Break
Break
Hannah Moskowitz
Simon Pulse
New York London Toronto Sydney
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse paperback edition August 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Hannah Moskowitz
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Designed by Mike Rosamilia
The text of this book was set in Manticore.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number 2008042816
ISBN 978-1-4169-8275-3
ISBN 978-1-4391-5906-4 (eBook)
To the Musers,
who know this was a group effort
Acknowledgments
The ever-fabulous Jenoyne Adams and Anica Rissi, Amanda K. Morgan, Chris, Alex, Emma, Galen, Seth, Abby, Mom and Dad, Motion City Soundtrack, Alexander Supertramp, and Chuck Palahniuk. Thanks for the inspiration.
one
THE FIRST FEELING IS EXHILARATION.
My arms hit the ground. The sound is like a mallet against a crab.
Pure fucking exhilaration.
Beside me, my skateboard is a stranded turtle on its back. The wheels shriek with each spin.
And then—oh. Oh, the pain.
The second feeling is pain.
Naomi’s camera beeps and she makes a triumphant noise in her throat. “You totally got it that time,” she says. “Tell me you got it.”
I hold my breath for a moment until I can say, “We got it.”
“You fell like a bag of mashed potatoes.” Her sneakers make bubble gum smacks against the pavement on her way to me. “Just . . . splat.”
So vivid, that girl.
Naomi’s beside me, and her tiny hand is an ice cube on my smoldering back.
“Don’t get up,” she says.
I choke out a sweaty, clogged piece of laughter. “Wasn’t going to, babe.”
“Whoa, you’re bleeding.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Blood’s the unfortunate side effect of a hard-core fall. I pick my head up and shake my neck, just to be sure I can. “This was a definitely a good one.”
I let her roll me onto my back. My right hand stays pinned, tucked grotesquely under my arm, fingers facing back toward my elbow.
She nods. “Wrist’s broken.”
“Huh, you think?” I swallow. “Where’s the blood?”
“Top of your forehead.”
I sit up and lean against Naomi’s popsicle stick of a body and wipe the blood off my forehead with my left hand. She gives me a quick squeeze around the shoulders, which is basically as affectionate as Naomi gets. She’d probably shake hands on her deathbed.
She takes off her baseball cap, brushes back her hair, and replaces the cap with the brim tilted down. “So what’s the final tally, kid?”
Ow. Shit. “Hold on a second.”
She waits while I pant, my head against my skinned knee. Colors explode in the back of my head. The pain’s almost electric.
“Hurt a lot?” she asks.
I expand and burst in a thousand little balloons. “Remind me why I’m doing this again?”
“Shut up, you.”
I manage to smile. “I know. Just kidding.”
“So what hurts? Where’s it coming from?”
“My brain.”
She exhales, rolling her eyes. “And your brain is getting these pain signals from where, sensei?”
“Check my ankles.” I raise my head and sit up, balancing on my good arm. I suck on a bloody finger and click off my helmet. The straps flap around my chin. I taste like copper and dirt.
I squint sideways into the green fluorescence of the 7-Eleven. No one inside has noticed us, but it’s only a matter of time. Damn. “Hurry it up, Nom?”
She takes each of my sneakered feet by the toe and moves it carefully back and forth, side to side, up and down. I close my eyes and feel all the muscles, tendons, and bones shift perfectly.
“Anything?”
I shake my head. “They’re fine.”
“Just the wrist, then?”
“No. There’s something else. It-it’s too much pain to be just the wrist. . . . It’s somewhere. . . .” I gesture weakly.
“You seriously can’t tell?”
“Just give me a second.”
Naomi never gets hurt. She doesn’t understand. I think she’s irritated until she does that nose-wrinkle. “Look, we’re not talking spinal damage or something here, right? Because I’m going to feel really shitty about helping you in your little mission if you end up with spinal damage.”
I kick her to demonstrate my un-paralysis.
She smiles. “Smart-ass.”
I breathe in and my chest kicks. “Hey. I think it’s the ribs.”
Naomi pulls up my T-shirt and checks my chest. While she takes care of that, I wiggle all my fingers around, just to check. They’re fine—untouched except for scrapes from the pavement. I dig a few rocks from underneath a nail.
“I’m guessing two broken ribs,” she says.
“Two?”
“Yeah. Both on the right.”
I nod, gulping against the third feeling—nausea.
“Jonah?”
