Trigger (17 page)

Carl folded his arms. Attila kept tapping her headset.

Mama Rush’s expression softened a little. “Listen. I don’t
want to let you down, Jersey, but today’s probably not the best day for me to help you. Maybe you should go on home, and let’s do this tomorrow or next weekend. Do you have money for a cab?”

“Tights.” I croaked, scrubbing my pocket with my hand. “Pigs. Aliens. Faces.”

“Okay, then.” She patted my shoulder. Her eyes were starting to look a little wider and more watery. “Go up front and call a ride.”

When I stood, she reminded me to take my memory book, and she asked me to put the pig and the ashtray back in her room. She said all that calm and sweetlike.

Without looking at Carl, she said, “Why don’t you catch a cab, too, Romeo man?”

She didn’t say that sweetlike at all.

I wondered where she wanted the taxi to take Carl, but I didn’t stick around to find out. As fast as I could, I tucked my memory book under my bad arm, picked up the mended presents, lurched over to the auto-open button, elbowed it, and got the hell off that patio.

Without looking behind me, I headed toward Mama Rush’s room with the alien pig and the ashtray full of ashes. Would she hit Romeo man with her scooter and turn him into ashes? If she did, Attila might throw her out. Ashes. Where was I? This hall didn’t look familiar. My bad hand burned. I looked left and right. The numbers on the doors blurred. This place did look lots like all the hospitals I’d been to. Smelled bad, too. Like raw stink here and there. Did Romeo man ever stink like this?

Carl had to be Mama Rush’s boyfriend, not Big Larry.
Carl, the Romeo man. Nice. But, also, sort of gross if I thought about it too much. This Juliet was way unhappy with her Romeo man. Tights. If I’d stayed on the patio, she might have gotten unhappy with me. Pink tights. Pink pigs. Butt-face aliens. I had no idea where I was going. I couldn’t remember Mama Rush’s room number.

“Frog farts,” I said out loud. “Hoochie-mama. Frog farts. Frog farts.” I kept saying it, made myself walk slower, made myself breathe slower. “Frog farts.” Little by little, I stopped walking. Didn’t even drop my memory book, or the ashtray, or the alien pig.

“Frog farts.” More deep breaths. Look around. Look around. Tights and frog farts. Okay, the next hallway looked right. A few steps later, I found it. The door was cracked, so I just pushed it open.

Mama Rush’s room was about the same size as mine, except it had a kitchen on one wall. She had a bedroom and a bathroom, too, but those were so little only one person fit inside them. Just her. Not Romeo man. Good. Because that was the gross part.

I put the pig and the ashtray on her bedroom dresser where I knew she kept them, and for a minute, I stared at the pile of clay and ceramic that hadn’t been fixed. It was right there, beside the mended presents and her glue.

Probably no way to save that mess. I couldn’t even tell what those presents used to be. They were just broken pieces of nothing now, but Mama Rush hadn’t told me she couldn’t fix them, so I figured she hadn’t given up yet. Or maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings because she was scared I’d cry like Big Larry. Romeo man would have been
smarter if he’d just cried. She might not have told him to call a taxi if he’d cried, even though she was mad.

Only, halfway home, in the back of the stinky-sock-smelling cab, I remembered what was waiting at home. No Dad, no Mom. No friends. No girlfriends, no tights, no Viking helmets. Just J.B.

J.B. and the box in Dad’s closet.

By the time I got to my house, I was sick of the faces.

Sick of the pictures and words in my head.

You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you
.

God. My head hurt so bad I wanted to throw up.

Who were those faces?

You’re so self-centered … so self-centered … you’re so …

Head, head, head. I wanted to beat my head against the front door. It hurt. Hurt bad. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, so Dad wouldn’t be home for hours. I’d be alone with the faces. And the box. If I stayed downstairs, maybe J.B. would stay quiet. But the box was upstairs, and the box felt like a big magnet even though I was still standing outside the front door.

I kept squeezing my memory book as I squinted at the Rush house, hating the bright sunlight. No cars. Leza was probably at the track, so I couldn’t call her yet. Maybe soon, though. If I could last long enough. I unlocked the front door and stuffed the keys back in my pocket. It would be okay. I’d just stay downstairs and rub the sides of my head until I could move without my brain exploding. I wouldn’t go upstairs, so J.B. and the box wouldn’t bother me.

