No. “Yeah,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he said lightly, and returned to his notebook. Then he began to write. Loudly.
And started to hum. I snapped my book shut.
“Am I bothering you?” he asked innocently.
Yes. “Nope.”
“Good.” He went back to his scribbling, scratching his pencil furiously against the paper, flipping pages of his book with an unparalleled level of noise.
He was clearly not going to let me stew in solitude. I gave up. “What are you writing?”
“A paper.”
“About?”
“The self-referential passages in Don Quixote.”
“You’re on spring break.”
“It’s due next week,” he said, then looked up. “And it amuses me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Only you would find homework amusing.”
“Cervantes comments on the narrative within the narrative itself. I think it’s funny.”
“Hmm,” I said, and reopened my book. Right side up, this time.
“What are you not-reading?” he asked.
I tossed my book over to him in answer.
“The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner: Written by Himself, by James Hogg? Never heard of it.”
“That’s not something I hear often.” And despite everything, it brought a smile to my lips.
“Indeed,” he said, studying the book. He turned it over, then started reading the summary on the back. “‘Part gothic novel, part psychological mystery, part metafiction, part satire, part case study of totalitarian thought, Memoirs explores early psychological theories of double consciousness, blah blah blah, predestination theory, blah blah blah—James Hogg’s masterpiece is a psychological study of the power of evil, a terrifying picture of the devil’s subtle conquest of a self-righteous man.’” He made a face. “Where’d you find this?”
“In the garage. It looked interesting.”
“Yes, you’re clearly riveted.” He stood up and handed it back to me. “But that’s not what you should be reading.”
“No?”
“No. Don’t move.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later, carrying a book. He handed it to me.
I made a face as I read the title out loud. “One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT?”
“Better get cracking,” my brother said. “They’re only a couple of months away.”
“Are you serious? I was just pulled out of school.”
“Temporarily. For health reasons. Which, by the way, is how Dad got the principal to change your F in Spanish to an Incomplete, so this Horizons thing is not a total loss. You can start your SAT prep now and take them in June, just in case you want to retake in October.”
I said nothing. Things like grades and SATs seemed utterly alien compared to my current problems. And I hated that we could talk so easily—so normally—about books and school and anything but what was really going on with me. I watched my brother write, the words flowing from his pen without hesitation. Give Daniel an abstract problem, and he can solve it in seconds.
Which gave me an idea.
“You know,” I said slowly, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”
He lifted his eyebrows. Put his notebook down.
“Don’t move,” I told him, then bolted to my room. I grabbed a notebook and a pen off of my desk and ran back to the living room. I couldn’t tell my brother about my real problems because my brother didn’t believe they were real.
But if I told him they weren’t real, maybe he could actually help.
20
I WALKED BACK INTO THE LIVING ROOM AND GLANCED out the enormous picture window. Still no sign of Noah’s car. Good. He’d never go for this.
I sat down on the couch and positioned the spiral notebook conspicuously on my lap. “So,” I said to my brother casually, “At Horizons, they gave us this assignment,” I started, my lie beginning to develop. “To, uh, fictionalize our . . . problems.” That sounded about right. “They said writing is cathartic.” Mom’s favorite word.
My brother broke into a smile. “That sounds . . . fun?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Okay, so maybe fun’s the wrong word.”
“ ‘Stupid’ would be more appropriate,” I said, adding an eye roll. “They want us to work things out in a safe, creative space. I don’t know.”
My brother nodded slowly. “It makes sense. Sort of like puppet therapy for little kids.”
“I don’t know what that is, and I’m glad.”
Daniel chuckled. “Mom told me about it once—the therapist uses a puppet to indirectly address the kid’s feelings in an impersonal way; the child transfers her feelings to the puppet. Your assignment sounds like the teen version.”
Sure. “Exactly. So, now I have to write this story thing about me but not me, and I need help.”
“It would be my utmost pleasure.” Daniel hunched forward and rubbed his hands together. He was into it. “So. What’s your premise?”