I ignore her and struggle to distract myself. Add today to the total, and that’s 2 femurs + 1 elbow + 1 collarbone + 1 foot + 4 fingers + 1 ankle + 2 toes + 1 kneecap + 1 fibula + 1 wrist + 2 ribs.
= 17 broken bones.
189 to go.
Naomi looks left to the 7-Eleven. “If we don’t get out of here soon, someone’s going to want to know if you’re okay. And then we’ll have to find another gross parking lot for next time.”
“Relax. I’m not doing any more skateboard crashes.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Enough with the skateboard. We’ve got to be more creative next time, or your video’s gonna get boring.”
She makes that wicked smile. “You okay to stand?” She takes my good hand and pulls me up. My right wrist dangles off to the side like the limb of a broken marionette. I want to hold it up, but Naomi’s got me in a death grip so I won’t fall.
My stomach clenches. I gasp, and it kills. “Shit, Nom.”
“You’re okay.”
“I’m gonna puke.”
“Push through this. Come on. You’re a big boy.”
Any other time, I would tease her mercilessly for this comment. And she knows it. Damn this girl.
I’m upright, but that’s about as far as I’m going to go. I lean
against the grody wall of the Laundromat. “Just bring the car around. I can’t walk that far.”
She makes her hard-ass face. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs. I’m not going to baby you.”
My mouth tastes like cat litter. “Nom.”
She shakes her hair and shoves down the brim of her cap. “You really do look like crap.”
She always expects me to enjoy this part. She thinks a boy who likes breaking bones has to like the pain.
Yeah. Just like Indiana Jones loves those damn snakes.
I do begging eyes.
“All right,” she says. “I’ll get the car. Keep your ribs on.”
This is Naomi’s idea of funny.
She slouches off. I watch her blur into a lump of sweatshirt, baseball cap, and oversize jeans.
Shit. Feeling number four is worry. Problems carpet bomb my brain.
What am I going to tell my parents? How is this setting a good example for Jesse? What the hell am I doing in the grossest parking lot in the city on a Tuesday night?
The feeling that never comes is regret.
There’s no room. Because you know you’re three bones closer.
two
AT THE HOSPITAL, I CALL HOME. MOM ANSWERS with, “Jesse has hives.”
So weird. I could be anyone. She could be announcing my brother’s skin condition to a telemarketer.
I smile at the nurse as she takes my vitals. The blood pressure machine beeps.
I think, Of course he has hives. Jesse has reactions to almost everything. Will’s baby food is everywhere. So yeah. Jesse’s going to get hives.
But I just say, “How’s his breathing?”
“Oh, you listen. I never know.”
I roll my eyes and wait for Jesse to get on the phone. “Blood pressure’s a little high,” Nurse tells me.
Naomi flips a page in her magazine. “Breaking a few bones will do that to ya.”
I kick her. “I feel fine,” I tell Nurse. “Thanks.”
Jesse picks up the phone and says, “Hey, brother.”
We call each other “brother” like it’s our name. Sometimes I worry we’ll forget our real ones.
I actually worry about things like this.
I say, “How you feeling?” while the nurse looks at my ribs.
“I’m fine. Mom’s overreacting.”
I believe him, because Jess is good about admitting when he’s not fine. He’s basically good about most things. And he’s breathing in and out, nice and slow.
“Yeah, you’re fine.” Some machine nearby starts beeping and I hold the phone tighter against my cheek to block the receiver.
Still, Jesse says, “Do I hear hospital noises?”
It’s sad that he can recognize them so well. Not to mention inconvenient. I don’t answer.
He groans. “Man, come on.”
“I was just about to tell you. Honestly.”
“Uh-huh.” He exhales, all smooth and clean. “So what’d you get?”
“Broken wrist, a couple broken ribs.”
The nurse tells Naomi the doctor will be here soon and swooshes out through the curtain.
Jess says, “Shit, Jonah.”
“No, hush. It’s not that bad. How’re Mom and Dad?”
“They yelled about the baby for a while and now they’re having a truce. Which I’m sure will be temporary when they find out you’ve broken yourself. Again.”
“I’ll tell them I fell off my skateboard,” I mumble, lying back on the bed.
“And really you . . .”
“Fell off my skateboard, actually.”
“This has got to stop.”
“Yeah. It’ll stop. I promise.” One hundred and eighty-nine bones from now. The baby wail builds like a siren.
I squeeze my eyes shut as my wrist grinds. Will was born eight months ago, and he has cried ever since.
