House Arrest Read online

We were laughing,

  not noticing

  until he turned blue

  and Mom swore

  yanking him from his high chair

  throwing him on the couch

  ripping the emergency trach from where we leave it

  taped to the wall.

  I held him down,

  she swapped out the trachs,

  suctioned and suctioned and suctioned

  gave him oxygen puffs from the big tank

  until his eyes cleared

  his smile woke up

  his little hands signed more more more.

  And that is the story of Levi’s first birthday.

  I think, actually, it is kind of perfect.

  We need more help.

  The words slip out between my teeth

  like mud dripping from fingers.

  Slow. Uncontrolled.

  drip

  plop

  splat

  Mrs. B looks up.

  She’s trying not to look surprised

  but her forehead gives her away.

  One line between her eyes

  for each word out of my mouth.

  She puts down her pen.

  Her eyes hold my eyes

  like two tractor beams.

  What kind of help?

  Her voice is very quiet

  like maybe I’m a squirrel

  and she’s trying to feed me an acorn

  from the palm of her hand.

  Come closer, little squirrel.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  We need a nurse every day, I say.

  Every day and every night.

  Mrs. B nods. She writes something down.

  She looks up.

  Good job, little squirrel.

  Good job.

  Mrs. B puts her other hand on my hand.

  I don’t pull it away.

  A soft knock.

  Can’t be the mailman.

  He bangs.

  Can’t be the medical supply delivery guy.

  He was here last week.

  Another soft knock.

  Maybe it’s a million-dollar delivery.

  I open the door.

  Hi, Timothy.

  Hands holding a covered dish

  stacked with another covered dish

  and a small paper bag on the tippy-top—

  black hair shines

  black glasses slipping down her nose

  she peeks around the pile of food

  she smiles and looks away.

  My face feels warm.

  Hi, Isa.

  Mami sent dinner.

  But I don’t hear her words.

  I only see her fingertips

  wrapped around the dishes,

  her nails painted with stars.

  Little yellow stars.

  A whole unknown universe

  on each small finger.

  Maybe I would ask Dad

  for advice about girls

  but probably not

  though you never know

  not like I need advice

  about girls

  I mean

  I’m just saying.

  Never mind.

  At school today

  I caught myself,

  like actually stopped in my tracks

  in the hallway outside of gym,

  and put both hands over my mouth.

  I was humming the theme song to

  Baby Signing Adventure

  and I was liking it.

  WEEK 21

  How big are your feet?

  I thought you were speaking in code, James.

  That’s why I didn’t answer.

  Not at first.

  I was deciphering your code.

  How big are your feet?

  You mean for running from crimes committed?

  How big are your feet?

  You mean, will I be tall enough

  to beat you up one day?

  How big are your feet?

  For stomping and pitching fits?

  But you meant it just like you asked it.

  How big are my feet.

  Then you plopped down the sneakers.

  Not new, but almost new.

  Check out these kicks.

  And you thought you were so cool

  saying kicks instead of sneakers.

  James. James. James.

  But you got the size exactly right.

  Did you used to work at a carnival?

  Now that would be cool.

  (Thanks for the sneakers.)

  (I mean kicks.)

  (Well, no, I don’t. I mean sneakers.)

  (Ha.)

  What do you think about

  when you think about your father?

  Mrs. B sounds so formal

  when she asks questions like that.

  What do I think about?

  I look at the phone on Mrs. B’s desk.

  It’s rectangular and flat,

  shiny and smooth,

  sometimes it vibrates or beeps

  and she ignores it because we’re talking

  or, really, she’s talking.

  But Dad never ignored his phone

  that was also rectangular and flat,

  shiny and smooth,

  and never far from his hand.

  It had games on it

  and beeps from doctors and people at work,

  and reminders for Levi’s appointments.

  This is kind of like the heart of the family,

  he said once

  holding it up

  as it chirped with messages.

  Everything circulates through this phone.

  Cool, huh?

  And I said, Cool.

  And I was so stupid

  on the rainy day when he went to the pharmacy

  to pick up Levi’s meds.

  So stupid.

  Because I noticed he’d left his phone

  right there on the kitchen counter

  black and smooth.

  He’d left the heart of the family

  right there in the open

  with nothing but a dying battery.

  And I should have known it was a clue.

  I should have known

  if he could leave the heart of the family

  he could leave us, too.

  That’s what I think about

  when I think about my father.

