat as we narrowly avoid hitting the icy shrubbery.
I watch the frozen, gray landscape slip by through the window. The whole world seems jagged, heavy, and awkward. I am going to school without my brother, I think. The New Year is not starting off any better than it ended.
“Do you notice something different about me?” Ray asks.
I look at her. Her long hair looks the same. She’s wearing her standard big silver hoop earrings, a little more mascara than usual, her furry Sorel boots, and Via Spiga faux-fur bomber jacket. “You look thin,” I say, even though it’s hard to tell when someone is sitting down.
“Bullshit. I ate mall crap all week.”
I look at her again, but she looks like Ray.
“Maybe think about something I’m not doing.” Ray stares at me.
“Not doing,” I mumble to myself. “Ummmm . . . You’re not bidding on eBay . . . Smoking! You’re not smoking!” I can’t remember the last time I was in Ray’s car when she wasn’t smoking. Smoking while driving and listening to loud music is Ray’s favorite activity.
“I quit. Well, I’m trying to quit. One day at a time, like AA would say.”
“That’s great.”
“Everyone says you gain like ten pounds.”
“Yeah, I know.” She turns into the student parking lot. “I don’t think I’ve ever made an actual New Year’s resolution. So we’ll see how it goes.”
Resolutions make me think of telling Kepler I would drive this year. But with my brother in his room, not going to school, not shaving, not talking to anyone, it seems impossible that I will actually keep my pledge. “It’s good that you stopped,” I tell Ray.
“When I want one, which I do, I just try to think about how much money I’m going to save. Would a Chanel bag be totally insane? I found one on Bluefly for eight hundred dollars.”
“It’s a lot . . .” I think of what movies I would show in a cigarette-themed film fest: The Insider, Thank You for Smoking, Coffee and Cigarettes.
“Yeah, but I spend more than that on cigarettes in a year.”
As Ray deftly backs into a tight spot, I watch a bunch of seniors piling out of their cars. Toby should be here. He shouldn’t need one more day. He should be joking around and throwing snowballs with the other senior guys. Suddenly, I feel angry that Toby spent Christmas break in his room, wearing awful clothes, not talking. This was the worst vacation ever, I realize. Even suckier than the Christmas I had pneumonia. At least then Toby tried to get me to laugh by teaching the twins, who were toddlers, to say things like “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli,” and “You are a smelly pirate hooker.” Toby used to do things. He wanted people to do things like they do things in movies, but now he won’t even watch a movie with me.
“Want a pack of gum?” Ray says, bringing me back to reality. She grabs a small box of Trident from her backseat and hands me a pack. “I got like fifty packs at BJ’s.”
“Thanks,” I say, hearing the flatness in my voice. I hate myself for sounding this way. This isn’t Ray’s fault, I tell myself. It isn’t anybody’s.
In Driver’s Ed, Mr. Munson says we’re ready for the simulators, so we make our way to the back of the room and sit behind semi-enclosed desks with screens and steering wheels.
“This is the best part of the class,” Abdi says. “Don’t kill any deer. They’ll fuck up your car.”
“Ugh,” I say, putting my hands on three o’clock and nine o’clock.
But simulator driving is nothing like real driving. Once I figure out that I’m taking the right turns too wide, I do fine and don’t get any police sirens or anything.
After class, Abdi says, “Wasn’t that kind of awesome? I hit the dog this time!”
“I love dogs! It was kind of like playing video games with my brothers.”
“Yeah. It beats listening to statistics and rules for thirty-five minutes. How is Toby? I haven’t seen him around lately. I mean, I didn’t back before vacation.”
Abdi sounds totally nice, totally genuine, but I don’t know what to say.
“Um . . .” I cough a little. “He should be in school tomorrow. You can talk to him then. I didn’t know you were friends.”
“I wouldn’t say we were friends. But I filmed a lot at Smoker’s Gate this fall and he was always there. With Toast and them, even though he didn’t smoke. Well, not cigarettes.”
“Oh.” I wonder what Abdi thinks of my brother. Cool senior? Stoner? Freak?
“I have footage of him if you ever want to watch it. He’s pretty funny.”
“Maybe,” I say, even though I know I’ll never want to see it. “What’s the movie about anyway?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” He shakes his head. “It’s kind of about the emo kids. And Toast. Toast’s not emo. He’s just Toast. They’re actually kind of interesting.”
“Really? I thought emo kids just felt sorry for themselves, got high, and listened to shitty music.”
