House Arrest Read online

  really likes purple.

  Based on her clothes

  and her smell.

  Is it weird that I think she smells

  well

  a little purple?

  Never mind.

  Just . . . thanks for taking me today

  to find this replacement plant

  that is partially purple

  kind of like Mrs. B is

  herself.

  That James.

  This is what Mrs. B said.

  Not, Well, thank-you, Timothy!

  Or, You’re so sweet, Timothy!

  That James.

  And then she got this look on her face

  like she was going to happy-cry

  which made me feel sweaty.

  That James.

  He’s a keeper, huh?

  And I was like,

  Um, I have no choice?

  The court says I have to keep him.

  Like James is a watchdog.

  A plant-buying,

  secret dropper-offer of food,

  sometimes red-car-driving,

  most times grouchy-faced,

  shoe-providing

  guard dog.

  Mrs. B loved the plant.

  And I think she might love you, James

  even though you have not met

  in actual real life.

  She put the plant right next to the computer

  and smiled so big

  I could count her teeth

  even the silver one way, way in back.

  I catch myself sometimes

  wondering how many wallets

  this or that equals.

  How many people

  not paying attention

  could instead be paying

  for a lot of other things.

  Oh, hey, Carla Ramirez!

  Those were my exact words

  when I opened the door to . . .

  Surprise!

  Another visit!

  From our favorite flying squirrel!

  Sigh.

  Levi had rolled under the TV stand,

  totally twisted up in his tubes and wires,

  like a squirming, smiling knot of TV cords.

  I dragged him out,

  dusted him off,

  gave him a quick suction.

  Carla Ramirez kept her distance,

  not too close to the explosive baby,

  not too close to the Joker-smiling big brother.

  She found Mom in the kitchen,

  washing bottles.

  And Mary on the back porch,

  having a lunch break

  in the sun

  with, of course, zero cares in the world.

  First Carla Ramirez rule:

  Timothy can never be with Levi unsupervised.

  Second Carla Ramirez rule:

  Timothy can never be home with just Levi and Mary.

  Third Carla Ramirez rule:

  That hot water situation has to be on a higher shelf.

  She said she’d close the investigation,

  that obviously Mom is working hard,

  and I am working hard,

  and Levi is working hard,

  and there is no medical neglect.

  I saw Mary standing in the doorway

  listening in.

  I saw her face twist in the shadows

  like a supervillain

  her look of disapproval,

  her head-shakingness over the whole thing.

  Fourth Carla Ramirez rule:

  Find a better daytime nurse for Levi.

  (That’s not really a Carla Ramirez rule.

  But it should be.)

  We already knew it was against the rules,

  technically,

  for me to be at home with Mary and Levi

  without Mom.

  It’s always been against the rules,

  but sometimes you have to be bendy

  to make things work.

  Marisol was good at rule bendiness.

  Marisol was good at so many things.

  But now Carla Ramirez,

  Flying Squirrel Social Worker Superstar,

  means business.

  So I’m sitting here,

  on this hard and dirty concrete

  listening to José’s dad

  grunt and growl and curse

  while José looks helplessly

  at a spool of something

  hanging out of the turtle car’s

  wide-open trunk mouth.

  I wonder what Mary and Levi are doing.

  WEEK 32

  When it was late

  and you said,

  I’m off the clock. C’mon, let’s go,

  at first I thought I was in trouble.

  I looked into the deepest parts of myself

  to figure what new thing I’d done wrong.

  But then we got there.

  It was so fun, James!

  I’ve never done that before.

  CRACK

  CRACK

  CRACK

  Swinging the bat so hard.

  Am I really a natural?

  I’ve never been a natural at anything.

  Batting cages.

  Who knew?

  That was so fun, James.

  Did you break house arrest rules

  just for me?

  Will you get in trouble?

  Can we go again?

  Yeah?

  What do I need?

  Good question, Mrs. B.

  I need a time machine

  so I can go back

  and never ever ever EVER

  tell you

  that we need more nursing hours.

  A time machine to bring Marisol back.

  A time machine to talk to Dad on that rainy night.

  A time machine for so many things.

  Can you do that?

  Huh?

  ’Cause that’s what I need,

  Mrs. B.

  Dear Dr. Sawyer,

  OK. For real. Please write me back.

  This is Timothy Davidson again.

