What's Broken Between Us (9 page)

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I
tell Graham I want to skip sixth period. And in true Graham fashion, he gets us out of class by telling the school administrator we’re a part of the Clean Up Campus program, and we need notes to be excused to collect trash by the tennis courts. Which is exactly what we end up doing, as it’s impossible for Graham to lie.

I hold the bag, Graham picks up the trash. We both wear bright-green sanitation gloves. Still, it’s better than being in class with Henry after what happened at Ludwig’s this morning.

“What would I do without you?” I say, watching him smile. I slowly step closer and closer to him, and his smile gets bigger; he knows what I’m doing.

“You don’t have a personal space bubble at all, do you?” he says when my foot brushes against his.

“Not when it comes to you I don’t.” I take another step in sync with his, and since it’s not possible for him to bend forward to pick up trash with me right here, he stops walking. I step in front of him and kiss him, and pull him toward me until his hands end up around my waist.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” he says, turning red as I nod. “Under the stars,” he says.

It was three days after we dropped Jonathan off at prison, and I was a mess of snot and tears, and wearing my ugly winter fleece pajamas even though it was spring, but Graham remembers the stars. I would spend this entire hour kissing him just for that, but we said we would pick up trash, so that’s what we continue doing.

Two gusts of wind later, he asks, “So how are things at home?”

It feels a bit like he’s following a protocol for how to deal with your girlfriend when her brother returns from prison and she hasn’t wanted to talk about it with you, but is more than happy to fight about it with Henry Crane. Step One: relax girlfriend by returning her kisses; Step Two: bring up a happy memory; Step Three: broach the subject again carefully with a broad statement.

“You mean, how are things with Jonathan?” I call him out.

He nods, looking at the grape soda he’s dumping out instead of at me. When he finally does look at me, his stare is so caring
and sincere, I feel bad that I haven’t brought it up with him sooner.

“Do you remember what he was like before . . . everything?”

Graham shakes his head. “I didn’t really know him. I mean, he was older. . . .”

And the only underclassman Jonathan hung out with was Grace. Graham doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking it.

“But you knew what he was like.” Everyone did.

“Yeah, I guess. He was supposed to be fun, sort of crazy . . . wild.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“He was . . .”
Thoughtful,
I think. So thoughtful that when he told you a joke it was as though it’d been tailored just for you. And genuine—he said something to you, he meant it, he was good for it, he’d fight for it and for you, too. And warm. He was inviting in a way that no one in my family is, including me.

Sociopath
is the word the article in
Time
used to describe him.

I want Graham to see more than that, more than someone who was able to manipulate his way into everyone’s heart. I want to explain to Graham that “things at home,” with Jonathan, the way Jonathan is now, is bleak, and growing worse every day because he doesn’t act like his old self—except for the times when he shouldn’t.

“Hey.” Graham peels off his gloves so he can tuck his hand under my chin and force me to look at him when he tells me, “It’s
not your fault,” for the billionth time.

This time I say, “But I was there.”

“Jonathan was going to do whatever he wanted. His decisions are his own.” He goes on. It’s the same spiel he’s given me many times before; one he knows so well, he could even slur it at me when he was wasted at the homecoming after-party.

It piggybacks off Dawn’s reasoning:
I was with Blake and you were with Henry, and how could we have known?
And thinking about all of it together, and my fight with Henry, presents me with the haunting thought that this front I put up, it might be for me more than it is for other people.

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“
T
oday was an absolutely terrible, no good, very bad day.” This is how Dawn answers the phone when I call her in the bathroom during lunch on Thursday. She rattles on about her probably-definitely failed bio quiz, and how she’s sure the chicken she just ate was undercooked. And I find myself laughing, but mostly wishing I was there laughing with her, in person.

“I told Becky I was going to get salmonella, and she was like, ‘Can’t you only get that from salmon?’” Dawn says.

We share another laugh, and I realize that it’s not just the two of us laughing. There is a third person there laughing just as hard as we are.
Becky.

