Trigger (8 page)

“Pipe-vents. Grilling. I’m ready for questions.” I nodded to myself in the mirror and ignored the mental image of glitterboy drifting in front of my window. J.B. wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real, so he was just like the pipe-vents—something my brain got stuck on and couldn’t turn loose.

I hope you’re right
, he whispered as I picked up my memory book and left the room. I didn’t know whether he meant about being ready for Mama Rush or the other thing—that J.B. wasn’t any more real than my pipe-vents.

Downstairs, I found my stiff, cardboard, smiley parents sitting at the breakfast table.

“You don’t have to make breakfast for me every morning,” I said as nicely as I could. “Glitter. Pipe-vents. I mean, we didn’t eat together a lot Before, right?”

Dad shrugged. Mom didn’t respond.

I held back a sigh and sat down, resting my memory book on the table beside me. The pen string was getting dirtier and dirtier. I figured I’d need a new one, but I didn’t know if I could tie the knots, and I didn’t want to ask the paper doll parents to help.

“Glitter,” I mumbled as I stared into the bowl in front of me.

“Where did you get ‘glitter’ from?” Mom asked, keeping her eyes on her bowl.

I was so surprised to hear her talk that I dropped the spoon I had started to pick up. It clattered against the bowl, then bounced off the floor. “Dang! I’m sorry. I’ll get it.”

“No!” My parents called out at the same time, but I leaned over to grab the spoon.

“Whoa!” My head swam. Up-down. Down-up. The room shifted. My body moved, fast and heavy. Down. My good side crunched against the floor. My cheek smacked cool linoleum. Bang-ouch, down in my joints, up in my teeth.

My ears rang, but they stopped fast. Cool. I didn’t even turn the chair over.

“Oh, God.” Dad scrambled down to the floor to help me.

I tried to wave him off. “It’s okay. I know how to—”

Dad picked me straight up off the floor like I was six or seven years old and cradled me for a second. Then he settled me back in my chair, even handed me my spoon. I
wondered if he’d go find a bib before he was done, but he didn’t, thank God.

For a few seconds we all just sat there, Mom and Dad staring at the table and me mentally counting the number of new bruises I would have. Spoons. I had lots of bruises already, and I wanted to try to talk to Leza, needed to ask her a question before I went to see Mama Rush. Between having snot on my face last time I saw her and bruises this time, Leza was really going to think I was a freak.

Finally, I remembered Mom had asked me a question, but I couldn’t remember what it was no matter how hard I tried. When I asked her, she just shook her head.

I counted to ten, picked up my pen, and held it poised over my memory book. “Did I ever take drugs?”

Both of my parents stared at me, spoonfuls of Dad’s nutritious oatmeal frozen in midbite. Dad had added a slice of whole wheat toast to this meal, with sugar-free grape jelly that looked like glue mixed with Kool-Aid.

Mom actually spoke first. “Excuse me?”

Dad stopped chewing his oatmeal and Kool-Aid glue, but he didn’t seem to be able to talk.

“Pot, meth, speed, alcohol, steroids, crack, crank—”

“I know what drugs are, Jersey,” Mom cut in, speaking precisely, like a banker. “And of course not. Why would you ask that?”

The pen tapped the table when I shrugged. “I need to know if I was a junkie. If I was, you can tell me. I read through all my hospital records and none of my labs showed Kool-Aid. I mean, positive results. Glue.”

Dad put his bite down. “Is that why you wanted to read through all that junk? I thought you were trying to—of
course you didn’t use drugs. You were a good student, a great athlete. You were a good boy.”

In my mind, the Mama Rush djinni landed right behind Dad, carrying Kool-Aid in one hand and glue in the other.
You
were
a good boy
, she whispered.
Were. Were. As in not
are,
right?

Mom stared at me, frowning.

I started to tell the djinni to shut up and go away, that I didn’t need a smartass djinni downstairs when I already had homicidal ghost-boy upstairs, but I kept my mouth shut. Pragmatics, Hatch. Kool-Aid glue. Mom was staring. And frowning. Dad still wasn’t eating.

Okay, maybe I wasn’t a freak, at least not the drug kind. Still, I couldn’t cross it off the list just because my parents said so and the records said so. I needed to talk to one other person or Mama Rush would never be satisfied. I wouldn’t be, either. Kool-Aid. That’s why I needed to talk to Leza. She was just in middle school back then, but Leza—she was smart and she knew stuff. She always knew stuff.