  Levi is getting sick

  all the time

  because of his trach

  and the germs going

  straight into his lungs.

  Please help him not need the trach.

  Have you seen Star Wars?

  Please, Dr. Sawyer,

  you’re our only hope.

  Timothy Davidson

  This little booger.

  He will sign milk and more and please.

  He will sign Mama and music.

  He will sign hot and cold.

  He will sign hurt.

  He will sign dog when I need a haircut.

  But he will not sign brother.

  He just won’t do it.

  I didn’t want to say this

  but I can’t get it out of my mind,

  like that red dust in space

  that makes big clouds around a supernova

  and doesn’t move for eons,

  that’s what this is doing in my brain,

  sitting heavy and messy,

  getting all over everything else

  so that it doesn’t matter what I think.

  There are little parts of this stuck inside:

  Carla Ramirez,

  Flying Squirrel Extraordinaire,

  she said,

  Looking into a facility might not be a bad idea

  until you get back on your feet.

  I can help

  if you need me to.

  You just let me know.

  And her card is on our fridge

  held up by the magnet we got at the beach

  two years ago

  when we did things like go to the beach.

  “

  Sofia dances through the living room

  headphones on

  but so loud

  I can hear all the songs.

  Theresa is out back kicking t
he soccer ball

  up against the house

  bang bang bang bang.

  Alé’s tuba is nonstop

  even during the summer

  because marching band tryouts

  are in a few months.

  José is killing things on the Xbox

  bullets ricochet off rocks and Kevlar.

  I’m not interested in killing anything

  not today.

  I worry about Levi

  home alone with Mary

  without me there to hear the things,

  those things that come out of her mouth.

  The garage is the only quiet place,

  the only place where my mind can hear itself.

  But there’s already someone in the turtle car.

  Isa curled up in the passenger seat.

  Her glasses on the tip of her nose.

  A book in her hands.

  I slide in next to her,

  shut the door quietly,

  put my hands on the steering wheel

  then my forehead on it, too.

  Isa’s hand,

  light as a butterfly,

  lands on the back of my neck.

  And neither of us says one word.

  WEEK 33

  No I will not ask her.

  What is this?

  Are you also twelve?

  YOU ask her.

  James, you are going to make me go to juvie

  so fast my head will spin

  because I am going to flick you in your beard

  if you keep asking me about Mrs. B.

  Fine.

  I will look and report back.

  You know she reads this, though, right?

  This is not very sneaky of you.

  It was like 147 degrees this afternoon.

  I’m not exaggerating.

  My jeans were stuck to me

  in places you don’t want to think about.

  Where are your shorts, Timothy?

  Mrs. B was wearing a floaty dress.

  It’s so hot. You’ll get heatstroke wearing jeans.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Go in there.

  She pointed to her tiny bathroom.

  Hand me your jeans.

  My swamp-ass jeans?

  That haven’t been washed in weeks?

  Ha! No way, you crazy lady!

  That’s not what I said, though.

  I just shook my head.

  A broken record head shaker.

  Then she snapped at me!

  A hurry-up, Mom-person kind of finger snap.

  So I went into the bathroom, hid behind the door,

  threw my swamp-ass jeans at her.

  Waited, hidden, in my underpants.

  Face hot.

  Butt cooling off.

  After a few minutes,

  knock, knock.

  A hand reached around the corner,

  like in a horror movie.

  But instead of a hatchet,

  this hand was holding shorts.

  Cutoff shorts that used to be jeans.

  I put them on.

  My knees breathed for the first time in weeks.

  I stepped out of the bathroom and Mrs. B smiled,

  a triumphant benefactor.

  Those were José’s jeans, I said.

  She stopped smiling.

  I started smiling.

  Then I started laughing.

  And she started laughing.

  And I thought we would never stop.

  Dear Dr. Sawyer,

  Subglottic stenosis.

  That’s what Levi has.

  I know you know what that means,

  it is like taping your nostrils shut

  and trying to breathe through a tiny coffee straw

  glued to your lips.

  That’s why he has the trach.

  Your website says

  you fix things like this

  and since you have a website

  I imagine—

  and I am only guessing here—

  you must know how to use a computer.

  Also, your super fancy fingers

  that can magically fix tracheas

  must also be able to—

  and I am still just guessing—

  type e-mails.

  Please write me back.