Becky is Dawn’s replacement roommate after her first
roommate was too homesick to stay in Santa Barbara and went back to Iowa after just two weeks. First Roommate was very quiet, and the unofficial president of the Elvis Fan Club, and she covered her entire side of the dorm room with posters and kept a cardboard cutout of Gold Lamé Elvis stashed in the closet. Replacement Roommate Becky, Dawn and I suspected, would be just as weird in her own way. And she was—dying her hair what she called Beach Bottle Blond because she wanted to “embrace beach culture,” always complaining about how Santa Barbara is colder and wetter than the Phoenix climate she’d been used to all her life, and constantly consuming pickles because she read somewhere that they would shrink her stomach. But more and more I’ve noticed her there, laughing with Dawn on the other end of the line.

“How are you?” Dawn asks. “Are you still avoiding Henry, or are you actually going to class today?” Dawn sees my point and agrees with me about not crying in front of certain people, and especially not in front of my fellow Garfield High students or anyone who had known Grace since she was a newborn. It’s always nice to have to her support, and I guess Becky’s too—I can hear her saying something in the background. She’s definitely putting on a British accent.

“So what happened with your test? I thought you liked bio,” I say, to change the subject.

“The problem isn’t bio, the problem is Becky and I went to a frat party last night and had too many Jell-O shots.”

There are so many clichés in this sentence, I can’t even believe
it’s Dawn delivering the lines.

I listen to them laugh, listen to all the “guess you had to be there” jokes, and pretend that soon this will all be mine. I never thought I wanted frat parties and Jell-O shots, but they have got to be better than what I have now.

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“
N
ice of you to join us today,” Henry greets me when I walk into sixth period after hanging up with Dawn . . . and Becky. He’s strangely upbeat given that yesterday I stormed off in another one of my “huffs.”

“I was picking up trash.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” he jokes, light as ever—practically sucking up, like he feels bad about yesterday morning. I was too honest with him again; I should not have told him that I’m careful about crying; shouldn’t have explained it to him; shouldn’t have been foolish enough to believe that he’d understand; and definitely shouldn’t have been so damn adamant about proving him wrong when he didn’t.

“I finished the project,” he says. “You’re welcome to check it over, but it’s mostly quoting Antonio.”

He tosses me the printed and stapled assignment, complete with the interview and an analysis of it.

“Thank you,” I say, because it really is done well. And it’s not even due until tomorrow.

He shrugs off my gratitude, repositioning himself so he’s facing me. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Alert the press.”

“About what you were saying, outside Ludwig’s.”

There are so many places he could go with this. My heart ramps up to some ungodly number of beats per minute as I wait for him to continue.

“What you said, about being sorry . . .”

Now I’m certain I’ve said too much. I turn away from him, staring at the window, where a tree is being pushed up against the glass by the wind, wishing I were outside this room. Henry puts a hand on my wrist, bringing me back.

“I don’t think you should feel responsible at all. Not for Jonathan, and especially not for how people feel about him.”

Since I feel responsible, Henry must think I believe he should feel responsible, too. Even though Sutton wasn’t the one behind the wheel. I try to see through him the way he seems to so effortlessly see through me. I try to interpret how much of this conversation is hiding his own guilt. But I can’t read him.

“Responsibility is a tricky thing, Henry.”

He does nothing to show me he agrees, but doesn’t protest
either.

I try to explain it so he’ll understand. “Have you ever heard of ‘diffusion of responsibility’?”

Henry shakes his head.

“The diffusion of responsibility states that people feel less inclined to take responsibility for something if others are present. I learned about it in gym, when they were teaching us about self-defense,” I tell him. “If we’re ever attacked in public, we’re supposed to single someone out to help us. Like screaming, ‘Man in blue shirt, help me up,’ or ‘Woman with eye patch, come to my rescue
.
’ Otherwise, no one might help us.”

“That’s messed up.” Henry clears this throat. He eyes me warily, but I keep going. Right now it really does seem like if I can explain it correctly, he’ll understand where I’m coming from. And I realize what’s really making me more talkative than I’ve been in months with anyone besides Dawn is that I’m hoping—I’m desperate—for him to tell me why all my reasoning, all the ways I’ve come up with to explain why I’m guilty, are wrong. He’ll punch holes in my argument like he’s done so many times before, and this time I’m craving that.

