House Arrest Read online

  because you have nothing better to do on a Saturday

  than make up stories about dragons

  to soothe an angry burrito.

  Confession:

  I ran to José’s house today,

  just for three minutes

  to borrow his math book.

  Mom knew where I was going.

  She watched from the doorway.

  But now I can’t think about math.

  I can only think about other dimensions

  like maybe right now our world exists somewhere else,

  but everyone has bunny ears

  or their butts on the fronts of their bodies.

  When I go to José’s house it’s like another dimension.

  The house is exactly the same as mine,

  same rooms in the same places

  except it is also exactly different.

  They have seven people,

  we have three.

  They have noise and chaos,

  we do too.

  But it’s just all so different,

  so different.

  It’s hard for me to figure out

  who has the best chaos—

  Beeping alarms, or screeching sisters?

  Backpacks everywhere, or medical supplies?

  Fuzzy baby head, or guinea pig running loose?

  And all of it,

  all of it is hidden behind the same-looking front door,

  the same-looking windows,

  the same-looking garage.

  A whole different dimension.

  It’s just three houses down.

  And the only real thing we share

  between the two places

  is this one lousy math book

  that I can’t even concentrate on.

  José’s dad bought a car.

  It’s a car he says used to be cool.

  Now it looks like a giant rusted turtle

  with no guts inside.

  T-man, you can’t keep doing this.

  The box drops at my feet.

  Don’t call me T-man.

  A bobblehead falls next to my foot.

  I don’t crush it.

  I need the trunk for groceries.

  Her hands on her hips.

  Her jaw clenching.

  Put this stuff away.

  The toe of my shoe pushes at the box.

  Football. Shaving cream. Random Dad stuff.

  I imagine it on fire.

  I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava.

  I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava

  with fireproof sharks circling it.

  I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava

  with fireproof sharks circling it

  and shooting it with their laser eyes.

  There are never any groceries to go in the trunk.

  I say it quietly. To the box.

  Levi starts coughing.

  Mom goes to him.

  When I kick the box, more stuff falls out.

  The suction machine is louder than my kicks.

  I kick and kick and kick

  until Mom stops suctioning

  until Levi stops coughing.

  Now I’m in my room.

  The box is not on fire.

  And it’s not in the trunk.

  And the bobblehead is not in my hand.

  And I’m not thinking about Dad.

  And how he sucks even more than the suction machine.

  You know those super sunny days?

  The ones that come out of nowhere,

  where every slant of sunshine

  bursts through the window blinds

  warming up whatever they touch

  not too hot

  but just right

  and you can feel the sun burning on your face

  burning in a good way

  like if you could stand inside fireworks and not

  get burned?

  This fresh-squeezed orange juice

  left on the porch

  with a box of chocolate doughnuts

  and a bag of breakfast tacos

  with fiery red salsa

  is making the inside of my mouth feel

  just like those fireworks

  just like that slant of sunshine.

  WEEK 10

  I know I can’t go to José’s house

  to help work on the car.

  Duh, James.

  I was just mentioning it, that’s all.

  You don’t have to always jump down my throat

  trying to snatch away my words

  like they are bombs about to tear the world apart.

  I’m just writing in my journal

  like I’m supposed to do.

  Jeez.

  Do you think every thought I have

  is about breaking rules?

  Do you think every thought I have

  is about how to drive you crazy?

  Your squinched-up lips

  and grouchy eyebrows

  say yes.

  Ugh.

  Could you be more of a tool?

  That is not a challenge.

  Baby Signing Adventure.

  A DVD left on the mat,

  seemingly innocent

  but like a time bomb

  ticking ticking ticking

  MILK MILK MILK

  in a CUP CUP CUP

  I LOVE LOVE LOVE

  My MILK in a CUP.

  MORE MORE MORE

  MILK in my CUP

  I LOVE LOVE LOVE

  MORE MILK in my CUP.

  Someone left this DVD for Levi

  but as a punishment for me,

  right?

  Because, you guys.

  This is worse than juvie.

  I am not even kidding.

  Five times he’s watched this DVD today.

  FIVE TIMES.

  Happy leg kicking away.

  I can almost see the smoke

  shooting from his ears

  as that little brain of his works and works.

  But seriously.

  Baby Signing Adventure might kill me.

  For real.

  My ears will bleed from all those songs.

  My heart will explode from running

  to get away from Miss Jill

  and her pointy talking fingers.