No box, no note, no bother. No being selfish, no being a Big Larry, and definitely no being a Romeo man, even if I had taken a cab. Faces. Faces, faces, faces.

Don’t drop the memory book, turn the doorknob, close the door behind me. No air-conditioning the neighborhood. See, Mom? I remembered. My pragmatics were better. I didn’t look up at all the ghost pictures, just put my memory book on the steps and stood still. Little by little, the faces faded away. No faces. Thank you. No faces. Thank you.

No faces now.

Just the box.

The box was up those stairs, in my parents’ room, in their closet. Just sitting there waiting. Maybe waiting for me. J.B. was up there, too, in my room. He got on my nerves, but at least he talked to me, even if he was a ghost.

The box. Closet. Ghost.

My fingers curled hard, making me grind my teeth. My throat ached. There was no way I left a suicide note. Did I? Ghost.

But if I did …

No, no, no. Ghost. Tights. Viking helmets. I needed to talk to Mama Rush again before I looked in the box. Or Leza. Somebody. If I found a note, my dad …

“Note,” I whispered. My voice sounded awful. I needed a glass of water, or maybe Dad didn’t drink all the milk with his pizza. Viking helmets.

I started for the kitchen and heard a noise.

Stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

Was I hearing things?

Shoelaces. Tights.

Had J.B. come down from my room and gotten in the kitchen? Tights! My heart started beating, beating. I didn’t know whether to go to the kitchen, go upstairs, or go back outside.

Another noise.

“Tights!”

And then, “Jersey?”

Mom’s voice.

My knees almost bent and made me fall. Mom came out of the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of bank clothes, and she was smiling. Then her eyebrows jumped together over her nose. “Are you all right, honey? You’re pale and shaking.”

“S-Scared me,” I managed. “Thought—bank—tights. Aliens.” Get a grip! If I go Big Larry, she’ll just get mad and leave.

But she didn’t get mad. She came up and gave me a short Mom-hug. “I’m so sorry. I came home because I knew your father had a conference, and I thought you might be … um, that you might want to do something together today. Like, have a big lunch and go to the movies?”

She smiled and looked all hopeful and kind of nervous.

I was too surprised to say anything, but I thought about butt-face alien pigs in tights and Viking helmets and pragmatics and a whole bunch of other stuff I needed to keep inside my mouth. My hand hurt. My head hurt. I didn’t even care. My mom wanted to go to the movies. This was my mom. Mine. The mom I used to know.

Refusing to scream anything about Big Larry or frog farts, I made myself smile at her and say, “Sure.”

The word came out right! Just one word, but it made her look bright and shiny. My mom. The mom I knew. Pragmatics. I wanted to fall down again, I was so happy.

“It’s a date, then.” Mom ruffled my hair. “I’m—I’m so proud of you for trying so hard. Now come to the kitchen. I promise not to make oatmeal or toast.”

chapter 14

Sunday felt new and happy, even though it was raining.

I woke up early and smelled eggs. Eggs and biscuits and unhealthy bacon. Probably gravy, too.

Mom was cooking!

No oatmeal. No toast. No Kool-Aid glue. Hallelujah. This might be the best day since I came home. Yesterday was pretty cool, too. The movie was fun, and I ate lots of popcorn to keep from saying idiot things and upsetting Mom. It worked. She stayed calm and shiny all through eating dinner out and coming home. She even said nice stuff to Dad about how he was dressed and about the brochures he brought from the conference.

Now I was about to get a real breakfast.

I couldn’t get my arm and leg braces off fast enough.

J.B. didn’t even open his loud mouth until I was tugging up my shorts. Of course, when he did, he tried to ruin my morning.

You haven’t looked in the box yet. You need to look in the box
.

“I went to the movies with Mom. Box. Note. I mean, I don’t want to look in the box. If there’s a note, I don’t want to read it.”

Yes, you do
.

“Do not. Frog farts. These laces aren’t so springy now.” Maybe Dad would change them for me. Or Mom. She might not get weird about springy shoelaces since she was cooking breakfast. If she was cooking breakfast, she had to be happier. “Blue laces. Maybe yellow this time. New laces. Shoelaces.”

That sort of rhymes. You’re a genius
.

