WEEK 5

James frowned.
His little pig eyes narrowed.
Better, but not great, he said.
Show more feelings, he said.
Prove you’re not a sociopath, he said.
You prove you’re not a sociopath, I said,
slamming the journal shut
almost as hard as my heart slammed into my ribs.
YOU prove it.
You don’t have to call me names, James.
Is making me feel worse part of your job?
Part of what they teach at
Probation Officer University?
I don’t even know what sociopath means
but I know I’m not one.
I’m just a kid.
I’m just a kid.

There are all these words I say every day.
Words I never even thought about before.
Trach is one.
You remember that one, right?
It rhymes with brake and take.
There is also wedge
which can mean something you shove under a door
to keep it open,
but in this case means a thing that Levi hangs on,
actually hangs,
with his butt in a sling made of blue jean material,
a sling that has lots of superstrong Velcro.
He hangs on the wedge so his trach stays unobstructed.
That sentence is my world now.
Levi’s world.
Mom’s world.
It doesn’t seem normal, but it is an everyday
sentence now.
So I guess that makes it normal?
Normal is a word I never thought about before, either.
But now I think about it
a lot.

I haven’t done my homework in so long
I can’t even remember.
I know this journal is not for confessing
homework sins,
but there you have it.
Levi is too sick.
Even with his nurse, Marisol,
and even with Mom
there aren’t enough hands.
Marisol has to go home at night.
And Mom has to work.
And my hands have to help.
Instead of doing fractions.
Some things are more important than fractions.

Hypothetically speaking,
what would happen if José does my math homework?
If I fail math will the judge get mad?
Could I go to juvie?
You know what should be on my math homework?
Q: What is 3 + 1?
A: The number of hours Timothy slept last night.

I met José when we were in second grade.
His family moved in three houses down.
José has four sisters.
They are all crazy.
I think he likes to come to my house because it’s quiet.
Even with Levi’s jackhammer suction machine
and breathing alarms,
and snot bullets,
my house is still quieter
than a house filled with four sisters.
Believe it.

You know,
the problem with babies is that you can’t hate them.
You can try.
I tried.
But they have these fuzzy soft heads,
they have slurpy smiles.
Even when you stick out your tongue
or make a mean face
or give them a poke with your finger
they still have slurpy smiles.
It’s really hard to hate a baby.
Even if you think about all the times before the baby
when your dad was at home and happy
and your mom never cried herself to sleep
at the kitchen table
even when you think about these times
you still can’t hate a baby.
Stupid cute babies.
Complicating everything.