  But Levi can’t get enough.

  So thanks.

  Whoever left it here.

  I guess.

  No, Mrs. B.

  There is no way

  no how

  no where

  no when

  that Mom would ever

  in one million years

  allow a benefit to raise money

  to help us.

  Because we don’t need help.

  We’re just like everyone else.

  Or so she says.

  I got home from school,

  Marisol handed me a package.

  An envelope with padding.

  Can you fit a million dollars

  in an envelope with padding?

  I opened it and must have given her a look

  because she laughed.

  What are these?

  Chains.

  I can see that, Marisol.

  For Levi. Come here. Help me.

  We burrito-ized Levi.

  I whispered the story in his ear,

  the one about the dragon

  and the knight who talks with his fingers.

  Marisol unfastened the fabric around his neck,

  the ties that hold his trach in place,

  the ties that get ten times disgusting

  whenever he barfs

  or spits out his milk

  or sweats

  or all of those things combined.

  Marisol gently pulled the ties away from the trach,

  using her other hand to hold the trach in Levi’s neck.

  One slip,

  one distraction,

  and the trach could
fall out,

  could mean no more breathing for Levi.

  Hand me the chains?

  I handed them over and she measured the perfect fit.

  Cut right here.

  I took the wire cutters from the package.

  I cut right there.

  Marisol connected the chain through the trach

  and around Levi’s neck.

  No more yucky ties.

  She smiled.

  So easy to clean.

  I smiled.

  And look at that cute little neck!

  Levi smiled.

  OK. So. Not as good as a million dollars.

  But close.

  There are sharks in my throat.

  Tiny sharks.

  With supersharp teeth.

  With laser eyes.

  They are destroying my throat.

  From the inside out.

  There are trolls in my head.

  Evil trolls.

  With superheavy hammers.

  With thundering fists.

  They are destroying my head.

  From the inside out.

  It’s possible I am dying.

  Infected with sharks and trolls.

  But I have a math test today.

  NO REST FOR THE WEARY.

  I can hear them downstairs.

  Mom has that voice.

  The one she uses when she’s really mad

  but trying to be calm.

  I call it her

  I Will Kill You, But in a Superpolite Way voice.

  Tonight’s nurse is getting a face full of

  IWKYBIASWV

  I hear the words go-bag and organized

  then the fake laugh that is like

  IWKYBIASWV’s sidekick.

  The nurse makes a pshhh noise

  and I want to yell,

  Jump back, lady!

  You’re about to get murdered with words!

  But I stay at the top of the stairs

  listening, listening, listening.

  No one messes with the go-bag.

  It has everything Levi needs if we have to leave the house.

  Not that he ever does.

  Except for doctor visits.

  Or emergencies.

  The go-bag is a work of art.

  Labeled supplies, rescue meds, extra trachs,

  even a handheld suction thing.

  You don’t touch the go-bag.

  You don’t go near the go-bag.

  The go-bag is perfection.

  It’s like a tiny hospital

  in an ugly red duffel.

  I think the nurse tried to reorganize it.

  MISTAKE.

  That go-bag is the most perfect thing

  Dad ever created.

  Except maybe me. Har.

  WEEK 11

  We don’t take Levi out a lot

  because of the germs, you know?

  Sometimes we have to, though.

  And that’s when we see

  Other

  People

  dun dun duuuuuuun.

  First the forehead gets wrinkly,

  then the lips turn down in a frown,

  the head tilts to the side,

  sometimes there’s a tsk-ing noise

  or a sigh and a head shake.

  A lot of times there’s an “I’m sorry.”

  But that’s dumb.

  I mean, come on.

  Why are you sorry, ugly lady at the grocery store?

  Did you give Levi a messed-up airway?

  Did you give him a trach?

  No.

  That’s the one thing I like about you, James.

  Maybe the only thing.

  You see Levi all the time

  And you never say you’re sorry.

  You wash your hands,

  you ruffle his hair,

  you soft-punch his tiny baby shoulder

  and say, What’s up, sir.

  Did they teach you how to not say you’re sorry?

  At Probation Officer University, I mean?

  Or is that just a James thing?

  Either way, thanks.

  Thanks for never being sorry, James.

  Should I call social services?

  Mrs. B asked me that.

  I thought she meant because I’m quiet,

  because my social skills are lacking,

  like I need a tutor for learning how to talk to people,

  but that’s not what she meant.