“I think that because there were so many of us at Sylvia’s,” I continue, “and there’s so much blame to go around, that everyone gets only a small piece. It’s so light, it feels like nothing.”

He picks up before I can keep going. “If we’re supposed to be responsible for everyone around us, all the time, then why are we sitting here talking? Why aren’t we checking in on patrons at a bar, taking their keys? Or stopping the homeless person on the
corner from shooting up?”

“Not
everyone
around us.”

It passes over his face in a wave of dread, the realization that no one should have had to tell us to watch out for them; not that night or any other. Jonathan and Sutton were ours—Henry’s and mine. Our family. It’s a torturous thought, but there it is. I finally allow myself to have it properly, while he’s having it too; it doesn’t seem so excruciating now that we’re sharing it. If anyone was supposed to be looking out for them, it was us.

Henry sets his hand on my wrist again. This time, he’s slower to remove it. I allow myself only a second to think about what it’d be like to reach out and grab his hand, but his hand is gone in a flash, folded in front of him on his desk. “Maybe we were being selfish,” he says. “But we were also entirely clueless. We’re just not as ignorant anymore.”

It wasn’t the rebuttal I was hoping for, because there is no other way to see it. Selfish—yes. Clueless—entirely. Ignorance was bliss, it really was.

“Maybe no one is,” he continues. “Even if now they have to be sad.”

There’s a hitch in his voice, and he looks down at the desk.

Mr. Scott stands in front of the class and asks for our attention so he can go over review items for our quiz next week. Perfect timing, for once.

T
EXTING WITH
D
AWN,
T
HURSDAY, 6:34
P
.
M
.

Standard Dad is at a loss over dinner.

Isn’t he always?

He wants Jonathan to get a job and go back to school. Not necessarily in that order.

Mumsy thinks it’s all happening too fast.

“Stop pressuring him!”—Mumsy. Because the only kind of pressure Mumsy approves of is the kind that happens when her Pilates class breaks out the resistance tubes.

Your parents crack me up.

It’s all very tense, actually. Jonathan just described his parole officer as “trite and unfitting.”

Ah, so he’s got his grown-up voice on. Such a manipulator. ☺ Is it working? Wait—are you texting at the table?

Haha, it’s working. It always does. But Mumsy is still glaring at Standard Dad. It’s fine, no one notices what I do, remember? J

Then you should take off and come visit me for a week.

I’ll get right on that.

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A
fter dinner, Jonathan, my father, and I clean up and load the dishwasher while Mumsy goes upstairs to lie down.

“I’m going for a jog,” Jonathan announces when we’re done.

“At this hour?” Standard Dad glances at his watch.

It’s barely eight o’clock, though it’s been dark for hours.

“Or I could just drive you to Starbucks,” I say, eyeing Jonathan so he’ll know I’m onto him. “Coffee,
at this hour
?” My dad shakes his head.
How crazy are my kids?

“If you don’t mind,” Jonathan says to me. He’s already walked to the front door.

I do mind. I have a calculus quiz to study for, but I’m curious about why Jonathan wants to see this Wren girl again and what
they could possibly have to say to each other.

“So you know Wren’s schedule now, huh?” I ask the second we’re in the car.

“It’s been over twelve hours without someone complimenting me on my eyes. I have to get my fix.”

“Your eyes are breathtaking.”

He doesn’t really smile at my joke, and neither do I.

“Do you like her or something?”

He leans forward, so I can’t see his face.

I try to picture if Wren is someone Jonathan would have been interested in before the accident. The answer is yes. And since he’s not with Sutton, why not?

Still, I ask, “Have you talked to Sutton?”

“My phone is out of commission, remember? Mumsy is taking me to get a new one tomorrow, with a new number. But no, I will not be getting in touch with her.”

“Why not?”

