House Arrest Read online

  really

  hates hospitals.

  Now I know your kryptonite, James.

  Now I know if we have all our meetings at the hospital

  you will forget to yell at me,

  all your power lost

  to fear

  of beeps

  and sick babies

  and stinging smells.

  Mrs. B.

  Long blond hair,

  it’s almost like a lion’s mane.

  Sharp eyes.

  Green one day, gray the next,

  almost never blinking.

  She doesn’t look like a devil

  but I feel like I’ve made a deal with one.

  (Does that count as talking about my feelings?)

  Her computer is free for me to use.

  She’ll even help me print stuff,

  but only if I talk about my feelings first.

  Only if we can have a dialogue first.

  Yeah. A deal with the devil.

  The green-eyed devil.

  Take this one.

  And this one.

  And these.

  And this.

  José’s mom is throwing piles of clothes at me.

  José is in the garage working on the turtle car

  with his dad.

  You are so skinny, mijo.

  These are all from two years ago

  but I think they will fit.

  A pile of clothes builds up at my feet

  like a snowdrift of José, the First Generation.

  There’s no way I can say no to these clothes.

  No way José’s mom will let me say no.

  So I gather them up,

  like the ghosts of winters past,

  and already, I feel warmer.

  José’s mom took me to the hospital

  and when we went into Levi’s room

  Mom was asleep

  Levi was asleep

  it was dark and quiet

  except for the

  heartbeeps

  and the nurse popped her head in the door

  a grocery bag in her hand.

  Timothy? Someone left this for you.

  Inside the bag:

  two new toothbrushes

  candy bars

  bananas

  nonslip socks

  a magazine about movie stars

  a magazine about video games

  a Baby Signing Adventure book.

  Who is it from?

  The nurse just shrugged,

  smiled,

  closed the door.

  Levi is feeling much better!

  Maybe just one more week.

  If we don’t jinx it.

  And then he’ll be home.

  And I’ll be home.

  No more IV tubes.

  No more doctors and pokes.

  No more hospital.

  No more fancy home-cooked dinners.

  No more José and Theresa and Sofia and Alé.

  No more Isa.

  How should I feel about that?

  I don’t know how to feel about that.

  Books on the table

  pencils scribbling

  oomPAH oomPAH

  José telling me

  hurry hurry hurry up with your homework

  so we can play Halo.

  Yummy smells coming from the kitchen,

  Isa tapping her fingers on her nose

  counting syllables

  or maybe integers.

  Everyone busy

  but no wild eyes.

  Then a key in the door,

  shuffling shoes.

  José’s mom shouts something from the kitchen,

  José’s dad loosening his tie,

  dropping his briefcase.

  Isa stands and hugs him

  José tells about the math test and how well he did.

  The oomPAHing stops and Alé flies down the stairs.

  They are a crowd

  even with Theresa and Sofia not at home.

  They are all talking at once.

  José’s dad acts annoyed as he tries to get

  to the kitchen

  but he’s smiling.

  José’s mom steps into the dining room

  wipes her hands on her apron

  kisses him big on the mouth

  and I am still at the table

  alone

  feeling suddenly itchy to not be here

  in this house

  but I can’t be anywhere else

  and José’s dad says over the noise,

  Timothy,

  and he nods at me

  and I nod back

  swallowing a rock in my throat

  wondering why everything just got so weird.

  WEEK 17

  I know everything will be back to normal soon.

  I am not a moron, James.

  I know it will not be José’s house all the time.

  I know it will not be José’s mom taking me places.

  I know it will be back to business as usual.

  You don’t have to talk to me like I’m an idiot.

  James.

  Mrs. B.

  School.

  Mom.

  I will be back in the house arrest box.

  I mean, it’s not like I really left it,

  I just had little tunnels

  like those tunnels hamsters get to run around in.

  Those tunnels can stretch across a whole room,

  even up toward the ceiling

  where the little hamster runs and runs.

  But in the end?

  All tunnels lead right back to the cage.

  So don’t worry, James.

  I get it.

  Back to normal soon.

  Fine.

  Look who’s on his wedge

  dangling like a wiggly booger.

  Cutest booger I’ve ever seen.

  Marisol is humming and signing,

  Levi waves his hands

  without actually signing anything.

  I can tell, though.

  He’s happy to be home.

  So happy.

  What is THIS?

  Mom shrieks in the kitchen.

  I knew she would.