  If your mom is overwhelmed,

  if there isn’t enough food,

  if it’s not safe for Levi,

  you can tell me, Timothy.

  There are people and places who can help.

  And it was like she hit me.

  Right in the teeth.

  She meant like Family Cops

  who can take away babies

  and kids

  and put them in other people’s houses.

  So I was like NO NO NO NO NO!

  And she had to say OK a hundred times

  and I’m sorry a thousand times

  and I think maybe her eyes filled up with tears.

  It was a little bit crazy.

  But not crazy enough for social services.

  I swear.

  José brought over a crumpled picture.

  Take one turtle

  shoot it with a ray gun

  set to ENLARGE,

  remove the turtle’s eyes,

  replace the turtle’s legs with flat tires,

  take out all of the turtle’s guts,

  replace with rusted metal.

  This is the car José and his dad are fixing up,

  a sad and busted turtle

  who somehow managed to save his shell

  but nothing else.

  How am I supposed to know

  what a stupid seal puller looks like?

  What do you do when your dad yells at you

  for no reason at all?

  The question came out of his mouth

  before he realized what he was saying.

  I said nothing

  but my eyes told him to shut his pie hole.

  My eyes told him to get on back home

  with his dad and their busted-up turtle car.

  So he did.

  And now I feel kind of bad.

  But not that bad.

  José is here.

  Again.

  I’m hiding from him.

  In the bathroom.

  He just . . .

  He never stops talking.

  How much he hates his dad.

  How much he hates that car.

  How much he hates his sisters.

  How much he hates his lunch.

  I just want to punch him in the mouth.

  Hard.

  At least you can hate your dad to his face.

  At least you have time to spend together.

  At least your sisters breathe through their noses.

  At least you have a decent lunch.

  I take back feeling bad yesterday,

  when I was grouchy with him.

  He just doesn’t even know.

  Has zero clues.

  About anything.

  At least he brought his math book over.

  He might not know anything about anything

  but at least he remembers to bring his books

  home from school

  and at least he knows all the x- and y-axis stuff.

  Freakin’ José.

  WEEK 12

  What’s the story with your face?

  You have to work on your social skills, James.

  What’s the story with my face?

  It’s filled with sharks and trolls and snot and fire.

  And now my neck and my knees and my elbows hurt.

  But at least I don’t have a trach, right?

  I can’t really complain about

  the story my face is telling.

  It’s just a cold.
/>   I’m fine.

  You’d think maybe I have the black plague

  the way Mrs. B sucked in her breath

  when she saw me this morning.

  I’m fine.

  It’s just a cold.

  She shook her head.

  Her hair swished.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hair down before.

  You almost look like a movie star, Mrs. B.

  Except with more lines around your eyes.

  No offense.

  She handed me a card.

  People’s Clinic.

  Go get checked out, Timothy.

  Your mom can even take you after work.

  This place is open nice and late.

  I shrugged.

  I didn’t say:

  No nurse tonight.

  No one to watch Levi.

  No way we can bring him with us.

  Maybe I should have.

  It doesn’t matter, though.

  I’m fine.

  It’s just a cold.

  I hate wearing a mask.

  It’s already hard to breathe

  and the mask makes it worse.

  I’ve been trying to stay upstairs.

  Keeping my germs in their own galaxy far, far away.

  But sometimes Mom or Marisol still need my help.

  On her way out the door

  Marisol called up to me.

  I staggered downstairs.

  The zombie formerly known as Timothy.

  She pressed a box in my hand.

  Pills.

  For the flu.

  They’re from last year, but still good.

  Take them, Timothy. Get better, sport.

  I hate it when she calls me sport.

  But I took the pills.

  Even though it’s just a cold.

  The sharks and trolls are battling inside me.

  Marisol’s pills might actually be working.

  Maybe.

  I sat with Levi today.

  Wearing my mask.

  Sanitizing my hands.

  The first day in a long time

  we could kind of hang out.

  I used my short fingers

  to sign brother

  over and over

  and to fold his shorter fingers

  to sign brother

  over and over.

  Brother

  I patted my chest

  then showed him the sign.

  Levi fussed and cried.

  Brother

  I patted his chest

  then showed him the sign again.

  Levi fussed and cried.

  Brothers

  I folded my fingers

  and folded his fingers.

  He pushed away my hands.

  He cried.

  He needed suctioning.