He’s quiet until the next stop sign. “Sutton doesn’t want to talk to me. Even if she thinks she does.”

“What if she needs closure?”

“It won’t bring her closure. Nothing will.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I let the silence fill up the car until we arrive at Starbucks.

Sitting here with Jonathan and Wren is undeniably uncomfortable. We’re in the mock living room part of Starbucks. Jonathan and Wren are across from each other in plush green
chairs; I’m tacked on to their little scene, perched on a stool.

“Nice to see you not dripping in sweat,” Wren says.

I picture the old Jonathan smirking, brooding at her, covering my eyes to shield me from anything that would make me say, “Ew.”

Wren stares expectantly, like that’s what she’s picturing, too. But now that we’re here, Jonathan barely seems happy to see her.

“How’s your tea?” she asks, stripping off her apron and the black long-sleeved T-shirt she’d been wearing to reveal a black low-cut tank top and arms colored with tattoos. It’s a useless question, since our tea is still too hot to drink and is sitting in front of us, untouched.

After a few seconds, Jonathan mumbles, “Not strong enough.”

Wren stands up, then disappears behind the counter.

Jonathan tries to take a sip of his tea. The way his face puckers tells me it’s still too hot to be drinking.

Wren comes back holding a beat-up black purse. She reaches inside and tosses Jonathan something shiny. A flask. “Jack Daniel’s. Your favorite.”

He shrugs. “What the hell,” he says, unscrewing the top.

“Jonathan . . .” I try not to sound like a nagging mother. I fail. I want to scold them both, since this seems to be an obvious exchange: my brother’s attention for alcohol. But it occurs to me that anyone could know his favorite alcohol type if they search his name. Articles like to point out that Jonathan, at just
eighteen, already had a preference in alcohol type. However she’s learned it, it does not sit well with me.

He pours the whiskey until his cup is so full he’s going to have to slurp his first few sips without moving the cup.

“It’s fine,” he says to me. “I’ve already turned in my urine this week.” His visits will be weekly for the first month or so. This still seems really risky to me.

“My cousin hates his probation officer,” Wren says. “He’s so demanding.” She gets an almost smile out of Jonathan.

“What does yours want you to do?” she asks.

Jonathan tries for another sip of his tea and is more successful this time. “For me to be a model citizen. Develop a routine. Get a job. Go to AA meetings.”

I wait for signs that red flags are popping up in Wren’s head. But her smile is as big as ever now.

“AA?” She shakes her head. “Well, if you’re an alcoholic, you’re definitely a
functioning
one.”

The way she says the word
functioning
makes me look away.

When I picture an alcoholic, my brother—now or before—is not what I see. An alcoholic is someone who has beer with breakfast and is drunk by dinner. My brother drank in excess because his life was a party. And now? What’s a little Jack Daniel’s while complaining about your probation officer? Or a few sips of whiskey to take the edge off when you’re alone in your room with enough grief and guilt to sustain a lifetime of misery?

“Don’t forget he wants you to speak to the community,” I chime in—anything to break up their game of eye lust.

“You should definitely get on board with that,” Wren says.

“Why?” I say, surprised she agrees, since she was so opposed to everything else.

At the same time, Jonathan says, “Oh, I don’t know.”

“For the haters,” she says.

The who?

“To show them how great you’re doing and stuff. You’re the only person who’s honest about all this shit. Maybe you could get bigger gigs—gigs that would actually pay you
.
”

“Who says I’m doing great?” Jonathan says. He quickly follows it up with, “It’d certainly be an improvement to have a payday.”

“Gary wants you to have a payday too. From a real job,” I say. There’s annoyance in my voice. This is the kind of payday Wren should be encouraging. Right? If you’re interested in someone, as Wren is so clearly interested in my brother, you don’t want him going back to jail. You don’t bring him alcohol that’s in direct violation of his probation. You don’t encourage him to turn his community service into a paid gig.

“You’re doing fucking amazing,” Wren says, talking over me and leaning out of her chair to be closer to Jonathan. “You did your time. No one can touch you.”

Jonathan nods along, letting out, “You’re right, you’re right.”

