House Arrest Read online

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.

  WEEK 6

  Mrs. Bainbridge called that last part of the journal

  a breakthrough.

  I don’t know about that.

  Maybe she said that because I never talk in her office

  so she was excited to see so many feeling words

  all on one page.

  I don’t feel like I’ve broken through anything, though.

  Really.

  Maybe some things have broken through me?

  The thing is,

  and I don’t know if I should say this,

  but house arrest isn’t so bad.

  Pretty much,

  I’ve been on “house arrest” since Levi came home.

  That’s not bad.

  Just how it is.

  It’s not really safe to take him anywhere

  because of how germs make him so sick so fast.

  So, for months and months we stayed at home.

  No movies. No football games. No restaurants.

  Well, except sometimes

  when Mom and Dad stayed with Levi

  and I could go out with José

  to the gross old mall

  and we’d go to Game Space

  so we could try out the new Halo

  until the manager would yell at us

  for being there too long and

  getting pizza grease on the controllers.

  Once we snuck into this movie

  and that one actor said every swear

  and José thought we were going to get in

  so

  much

  trouble

  Timothy

  we

  are

  dead

  if

  we

  get

  caught.

  But we didn’t get caught.

  It was so much fun.

  You know what?

  Now that I think about it?

  House arrest stinks.

  Like way more than I thought

  before I started writing this.

  Stupid journal.

  Levi can’t talk.

  You know that already.

  But it’s not that he just lies around and doesn’t

  do anything;

  he still cries and laughs.

  You just can’t hear it.

  If you think about something that’s so funny you

  laugh and laugh

  until you can’t make a noise

  and so you sort of suck in air and make a clacking noise

  with your tongue

  and a kind of wheeze with your breath,

  that’s what Levi sounds like when he laughs.

  When he cries his face gets all screwed up in a knot,

  big tears roll down his cheeks,

  and wet bursts come from the tube in his neck.

  He hisses, I guess, like a cartoon snake,

  or a deflating balloon with lots of slobber in it.

  He gets so mad and can’t make a noise.

  I want to make the noises for him

  because it isn’t fair, you know?

  You should be able to scream

  when you need to scream.

  Mac and cheese for dinner

  again

  Peanut butter but no bread

  again

  powdered milk in stale cereal

  again

  going to sleep hungry

  again

  If Levi has to have a nurse all day, every day,

  and all night, every night,

  then why does he have Marisol only twice a week?

  I am not a nurse.

  Mom is not a nurse.

  We do our best.

  But we need sleep.

  Mom needs to work.

  I need better excuses not to do my homework,

  like a real kid:

  I was playing Xbox.

  My dog ate it.

  I forgot.

  Not:

  My brother has no nurse, again.

  I like Marisol, though.

  When she�
�s here.

  It’s not her fault when she’s not here.

  There are other sick kids, too.

  And not enough nurses.

  But still.

  WEEK 7

  James says there are no rules for this journal.

  That is more confusing than a wide receiver

  throwing a pass, James.

  (If I talk in football language, Mrs. B,

  maybe James will understand more of my words.)

  For weeks it has been:

  Talk more about that day, Timothy.

  Tell us how you feel, Timothy.

  Make sure we know you’re not a nutjob, Timothy.

  And now it’s There are no rules?

  Grown-ups are the worst.

  I hear these little noises.

  Sniffs and sad chirps.

  A hiccup.

  A blowing nose.

  Mom is crying downstairs.

  I made her cry, OK.

  I made her cry

  after I took the family photos off the mantel.

  I made her cry

  when I threw the pictures out the door and in the yard.

  I made her cry

  when I yelled, He left us and he’s never coming back EVER!

  I said I was sorry after she stopped crying.

  I picked the pictures up out of the yard.

  I put them in the trunk of the car

  with the rest of his stuff I’m hiding in there.

  José came by on his bike,

  asked me why I was talking to the car.

  So I admitted it to him.

  I made my mom cry.

  It was me this time.

  Not a bill.

  Not Levi.

  Not just from being so, so tired.

  I admit it to you, too.

  I made her cry, OK.

  And then I apologized

  to a bunch of photos and stuff in the trunk of our car.

  Because I didn’t want Dad to hate me.

  Maybe I am a nutjob.

  Oh, great, now I’m crying, too.

  I hate this journal.

  A crackle in the breeze.

  I put down my math book,

  look out the front door.

  Two bags on the mat,

  a mat that says Fo shizzle welcome to our hizzle,

  a mat Dad bought because he thought it was funny,

  a mat Mom hates but won’t throw away.

  Two bags on the mat.

  Filled with milk and bread and cheese and meat

  and even some Snickers bars.

  I look down the sidewalk.

  No one’s around.

  I bring the mystery bag inside.

  Levi kicks his happy leg.

  WEEK 8

  I wasn’t in juvie very long,

  just there to be

  processed

  and

  judged.

  But it felt like ages

  eons

  eternities

  stars imploded and were reborn

  new planets formed

  there was a supernova of shame

  growing inside me

  and I thought maybe rays of blinding light

  would shoot from my fingers

  as they were pressed onto the fancy inkless pad

  and my fingerprints

  joined the other galaxies of whorls and swirls

  trapped in time.