  But I also know she won’t give anything back.

  Tamales, enchiladas,

  frozen containers of borracho beans,

  some kind of cake.

  José’s mom.

  She made us dinner for every night this week.

  I gave her my key so she could sneak inside

  and fill up the empty freezer

  while I was at school

  and Mom got Levi home from the hospital.

  We can’t accept this, Mom says

  while she eats a cold tamale.

  Definitely not, I say, taking one,

  sprinkling masa crumbs down my shirt.

  We should totally give these back, I say,

  reaching for another.

  Mom laughs for the first time in a long time.

  She puts frozen beans in the microwave.

  We really shouldn’t accept this, she says again,

  eating a corn bread muffin.

  Definitely not, I repeat.

  The microwave beeps

  and we don’t even get bowls

  we just eat the beans right out of the container.

  Nominate a charity!

  Mrs. B.

  Really.

  Come on.

  Where did you get this?

  Who deserves a Carnival of Giving?

  Mrs. B.

  Seriously.

  Um, A) My family is not a charity

  and 2) Mom would never say yes.

  Not in a hundred million years.

  Nominations for next year’s Carnival start TODAY!

  By next year

  we could all be flattened by an asteroid

  or destroyed by a zombie plague.

  I mean, you don’t know.
r />   How can you plan for next year

  when tomorrow seems like

  a hundred years away?

  P.S. Don’t rip flyers off the middle school walls.

  That is super creepy.

  FYI

  Here’s the thing with school, overall:

  It exists.

  It’s a thing.

  I go to it.

  I come home.

  I don’t love it.

  I don’t hate it.

  It feels like a giant mountain just—

  BAM

  right in the middle of the road

  slowing down the rest of my life

  in a super annoying kind of way.

  I can’t get over it, because it’s too . . . much.

  Unmoving.

  Unmoved.

  Unmoveable.

  And the only way around it

  is to carve a tunnel through it,

  through dirt and crap in every direction

  trying to maybe find something useful along the way

  but mostly just getting annoyed

  because there seems to be no end to the tunnel

  or the crap

  that just goes on

  forever and forever and forever.

  WEEK 18

  What are you feeling today, Timothy?

  Mrs. B asks this every week.

  Not how are you feeling, Timothy, but what are

  you feeling.

  I am feeling José’s shirt on my back.

  I am feeling my toes pressed against the tips

  of my shoes.

  I am feeling the squishy couch under my butt.

  I am feeling the breeze from the vent

  blowing down my neck.

  I am feeling the broken pencil in my pocket.

  I am feeling the itch of a zit on my nose.

  I am feeling the growl in my stomach because

  it’s past lunch

  and not quite dinnertime.

  But what do I say?

  I feel nothing, Mrs. B.

  I feel nothing.

  Feeling nothing doesn’t earn me time on the computer.

  You know how that makes me feel?

  Sad

  Mad

  Tired

  Grouchy

  Frustrated

  Those are not dwarves.

  They are feelings, OK?

  They are like nickels and quarters

  jangling, jangling, jangling

  buying me time on Mrs. B’s computer.

  What are you looking for?

  Mrs. B’s hair slides around off her shoulder

  trapping her face next to mine

  trapping us in a corner

  trapping me until I answer.

  A doctor.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I feel the warmth of her face

  near my face.

  I smell her perfume or shampoo

  that somehow smells tired.

  I type subglottic stenosis

  and click search.

  Mrs. B writes something down.

  She slides a piece of paper toward me.

  Subglottic stenosis pediatric doctor

  I type in the extra words.

  There are 35,600 results.

  So many links.

  Mrs. B stands up

  her hair slides back into place.

  For one second her hand touches my shoulder

  then she moves away.

  35,600 results.

  That’s a lot of doctors, right?

  I suddenly feel a lot less trapped.

  By everything.

  Yeah.

  35,600 is not the number of doctors

  who fix broken babies,

  it’s just a bunch of studies

  and hospitals

  and things that have nothing to do with anything.

  Uuugh.

  Now what?

  Mystery bag contents for the week:

  Bread

  Milk

  Cheese

  Bologna

  Spaghetti

  Sauce

  Vanilla yogurt

  Frozen OJ

  And in a second mystery bag:

  popcorn kernels

  butter

  an action movie DVD

  with the $4.99 sticker still on it.

  When I picked up the bag

  off the mat

  I looked down the street

  like I always do

  and this time

  this time

  I saw something.