Abdi laughs. “One on one, some of them said some interesting stuff, but right now it’s fifteen hours of mostly boring kids who feel sorry for themselves, get high, and listen to shitty music. I need to edit it. It’s all about the editing, really. Hey! You should come to film club sometime.”
“Washington Lincoln has a film club?”
“Who do you think sponsors the monthly movie series?”
“We have a monthly movie series?”
“You’ve never been? I don’t believe that.” Abdi sounds shocked.
“Sorry. I don’t really do any extracurricular—”
“I’m kidding. I mean, we do show monthly movies, but the only people who come are us, the film geeks, and a few random people from town.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling better.
“We do try to show decent movies, though. I always want to show documentaries, but I’m often vetoed.”
“Oh! I totally forgot. Your movie!” I open my backpack and hand him Sherman’s March. “Sorry I had it for so long. I watched it twice.”
Abdi grins. “Isn’t it awesome? I’m psyched you actually watched it. My friends always nod off after like ten minutes.”
“At first I thought it was slow, but it was good. Different.”
“I know. I totally want to make movies like that. To me, he’s a lot more honest a director than Michael Moore. You should check out film club. Officially we meet Wednesdays, but someone is usually down in the room—it’s B5—just hanging out, watching something. I’m usually watching my footage. I’m going there now, actually. There’s only three of us.”
“I’ll think about it.” I want to be polite, but I can’t see myself going to film club. Three people isn’t exactly a club, and I’m not really an extracurricular kind of girl.
But when I walk into the cafeteria after talking to Abdi, I wish I had followed him to film club because Toast, Muppet, and Ray all get quiet when I sit down.
“What?” I ask.
Ray gives me a look that I can’t interpret.
“Is your brother okay?” Toast asks.
“Did he have a breakdown?” Muppet asks.
I glare at Ray, who shakes her head.
Toast rubs his red eyes. “All I know is that your brother was not having a good night. I drove him home, because driving didn’t seem like a wise thing for him to do. I took him home. That’s all. I’d like to know how he’s doing, Amelia. I haven’t heard anything from him at all.”
I feel six eyes bearing into my soul. What happened to Toby? What’s wrong with your brother?
I wish I knew. One minute I had a cool older brother, an amazing boyfriend, I lost my virginity, drank red wine, and everything was great—and the next minute my grandmother called and everything changed. I don’t know how it went from so good to so bad so quickly, how my life became this never-ending tsunami, pushing me under, not allowing me to breathe.
I open my mouth to say something because I want to get it over with, get it out in the open. I want to say, “Toby’s schizophrenic,” but my brain and tongue can’t figure out how to say it, so I close my mouth and look at the splattered ketchup on the mushy, uneaten fries on the plate next to me.
“Amelia? Are you okay?” Muppet asks gently.
I force myself to move my head up and down, but I don’t look away from the bloody fries. I remember when Toby told me I was chewing so loud. He was sick then. He was sick and all I did was beg him for rides.
I look up at my friends: Toast with his bloodshot eyes, skinny Muppet with her oblong chin and braids, and Ray, my best friend in the world. I know they just want to understand what went wrong, but all I can do is wonder: Why isn’t it one of them?
Of all the people—of the three hundred and fifty students in Washington Lincoln High School—why Toby? Why my brother?
“Amelia . . . ,” Ray says. “We’re here for you.”
But I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell these people who used to think my brother was so cool how awful vacation was, how weird it is to see my mom put out gigantic pills next to my brother’s cereal bowl each morning. I still can’t tattle on Toby.
“I have to go,” I say, getting up from the table and bolting for the doors. I go to the library, which is empty except for the librarian, who doesn’t look up. Social networking sites are blocked, but I still try to check Facebook. When I can’t get on, I check my email, but there’s nothing.
I haven’t communicated with Epstein in five days.
Without thinking about it, I type schizophrenia into the Google search bar. I’m not even sure I spelled it right but more than 23 million pages of links come up. I click on Wikipedia and read how its root comes from a Greek word that means to split and how it’s characterized by abnormalities in the perception or expression of reality. I learn how distortions in perception may affect all five senses and that it typically occurs in young adulthood. I read that schizophrenia is a chronic condition that requires lifelong care. Then I get paranoid that someone will come in and see what I’m reading and know that it’s about my brother so I close the site and sit there just staring at the screensaver, which says “Washington Lincoln” in this bouncing text, until the bell rings and I get up and go to my next class.