  Timothy

  It’s so hot that

  if the sun had a sun

  and that sun had a sun

  and you put all of the suns together

  in one giant oven

  set on

  BROIL

  then set that oven on fire

  that would be about half as hot as it is today.

  Just walking to José’s house

  I sweated about sixteen gallons

  which is exactly what Isa said

  when she opened the door.

  Did you sweat sixteen gallons

  walking over here?

  Her nose turned up.

  Shut UP, Gordita.

  José pushed her out of the way,

  pushed a controller in my hand.

  Aliens to kill, bro. Stat.

  I gave Isa a look that hopefully said

  sorry for being gross,

  sorry your brother is an idiot,

  sorry it is the fiery hotness of ten thousand suns today.

  She gave me a look that said

  take a shower.

  Don’t.

  Mom pointed at me before I could say anything.

  Papers all over the table,

  a calculator,

  Carla Ramirez’s card,

  an open brochure for

  the facility.

  Don’t.

  She couldn’t look at me,

  couldn’t look at Levi in my arms

  signing more dog instead of brother,

  pulling my hair.

  DON’T!

  She shouted it this time,

  standing up fast,

  fluttering the papers,

  knocking the chair over,

  making Levi cry.

  I didn’t say any—

  I tried to talk

  but she pointed at me again.

  She started to cry,

  ran upstairs.

  Mama sad,

  Levi signed.

  Mama sad.

  Mama sad.

  Mama sad.

  He just kept signing it

  until I put my hand over his hands.

  Yeah, little dude.

  Mama sad.

  More dog sad, too.

  That crumpled flyer

  from so many weeks ago,

  the one for the Carnival of Giving . . .

  it’s still on my desk.

  Making our family a charity

  would probably make Mom more sad.

  But I’ve really been thinking about talking to them,

  the Carnival people, I mean.

  I really might just do it.

  Talk to them, I mean.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  Hmm.

  WEEK 34

  James.

  Stop.

  You sound like Mrs. B.

  Just stop with the you get more bees with honey

  than with vinegar.

  WHO WANTS BEES?!

  Not me.

  I want Dr. Sawyer

  to write. me. back.

  RIGHT NOW.

  I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

  (P.S. Speaking of Bs,

  Mrs. B doesn’t wear any rings

  in answer to your question from last week.

  I saw zero of them on her fingers.

  But that doesn’t mean anything, you know.

  Mom still wears two rings

  on her “I’m married” finger,

  just FYI.)

  Sometimes we never know why people

  do the things they do.

  Mrs. B said it with that frown-smile.

  You know the one.


  Grown-ups do it when they’re being

  SEEEERIOUS.

  Sometimes we never know why people

  do the things they do.

  But we still love those people.

  Even when we’re mad.

  Mrs. B added in the last part just as she ducked her head

  lower and to the side

  so her eyes

  and my eyes

  were even.

  And she didn’t blink.

  And I didn’t blink.

  And she did the frown-smile again.

  And I don’t know why, but

  I wanted to just cry my eyes out.

  Supplies came today.

  I watched Mary sort through them all,

  her head-shakingness in full force.

  So many things

  for such a little baby.

  She sighed big and fake

  like she was on TV or something.

  Levi scooted over to her

  tried to grab some tubing.

  No. Not for you.

  Mary snatched it out of his hands

  and I said,

  Wait.

  That tubing is exactly for him.

  Why can’t he check it out?

  Mary didn’t answer,

  just clicked her tongue against her teeth.

  Timothy,

  she said,

  you’re not allowed to be in here.

  Then she looked up

  and smiled.

  You push it with your left foot

  then shift into gear.

  It’s the clutch, dummy.

  Isa was laughing at me,

  laughing when I asked why the turtle car

  has two brakes.

  Push, shift, gas.

  Or something like that.

  I don’t know how to drive!

  She put her hand on my hand.

  She laughed again.

  It’s the best sound,

  Isa laughing.

  Way better than the

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  that José yelled when he came in the garage.

  The engine still isn’t working

  it’s not like the car was ON or anything.

  Though I’m kind of worried

  he wasn’t really mad about the car.

  Him

  You

  Can’t

  Don’t

  Stop

  No

  NO

  Mom is on the phone.

  I may

  or may not be

  pressing my ear to the door

  listening so hard

  I can hear my heartbeat

  in between her words.

  I don’t know who it is.

  I’m too afraid to ask.

  WEEK 35