  A red car turning by the stop sign.

  The same color red as James’s car.

  Mom and I are watching the movie

  upstairs

  alone

  with popcorn

  in her bed!

  It’s so weird

  hearing the suction machine downstairs

  and knowing Levi is down there

  but that we’re up here.

  Every time I hear it I jump

  but Mom’s hand goes to my knee.

  He’s fine, she smiles.

  Let’s have some you-and-me time, OK?

  OK.

  I should be used to night nurses by now,

  but we hardly ever get one scheduled.

  It’s nice.

  But weird.

  I better put this notebook down

  before I get butter all over it.

  Are you leaving these bags, James?

  Has it been you the whole time?

  Even at the hospital?

  Because I know how much you hate hospitals.

  It must have been hard

  to show up there anyway

  and pay to park

  and go inside

  and get buzzed into the ICU

  and stay hidden from us

  and give a bag to a nurse

  and ask her to give it to us.

  I mean, that’s a lot of stuff to do

  when you’re scared of a place.

  Our breath must have been really bad

  for you to go to all that trouble

  to get us new toothbrushes.

  If it was you leaving the bags.

  It might not have been.

  I don’t know.

  Leaving bags of cool stuff . . .

  that doesn’t seem like a

  Probation Officer University thing.

  That seems like just a nice person thing.

  WEEK 19

  We’ll find the money.

  Mom was talking to herself.

  We’ll find a way.

  Her face leaning forward,

  her hands in her hair,

  papers all over the kitchen table.

  She didn’t see me

  so I snuck back upstairs.

  The Carnival of Giving.

  I’m thinking about it.

  Thinking about that stupid flyer

  Mrs. B stole from school.

  The one still crumpled up on my desk,

  the one I can’t quite throw away.

  Mom would never say yes.

  I can’t help but wonder . . .

  No.

  It’s stupid.

  We’re fine.

  Please don’t worry.

  It’s not like we live in a cave in China.

  Or in a hut in Africa.

  It’s not like there are flies circling my face.

  Or clods of dirt caked on my feet.

  We have enough.

  We’re OK.

  Please, Mrs. B, don’t talk about social services again.

  We’re doing our best.

  We’re fine.

  What is that, T-man?

  Don’t call me T-man.

  I held up the bag so Mom could see inside.

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  Thick-cut bacon

  sourdough bread

  eggs

  syrup

  a cactus with a pink flowerr />
  and a pair of tiny socks

  exactly Levi’s size.

  I know it’s you, James.

  Only you could give things

  prickly and soft

  sweet and sour

  all at the same time.

  You and that journal, Timothy.

  Isa sat next to me at lunch, smiled,

  made my head go all sunny.

  I didn’t know she had B lunch.

  My cheeks went red from the sun in my brain.

  I have to keep the journal. Court-ordered.

  (You know, when she nods, her hair shines extra shiny

  like she must have sun in her head, too,

  shining through.)

  What are you doing here, gordita?

  José dropped his tray next to mine

  splattering spaghetti sauce

  making Isa jump back and scowl.

  I’m tutoring during C lunch.

  Maybe you should skip lunch.

  Then he puffed out his cheeks and laughed.

  I really wish he wouldn’t do things like that.

  She’s his sister, fine.

  But still.

  Isa stood up, no bites taken from her lunch.

  See you later, Timothy.

  She turned, and was gone.

  My cheeks still red, but now for a different reason.

  How goes the turtle?

  Huh?

  The car? How’s it going? With your dad?

  Oh. Fine.

  Are you, like, bonding and stuff ?

  I don’t know.

  He’s not teaching you the meaning of life?

  I don’t know. Mostly he yells at me a lot.

  Oh.

  Yeah.

  Thanks for the food.

  I just brought it over. But you’re welcome.

  Bye.

  Bye.

  José is acting weird.

  WEEK 20

  We were laughing so hard,

  so hard that no sound was coming out.

  Me and Mom

  laughing and laughing

  because the birthday candle wouldn’t stand up

  in the pile of vanilla yogurt

  in the blue bowl

  on Levi’s tray.

  It would pitch one way

  and then the other

  and Mom would scream and laugh

  as she tried to get it upright

  and not burn her fingers.

  I thought Levi was laughing, too,

  at first,

  maybe trying to blow out the candle

  with puffs of air from his neck.

  But he wasn’t laughing or puffing,

  he was choking.