“I’m a five-year-old genius. But I’m trying harder, and sometimes I focus. Sometimes I slow down and get it right like they taught me at Carter. And I’m eating with cheerleaders and doing my homework and wearing my braces every night, so maybe I’m six now, or seven. I think I’m a little older, at least. Shoelaces. Not so Big Larry. Not so selfish.”

J.B. laughed while I did my best to tighten my shoelaces even though they weren’t so springy.

You’re still selfish
. His voice changed a little, got higher pitched.
You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you …. Remember that, genius?

“Not listening to you.”

That was a lie. For a second, I saw faces again. Girl faces. Yelling in girl voices. Self-centered. So self-centered.

Humming to make J.B. shut up and keep the faces away, I grabbed my memory book but didn’t open it. Inside was the
list with two numbers still not crossed off. If I opened the cover and flipped a few pages, I knew exactly what I’d see.

1. Maybe on drugs
.

2. Did something awful I felt guilty
.

3. My life sucked
.

4. Heard voices telling me to off myself
.

5. Parents really brother and sister/aliens/abusive
.

6. Elana Arroyo—ask Todd
.

I did something awful and felt guilty, and Elana Arroyo. Sooner or later, I had to get Todd to talk to me.

Maybe you did something awful
to
Elana Arroyo. Maybe that’s why you keep remembering her yelling at you. Maybe you did something really awful. Ask Todd. He’ll stuff your teeth down your throat
.

The cover of my memory book was dirty. I needed to wash it. I needed a new string and a new pen. Maybe I should use one of the not-so-springy green shoelaces so they wouldn’t go to waste.

You’re so self-centered…
.

Did J.B. say that, or did I think it?

I looked toward the corner of the bedroom, into the dusty shadow where J.B. lived. Rain blew against the windowpane. I blinked, but I didn’t see any sign of him, not even sparkles. Had I ever seen sparkles, or did I imagine those, too?

“Shoelaces.”

“Jerrrr-seeeeey!” Mom called. “Breakfast!”

“Breakfast,” I muttered. “Shoelaces.”

Okay. Okay. Mom sounded happy and she made real food
and she and Dad weren’t yelling at each other, so no freaking out. No going Big Larry. No talking about stupid stuff.

No talking about the note in the box? No talking about Elana Arroyo and Todd?

“Boxes. Elana. Todd. Faces. Shut up.”

He didn’t shut up, and I slammed the door behind me. Then I worried Mom would get mad about that, but she didn’t. Neither did Dad. He just ate a lot of biscuits and got crumbs all over his suit. I couldn’t say anything, because I got crumbs everywhere, too. Bacon crumbs, egg crumbs, biscuit crumbs. We talked about school but not about grades or getting peed on. We talked about Dad’s job and Mom’s job but not about fighting or spending nights away from home.

Whenever I wanted to say stupid stuff, I just took another bite of something. Definitely better than oatmeal and Kool-Aid glue toast. Way better than peanuts. Even better than cheerleaders. Sort of. Outside, it thundered and rained, but inside, we ate breakfast. It really was the best day since I left the hospital, until Dad had to go to his weekend conference, and Mom had to go to the bank to finish getting ready for the audit. They both cleaned up the kitchen, and they both kissed me, made sure I had their phone numbers, told me they’d call—then they were gone, and I was alone.

Alone in the house. Full, smiling, but alone.

With the box.

But I wasn’t going to look in the box. If I did, and I found something bad or something that upset me, I might ruin everything, and I didn’t want to ruin anything.

“Big Larry. Romeo man. J.B.” I wasn’t going to be a ruiner like them.

The kitchen table was so clean I could see my reflection
in the dark brown wood. I could see reflections of the rain on the kitchen windows, too. If I just stayed at the table staring at myself and the raindrops, I’d never go upstairs, and I’d never open the box, and I wouldn’t ruin anything.

I tapped my fingers on the reflections.

Was Leza home? I could call her. Or Mama Rush. That’s what I’d do. I’d call them. After I sat for a while. If I was careful, I could stretch things out and only go upstairs with enough time to do Algebra and Civics for tomorrow. Then I wouldn’t be tempted to look in the box and Dad would come home and probably Mom since she was so happy, and everything would be fine.

But it was hard to sit and do nothing.