Not right. But I don’t say anything this time. It could be that Jonathan’s placating her. We’ll laugh about this later—
what was she saying about haters?
I wonder if he’s amusing himself. Or if he’s desperate for the company. Maybe he needs someone new
and different, who didn’t know Grace or what she was to him, and can’t see that far down into his sadness. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Wren’s fascinated with his tumultuous past and helps him violate his probation, because talking to Wren is a hundred times better than a circle of recovering addicts at AA or a probation officer with a clipboard and one-size-fits-all instructions.

Maybe this is exactly what he’s missing.

“Nice ink,” he says, letting his eyes trail down her arms.

“Yeah, you like it?”

“It’s interesting.”

Her smile could eat his, but at least he’s smiling.

“Do you have any?” she asks, tracing a bird outline on her forearm.

“Just one.”

“You got a tattoo in prison?” The words rush out of me. The two of them seem to find my reaction amusing.

“No.” Jonathan laughs. “Before.”

“Let’s see it,” Wren says.

My eyes pore over him, searching for a hint of ink peeking out of his collar or his sleeve.

Jonathan shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Where is it?” Wren says, her eyes poring over him too.

He turns to me. “You really thought I’d get a tattoo in prison?” He laughs again.

“My cousin got a tattoo in prison,” Wren says. She lets her hair out of its bun and shakes out the mess of kinky curls.
Jonathan doesn’t hide that he’s watching her. “The outline of a car. It looks like shit.”

“What kind of car?” Jonathan asks.

“I think it’s supposed to be a Chevelle. But it looks more like a limousine to me.”

The mental image of this is pretty funny. Jonathan laughs, and so do I.

“It’s ironic, too,” she continues. “His charge was grand theft auto.”

“Don’t tell me he stole a Chevelle?” Jonathan says.

Wren nods, rolls her eyes, laughs.

“Good taste, at least,” Jonathan says. I’ve never known him to be into cars.

“It was red with white racing stripes and everything.”

“Classic.”

“Yeah, but you know the thing about those cars?”

Jonathan watches as she redoes her bun.

I know the answer to this, so I say, “They’re really loud.”

“Exactly,” Wren says. “And that’s how he got caught. One of the guys he stole it from heard him driving it and was like, ‘Hey, that’s not your car.’”

“No,”
I say.

At the same Jonathan says, “You’re kidding.”

“No—that’s—that’s really what happened.” She covers her mouth as a loud cackle rolls out. “I mean, what kind of a genius takes the lifted car back for a joyride around the neighborhood
he stole it from?”

The three of us are doubled over at this point. Laughter like this, relieved and free-flowing, seems unnatural on Wren, breaking up her usual batting eyes and twisted grins and bringing color to her cheeks. It reminds me of the way Sutton’s face used to open up when she was laughing with my brother or Grace. It was the only time she really looked approachable. The story goes that on the first day of Grace’s freshman year, Sutton and she were both waiting in the counselor’s office to have their schedules changed, when Grace said something that made Sutton crack up so hard Diet Coke came out of her nose.

“Everyone I know who’s gone to jail, it’s always been for something stupid,” Wren tells us when the laughter has died down.

Jonathan averts his stare, tracing his finger along the top of his cup. He’s no longer leaning in her direction. I hope Wren feels like crawling under a rock.
“Everyone.”
All these ex-cons she knows who didn’t have to commit vehicular manslaughter to earn their bad-boy stripes.

“Lighten up,” she says. She reaches out her foot and pokes him in the shin until he looks at her.

“This is as light as it gets,” he tells her.

I think this is the saddest thing I’ve heard him say out loud in a long time. I think Wren will melt with sympathy. But there’s a fierce look in her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips.
Challenge accepted.

When we leave a little while later, Jonathan’s the one to tell
her, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He looks like he could smile once we’re in the car. He doesn’t, but he seems peaceful instead of exhausted. I’d blame it on the Jack Daniel’s if I hadn’t already seen him like this the other morning after his run.

This—
her—
is what’s gotten into him.