Of course, it was Saturday, like last week, so Todd would probably be there and he would probably crush my skull. For the moment, my skull was safe enough, even though my sanity wasn’t. I blinked really fast and kept blinking until slowly, slowly, the djinni image behind Dad faded away.

Acting braver than I felt, I took a big bite of Kool-Aid glue toast. It tasted even worse than it looked, like Dad had added shredded paper into the mix. Blech. It was the first time I remembered being glad my sense of taste was less than what it used to be.

“The therapists told you you’d have to work harder on focusing outside the hospital,” Mom said. Her voice shook
a little bit. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try concentrating on normal conversation rather than coming up with off-the-wall questions.”

She still hadn’t started eating again, unlike Dad, who was wolfing down his oatmeal until he stopped and said, “Sonya. He can’t help that. It’s worse when he’s tired or nervous. Adjustment time, remember?”

Mom stiffened in her chair, but she didn’t back down. “He wasn’t so bad at Carter even when he did get nervous. I think he can help asking crazy questions.”

“Brain cells.” I put down my spoon, careful not to drop it. “Crazy questions? About what?”

“About drugs—and Elana Arroyo.” Mom looked at me a little like Mama Rush did, when I thought she might be counting my brain cells. “And the way you’ve been talking to yourself. Is it real, or are you just… just … needling us, or something?”

“Sonya!” Dad covered Mom’s hand with his. “The therapists all told us …”

He was trying hard to get her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.

“We need to call Carter,” she said. “See if they can get hold of that outpatient therapist and move up our counseling sessions. Jersey needs more help.”

“Help. Carter. Needling. Brain cells.” I wanted to figure out what she meant, what she needed, but all my stupid mouth did was fire back what she said. “Arroyo. Talking. Outpatient.”

“Stop it.” Mom jerked her hand out of Dad’s and stood up so fast the table bucked. My oatmeal sloshed on the Kool-Aid glue toast. “Focus and try, and just stop it!”

Stop. Stop it. Stop what? Or was it Dad—the way he was holding her hand? Harder to think in the real world. Harder to think under pressure. Lots of pressure.

“I’m sorry,” I said, just in case it was me that made her mad.

Pragmatics.

Wrong pragmatics.

Mom froze into that ice statue with moving lips. I sucked at pragmatics. Dad’s toast sucked. His oatmeal sucked, too.

“Sucky ice statues.” I couldn’t hold my mouth tight enough to keep the words inside. When was I going to remember that sock? I really, really needed a sock.

“Why don’t we go talk?” Dad said as he stood up and put his arm around Mom’s shoulder. She shrugged him off, then got up and walked away, saying something about banks or hospitals or both. I couldn’t make it out.

Dad gave me a silly look. “She’s—ah—she’s a woman. You know?”

“Um, yeah.” I nodded, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all. Something was wrong with Mom. At least I thought something was wrong, but I had no idea what, and no idea what to do.

Something was wrong with Dad, too. He looked torn in half, like he wanted to stay with me and go after Mom at the same time.

“I have a list to do,” I blurted. My tongue felt heavy and all sticky with Kool-Aid glue. “I’ve got to go, so you should take care of the ice. I mean, Mom. I so need a sock.”

“Okay, Jersey.” Dad backed away from me. He couldn’t smile right. As he left the kitchen, he said, “Stay away from
the Rush house. I don’t think they want … well, they still aren’t very comfortable with—with what happened, okay?”

Not okay. I clenched my jaw.

I wasn’t comfortable, either. I needed to get some answers, didn’t I? Before J.B. found a way to get far enough into my head to kill me again. Before I went off on my mom for being totally weird. Before Mama Rush poked a finger into my stupid-mark because I wasn’t getting the list done fast enough.

Whatever.

Breathing hard, I stood up and lurched over to the sink to run water into my oatmeal bowl. Then I hitched back to the table, got Mom’s bowl and did the same. Dad’s bowl came last. Oatmeal really did turn into glue if it didn’t soak. That much I learned for sure at Carter.

“Oatmeal Kool-Aid glue.”

The toast, I just threw away. It seemed the kindest thing to do.

In the background, I picked out bits and pieces of my parents yelling at each other.

“… On purpose … he never thinks about anybody’s feelings but his own… .” This from Mom.

“Carter … brain injury … tolerate … support….” This from Dad.