  Can I use the computer now?

  She thought she was being sneaky,

  that I wouldn’t notice the picture

  back on the wall.

  The one with me

  and Dad

  and a football in the air

  frozen in a moment of time

  so long ago.

  But I noticed.

  When she got home from work

  and saw the picture,

  saw the newly drawn devil horns

  and evildoer mustache

  and vampire teeth

  all on Dad’s face . . .

  She noticed.

  But all she said was

  Fair enough.

  And then we ate dinner

  smiling into our spaghetti.

  Who is in charge of that Carnival thing?

  The Carnival of Giving?

  Why does it have such a dumb name?

  Why can’t it be the

  Secretly Put Money in This Envelope Celebration

  or the

  Congrats, You Won the Fake Lottery Party

  or the

  Shut Up and Take the Money Fiesta?

  I’ve been to the Carnival before.

  The people who are getting the money give speeches

  on a stage,

  a stage filled with balloons.

  They smile and wave

  and take all the money back to their

  homeless dogs or

  nonexistent skate park or

  library with not enough books.

 
I’ve never seen a family make those speeches.

  I’ve never seen just three people get the money.

  I mean, we’re not a charity,

  so it’s not even possible.

  I should throw this flyer away.

  They’ve found us more hours.

  At first I didn’t know what Mom meant.

  They’ve found us more hours?

  Who?

  Wizards?

  Scientists?

  A secret group of time-pausing elves?

  Do we really need more hours?

  Aren’t the days long enough?

  Won’t we get older faster?

  Won’t we be more tired?

  Who actually needs more hours?

  More nursing hours, Timothy.

  I smiled, said:

  Maybe Marisol could just move in.

  It was a joke.

  But Mom’s face crumpled.

  It just caved in on itself.

  Marisol can’t work full time.

  The nursing agency will send someone new.

  Wait.

  What?

  No more Marisol?

  Just like that?

  Is this from the conversation I had with Mrs. B?

  Could she have called the nursing people?

  Changed things up just like that?

  What have I done?

  I really do need a time machine now,

  so I can go back in time and never open

  my big mouth.

  WEEK 22

  I robbed a bank yesterday

  and ran so fast

  no one could catch me.

  It was because of these kicks, James.

  These shoes you got me.

  They were like hurricane-force winds,

  blowing me through the streets.

  And I even let some of the money

  driiiiift behind me

  like those streams of exhaust

  crisscrossing the sky

  when airplanes zoom off to faraway places.

  I wanted to say thank you to the police for

  being sooooo sloooooow.

  I wanted to say thank you to the people for

  cheering as I ran past.

  I wanted to say thank you to you, James,

  for giving me the world’s fastest shoes.

  Good thing you can’t go to juvie for a dream, right?

  You know I’m twelve, right?

  Seventh grade?

  I change trachs in my spare time?

  Rob banks in my dreams?

  Mom just laughed.

  Shook her head.

  She rang the doorbell.

  I don’t need a babysitter.

  Mom’s eyebrows went up.

  Tell that to the judge, T-man.

  Don’t call me T-man.

  José’s mom answered the door,

  just like always, her smile showing first.

  Hola, mijo.

  Her voice smooth,

  like a hand on my cheek.

  She pulled me into a hug.

  I couldn’t pull away, so I gave in.

  Melted a little, I guess,

  feeling her bigness surround me,

  her softness protecting me

  like those heavy pillows Mrs. B uses,

  keeping me still

  keeping me calm.

  Thank you, Carmen.

  Mom’s voice sounded smiley but tight.

  Levi’s clinic appointments can go really long,

  three doctors,

  physical therapy,

  occupational therapy,

  speech therapy . . .

  José’s mom held up her hand.

  I’ll drop him at school and pick him up after.

  No te preocupes.

  Mom’s hand reached out,

  squeezed José’s mom’s hand.

  You’re a lifesaver, Carmen.

  I can tell by Mom’s voice, though,

  she’s going to be preocupes

  by a lot of things.

  Levi doesn’t understand.

  He squirms.

  He fusses.

  Marisol is holding him to her chest.

  Squeezing him.

  Smelling his baby hair.

  A tear falls down her cheek.

  I look away.

  This is all my fault.

  Something that seemed so good.

  Has turned out terrible.

  Yet again.

  Keep me updated.

  Mom nods.

  She has on her I Am Brave and Will Not Cry face.

  I’ll be back to visit.