  You look cold.

  Duh, Mrs. B. It’s wintertime.

  Where’s your coat?

  Duh, Mrs. B. My arms have grown

  three sizes since last winter.

  Do you need a coat?

  Duh, Mrs. B. But you think I’m going to ask for one?

  You should take care of yourself.

  You don’t want to get sick.

  Duh, Mrs. B. Who wants to get sick?

  Have you had a flu shot?

  Duh, Mrs. B. Who’s going to pay for it?

  You should think about getting one.

  Duh, Mrs. B. I think about a lot of things I can’t do.

  Timothy, are you listening to me?

  Duh, Mrs. B. Are you listening to you?

  My mom is late.

  She’ll be right here.

  My standard lie for new night nurses.

  Mom will be here when her shift ends.

  In three hours.

  This nurse plopped down a Big Gulp

  right on Mom’s coffee table.

  The one that should have a sign:

  USE A COASTER

  OR YOU WILL BE MURDERED.

  Wow. Lexi is adorable. She’s a cutie.

  I smelled cigarettes and onions

  when she opened her mouth.

  Actually, she’s a he.

  And his name is Levi.

  Onion Mouth wrinkled her nose,

  flipped through some pages,

  sipped her Big Gulp.

  Oh, right. The heart kid.

  I shook my head.

  Airway kid. I pointed to the trach.

  Onion Mouth smiled.

  Where’s your bathroom?

  I pointed down the hall.

  Then I called Mom.

  Forget the overtime.

  Please come home.

  You have to fire the new night nurse.

  I know.

  I know.

  But she’s bad.

  Real bad.

  OK.

  Sorry.

  I know.

  I KNOW.

  Bye.

  Marisol has these crazy fingers.

  They’re long,

  like longer than normal.

  And they wrap around things,

  like maybe she has vines growing inside her.

  This afternoon her fingers were twirling

  crazy shapes

  in front of Levi’s face.

  She’s teaching him sign language.

  She’s giving him a voice.

  milk milk milk

  more more more

  more milk more milk more milk

  Marisol said it over and over

  while her fingers curled,

  vines squeezing air.

  Levi stared at her

  and smiled

  and swatted at her hands.

  Marisol took his hand,

  took his tiny fingers

  that are not like vines

  and she tried to shape them into

  milk milk milk

  more more more

  more milk more milk more milk.

  But he just wanted the cell phone

  in the pocket of her scrubs.

  (He likes to push buttons.

  Kind of like me.

  Ha.)

  I sat next to Marisol

  and tried to turn my fingers into vines.

  more more more

  milk milk milk

  more milk more milk more milk

  Good, said Marisol.

  Good job, Timothy.

  She handed me Levi’s bottle.

  Her long fingers touched mine

  for just a second

  and the weirdest thing happened.

  I wanted to hug her

  really tight

  and feel her hands wrap around me

  like vines never letting go.

  And I wanted to sign

  more more more

  so she’d never stop hugging me back.

  Please don’t ever tell her.

  WEEK 9

  I will never do it again.

  You must know that, James.

  I will never do it again.

  Even though sometimes I wonder

  just a tiny wonder

  a little piece of dust-sized wonder

  miniature wonder

  you can only see under a wonderscope.

  What if . . .

  What if . . .

  What if I had one more magic wallet . . .

  What if all the bills got paid
. . .

  I will never do it again, James.

  The wonder is very tiny.

  The what if is too dangerous.

  So I will never do it again.

  But I do wonder.

  I do.

  Hey Dad,

  I’m writing this because I have to.

  Mrs. Bainbridge is making me write it

  in her office

  with the plants.

  Well, I’m not writing this with the plants.

  You know what I mean.

  Well, no, you don’t.

  You don’t even know Mrs. Bainbridge.

  You don’t even know why I’m here.

  You don’t know anything.

  Did you ever know anything?

  Did you ever think about me?

  About Mom?

  About Levi?

  How we feel?

  What we want?

  I guess you only thought about your car

  and how fast you would drive it

  away, away, away.

  I wish I could drive

  away, away, away.

  But even if I could, I wouldn’t.

  Because there are people to take care of.

  People you left behind.

  I don’t want to write this anymore.

  Mrs. Bainbridge, there isn’t even a place to send it.

  You can’t hear an angry burrito cry

  when that angry burrito

  is a baby with a trach

  wrapped in a blanket

  so that his arms and legs can’t move

  so that you can bend his neck over a towel

  so that you can pull the tube from his neck

  and put in a new, clean one.

  The angry burrito does not like you

  when you help do this,

  even when you burrito-ize him

  in his favorite spaceship blanket.

  Even when you whisper a story about

  dragons and a knight

  who talks with his hands.

  The angry burrito turns weird colors

  while your mom and his nurse

  work with superfast ninja moves

  to get that breathing tube switched out

  1-2-3 FAST.

  The angry burrito stops crying

  when you give him a bottle

  pat his fuzzy head

  say, Good job, Levi, good job, little burrito.

  The angry burrito drinks too fast.

  The angry burrito barfs and

  the ties around his neck

  the brand-new ties

  get covered in barf

  so you have to help switch them out again

  and the whole scene starts over

  an endless loop