Mom: “… Do any good at all.”

Dad: “Don’t think like …”

Wiping the table took the longest because I couldn’t really wipe with one hand and catch crumbs with the other. I ended up using my shirt as a catch-all, like I did when I was cleaning up in the hospital.

Dad: “Do things new … hope.”

Mom: “Go to hell.”

Or maybe she said, “Go to work.” I wasn’t sure.

After I got the crumbs dumped, I had to wash grease spots off my shirt with hot water, but overall, it wasn’t so bad. At least my parents finally got quiet. I didn’t understand the big deal, like I didn’t understand a lot of big deals.

That’s an excuse
, insisted the Mama Rush voice in my head.
You told me you still had your smarts
.

“Sorry, sorry, glue,” I whispered like a little song as I ignored her. “Sorry, sorry, glue. Sorry, sorry, glue.” Moving as quietly as I could, I picked up my memory book and headed straight to where Dad told me not to go.

chapter 7

“Do I want to know why you’re all wet?” Leza leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded. She was wearing warm-ups again, very silky, this time, gold and green. School colors.

I glanced down at the front of my blue shirt and jeans. There was a big wet spot covering my stomach and the front of my pants, like I’d forgotten to unzip before taking a whiz. Great. I covered up the dark area as best I could with the memory book. “Whiz. I mean, pee. No, no, no. Wait. I don’t know—wait. I do know. I did the dishes. Crumbs and glue. And … and stuff.”

She was so pretty. I was never going to be able to think straight around Leza, much less talk. Harder to talk outside the hospital. Harder to think. But I probably wouldn’t have talked that well around Leza even if I didn’t have stress and word problems and a hole in my brain. She didn’t seem to mind, though. If I ignored the whole totally-stacked thing, Leza was starting to remind me of Mama Rush, not making a big deal over much.

“Todd’s at the lake,” she said. “And my parents have gone over to the university for a charity telethon. I just got back from the track.”

“Are you going to be a social worker?” I asked too fast, still thinking about Mama Rush.

Leza’s face twisted up, then she laughed. “You’re weird, you know that? But funny weird. Good weird, I think. What do you want, Jersey?”

“Drugs,” I said all happylike, then clamped my hand over my mouth. That absolutely sealed it. I
had
to start carrying a sock. There was no way I dared to open my mouth again. Who knew what would come out?

Thankfully, Leza didn’t just slam the door. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “This has got something to do with that list you and Mama Rush made, doesn’t it?”

When she looked at me, I nodded.

“I know you’re supposed to take it to her this afternoon. Want to take a hike to your backyard? I’ve got a little while before I’m supposed to be at the mall, so I could help you with it.”

“Yes! I mean, thank you. That’s great.”

This earned me a grin and an arm to help me heaven-hell down the porch steps and make it through our back gate without falling on my already-mashed-up head. I kept my memory book tucked under my bad arm, and I got annoyed with the pen bouncing against my wet shirt. Leza didn’t seem to mind this, either.

Maybe with her, I didn’t need a sock that badly.

We headed for the wooden picnic table at the edge of our patio, the one with a full view of our living room through
the big back picture window. If I turned my head some, I could see my bedroom window, too, but I didn’t want to look up because I was afraid I’d see J.B. standing there, glaring at us. If he kept hanging around, I’d need to hire an exorcist. But I didn’t want to think about ghosts and exorcists, not with Leza sitting at the picnic table in her green and gold and looking so pretty and planning to help me and all.

“I don’t need a sock,” I blurted as she sat down. My bad hand curled until I winced.

“Okay, now you have to explain that sock thing.” She reached across the table and pulled the memory book out from under my arm. With a few graceful movements, she flicked to the last few pages, and put it down on the table with the list showing right side up to me. The pen she placed on the paper, right where I needed to pick it up.

For some reason, Leza being nice to me and the pain in my hand made me want to cry. No. No! I
didn’t
want to cry. Crying was for babies and girls and I was a guy with a beautiful girl, out at a picnic table on a beautiful day. No crying. No tears. Absolutely not.

“You okay?” Leza patted my fingers. “If you don’t want to tell me about the sock, you don’t have to.”

“No. I—the sock.” A tear slipped down my cheek and I tried to wipe it away real fast before she saw it. She didn’t react, so I got to hoping she didn’t see it, but I worried she did. “Just a second.”