  Mom nods again.

  Timothy.

  Marisol puts Levi down.

  She turns to me.

  Does she hate me?

  Does she know this is my fault?

  Marisol signs brother.

  She sniffs. She smiles.

  Keep teaching him, OK?

  I sign OK

  because now it’s my throat that’s too tight to talk.

  Feelings, feelings, feelings.

  How is it that

  I can have so many feelings

  that they all swirl together

  until I feel so much all at one time

  that it’s almost like I feel

  nothing at all?

  I’m not making sense.

  Sorry.

  Can I still use your computer?

  Mrs. B?

  Please?

  Tiny curls all over her head.

  Gray. Like dishwater.

  Her face

  like someone with giant fingers

  pinched her mouth, nose, eyes

  into a point.

  Her scrubs

  covered in clowns.

  Clowns.

  Really.

  Yes.

  Clowns.

  And her voice?

  Fake, high-pitched.

  She talks to Levi like he’s a dog.

  An especially stupid dog.

  Mary.

  That’s her name.

  So close to Marisol, but so different.

  I hate her so much

  my hands shake.

  What have I done?

  WEEK 23

  All I’m saying is

  you haven’t met her

  have you, James?

  No.

  So you can say hate is a strong word

  and I will hear your words

  like Mrs. B says.

  I will digest your words

  like a chicken leg

  bouncing in my stomach.

  I will let your words

  move through my blood vessels

  infiltrate my brain

  leave deposits of word vitamins

  through my whole self.

  But I won’t stop saying hate

  because I do hate her.

  Also, I do not think Mrs. B agrees with you.

  She likes feeling words, James.

  They are her sunshine.

  So don’t tell me all these things you know.

  You don’t know anything.

  Dear James,

  Mrs. B is making me write this.

  You are right and I am wrong.

  Mrs. B does, in fact, hate the word hate.

  Well, I guess she dislikes the word hate.

  Very much.

  Feeling words can be strong.

  They can have muscles

  and meat on their bones.

  They can express your spinning guts,

  they can shout your insides to the outside

  (but different than throwing up

  which you can call shouting groceries

  if you want

  because I read it somewhere

  so that’s a thing I am not making up).

  But feeling words should also be meaningful.

  That’s what Mrs. B says.

  Hate is not meaningful.

  Hate is not productive.

  H
ate shouts groceries all over more complex emotions.

  You know, writing this letter is making me want to

  shout groceries.

  Mary makes me want to

  shout groceries.

  A lot of times, James, YOU make me want to

  shout groceries.

  And Mrs. B.

  Oh, you are the queen.

  The queen of spinning my guts.

  So I’m sorry, James,

  for saying you don’t know anything.

  Because you know everything.

  JAMES KNOWS ALL OF THE THINGS.

  JAMES IS THE KING OF EVERYTHING.

  Mrs. B is reading over my shoulder.

  Her cheeks are so red.

  Hahaha.

  She is really ma—

  Levi was wearing cloth trach ties

  instead of the chains.

  Thick, damp ties

  smelling of sour milk,

  baby cheese.

  What are these?

  My voice was loud.

  Mary just looked at me

  with cow eyes.

  Where did the chains go?

  More cow eyes.

  Then, her high-pitched voice:

  The chains are against regulation.

  My loud voice just kept coming:

  The chains keep him happy.

  The chains keep him dry.

  The chains prevent infections on his neck.

  My face is hot, my breathing hard.

  Mom comes in, takes my hand,

  pulls me away

  and while I stand in the kitchen

  hating Mary

  (Yes, James. Yes, Mrs. B. Hating her.)

  I hear Mom say,

  He’s just a boy, yes,

  but he loves his brother very much.

  Are we back to Levi being a screaming burrito

  so many many many times a day?

  Erasing Marisol’s smart idea of the chains?

  That’s when I thought about punching the wall

  right there in the kitchen.

  Pow.

  But I didn’t.

  I just walked out.

  I walked out

  and went to the only place I can go,

  even though technically

  I should have told Mom

  where I was going,

  and even though technically

  I should have told José’s mom

  that I was coming.

  But here I am.

  I won’t stay long.

  I just need to catch my breath.

  Only ten minutes

  ticktock ticktock

  until Sofia needed to start writing her paper,

  until I needed to go back home.

  Isa leaned over my shoulder,

  her hair as the curtain next to my face

  instead of Mrs. B’s curtain.