I checked out. Let my brain buzz like an amp turned up but not playing any notes. Let time pass. Didn’t talk. Didn’t think.
A day passed. I stared at the wall or slept. Janie skipped school, too. She read some teen-romance novel, card-shuffling the pages over her fingertips like the book was a puppy and she was rubbing its ears. She got us food and sodas, started movies or played music on the laptop, kept me company.
The dark waters receded, but under them were jagged rocks and creatures with sharp pincers.
Another morning, and now the frozen peas were changed to a hot pad, resting across my eyes, the plastic a hot body bag zipped over my face. A plate clinked on the floor next to the bed. She took my hand and closed it around the bread.
The door clicked as she left.
I ate the sandwich carefully. Automatically. Time passed. I took off the hot pad and got up. Went to the bathroom. Avoided looking in the mirror over the sink.
I slowly made my way downstairs, got some water and some plastic-wrapped muffins. There was broken glass and spilled food on the floor. I made a halfhearted attempt at cleaning up until the headache came back.
Back in the room I fished my cell out of the pocket of my hoodie.
Where are you? A text from Michael.
Are you okay? From Cyndra.
I’m coming over after school. From Clay, sent this morning. I smiled until it pulled at my face too much.
I went back downstairs and cleaned some more, taking it slowly. When it wasn’t quite a wreck, I stopped. Then I climbed the steps and went into the shower. The hot water made me feel stronger and scooped out simultaneously.
I kicked the dirty clothes under my bed and got dressed in an old T-shirt and battered jeans.
Janie came home from school. “You’re looking better.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’m going to go to the store, then. Need anything? I thought some sport drinks or something?”
“Okay. Clay’s coming over.”
“Good.” She leaned over, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead, like a blessing.
I went downstairs and out onto the porch. Shook out a cigarette and waited for Clay as I sat on the stoop. The cigarette made me feel sick instead of calmed. I pinched off the cherry and tucked it back into the pack.
A few minutes of waiting, watching little kids chasing each other around the duplexes. Then Clay appeared, his shuffle-lope quicker than normal as he came up the street.
I shook my hair into my face but held up a hand in greeting.
Clay waved back and crossed the scrub. I stood stiffly and shook his hand. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He studied me.
I held his gaze and took out the cigarette again to give my hands something to do. Put it back in the box. “You want to come inside?” I gestured at the door.
“Okay.”
Clay sat in the sprung recliner. I collapsed on the sofa.
“How many more days you gonna be out?” he asked.
“One more, I think. I’m sleeping a lot, is all.”
He gave me that wise-eyed once-over twice. “That’s probably because you have a concussion or something.”
I shrugged.
A short burst of air pushed past Clay’s teeth. Staccato, making a faint click, like he didn’t intend to do it, but was moved by anger or disgust.
My eyes jumped to his face.
Clay’s head was shaking slightly. His eyes, narrow and sharp. And shining. “You should have told me you were headed here. Hell, you should have told Janie. Or better yet, you shouldn’t have come home at all.”
“No point putting it off. Either way, it would have happened. Waiting would have only made it worse.”
“Maybe. But you still should have told us.”
“Right. Then you wouldn’t have worried.”
“Screw you.”
“Get in line.”
But there was no venom in my voice, and none in Clay’s, either. Just stress, and fatigue, and the sparks that are thrown off when you care about someone. The way a real family interacts around hurt feelings or disappointment. Like how me and Janie do. Or Clay and his mom.
Just expression and clearing the air, like brothers.
I sat up, pushing hair off my face.
“Sorry.” I met his eyes. “I guess I thought I’d call you when it was over.”
Clay smiled, a social cue of forgiveness, not humor. “Well, I know you didn’t want Janie to find you.”
“I didn’t want to be KO’d.” A real smile tugged at my face.
“See how all that violence-preparedness doesn’t work?” Clay asked.
“You’re right. Pacifism would work so much better.”
“Say what you want. Gandhi was badass.”
I flexed a hand and then squeezed it into a fist. “I could take him.”
Clay laughed and fell back in the chair. I sketched a short jab. “A quick pop on the nose.” I punched the air again. “How’s that for passive resistance, bitch?” I brought my elbow up slowly. “I call this one the No-More-Hunger Strike.” Pretended to grab a head, brought it in slow motion onto the elbow. Hissing a cheesy martial arts yell as I did.
Clay laughed so hard he started coughing. I was laughing too as I continued to pretend-beat-up Gandhi, adding more and more ridiculous moves and combinations, just to see Clay laughing like that.
After a while we were both laughing hard enough to gasp. Clay was holding his stomach, and I was holding my ribs. I had to dry my eyes.
I stood and went into the kitchen. Came back with sodas and held one out to Clay.
“Thanks. But I should probably get going.” Clay stood.
I followed him out onto the stoop. Handed him the soda again. “We’ll have it out here.”
We sat on the top step. Clay shoved me, hard. “What kind of dillweed beats up Gandhi?”
I held up my can in a mock toast to myself.
“Well, answer this burning question, Charm School,” Clay said, smiling. “Did Cyndra take you home or not? Because today she was hovering around your locker like she could make you appear by just standing there.”
My heart gave a stupid jump. “Yeah?”