I understand that most babies cry. But I’ve decided the reason you’re supposed to have kids close together in age is so they don’t care when their little siblings wail. When I was a year old, what the hell did I care if baby Jess was screaming?
But now I’m seventeen and Jess is sixteen and when our little brother cries, we worry.
When he cries for eight months, we worry for eight months.
Will hiccups and wails right into the phone. Jess is holding him, even though he’s not supposed to.
“You shouldn’t hold him if he’s been breastfeeding,” I say.
Naomi clears her throat. “The baby? Again?”
Naomi is very disdainful of Will, probably in the same way she’s jealous of Jesse. When you come from a nonfamily, it’s very easy to resent someone whose brothers take up his whole life. I get it, but that doesn’t mean I tolerate it, and I wave her away.
“He could still spit up on you,” I say. “Come on. You’ve got hives.”
Jesse says, “I can’t believe we’re discussing this now. You’re in the fucking hospital, Jonah.”
And Mom says, “He’s where?”
I wince. “Smooth.”
“Shit,” he mumbles.
“Nice going.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
And now Mom’s screaming and the baby’s screaming and Jess is yelling back and I just say, “I’ll call you later,” and hang up.
Thirty seconds later, my phone starts vibrating, extra hard like it can gauge the urgency of the call. A white coat brushes in through the door and raises his eyebrows.
“You’re not supposed to have cell phones in here,” he says.
I shut it off gratefully.
three
MY PARENTS HAVE HOME-FROM-THE-ER FACES. Dad starts his as soon as we walk through the front door, and Mom mirrors even though she stayed home and bounced the baby. They wear them all through dinner, scraping their water-spotted silverware against the plates. Jesse is gathering the ingredients for a shake. One of his usual meals. None of them talks. I sit on the bar. They’re my play of a family, and I’m their attentive audience. Just like always.
Will bangs his fists on the high chair and cries into his sweet potatoes. Mom forces the baby spoon between his lips and he spits all over her.
Turns out my jaw is broken too, and now it’s wired shut. My tongue is a dead fish in the center of my mouth, but I talk anyway. “It was just an accident,” I say, as best I can. “I’m an idiot. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“We worry about you,” Dad says, in that thin-as-onionskin voice.
“He’s fine,” Jesse says. “Look at him.”
They look at me. I make my biggest smile, and the wires pull between my teeth.
Mom chews. “He’s getting a black eye.”
“So I’ll look like a prizefighter for a few days. There are worse fates, Mom. Will, shhh.” I wipe orange mush out of his black black baby hair and immediately lean over to the sink to wash my hands. I glance at Jess.
He empties two packets of brown powder into the blender, one for each of us. I don’t ask what it is. Jess makes proteins shakes all the time—and swears he likes them—but it’s still nice of him to share his dinner with me just because I can’t chew. Especially when he, unlike Mom and Dad, knows I did this to myself.
He starts the blender and watches the sludge stir around.
The deal with Jesse is that he has food allergies. I don’t mean like those kids who get a little blotchy when they eat peanuts. And I really don’t mean like those moms who say little Timmy can’t handle Red 40.
Jess’s throat closes up if he eats eggs. Or wheat. Or milk. Or fish. Or nuts, chocolate, strawberries.
Or basically anything.
His blood pressure drops and he swells right up and he can go from fine to dead in less than three minutes. He doesn’t even need to eat the stuff. Touching or breathing it is enough.
I can’t remember everything he’s allergic to. The list is too fucking long. Really, I just freak out if I see him eating. Sometimes I’ll freak out when he’s drinking bottled water. It’s ju
st a reflex.
Will babbles among his screams and shakes his head when Mom pushes more potatoes.
“He’s always a little banged up now.” Dad cuts a bite of lamb and stuffs it into his mouth. “People are going to talk.”
I stretch my arm out, examining the cast. “If they ask, I’ll just tell them Jesse did it.”
Mom snorts. “You’d be in even more pieces if Jesse did it.”
Jesse’s captain of the hockey team, first string for soccer, starting center in basketball. He’s four inches taller than I am and fifty pounds heavier—all muscle—and not quite as good-looking, but let’s face it. He’s not lacking.
The boy’s sort of a god. He’s got a miniature freshman cult following. And yeah, he could rip me to shreds if he wanted to.
Jesse laughs. “She’s right. You’d have a lot worse than a cast and a band around your ribs, boy.”
“Don’t forget the jaw.”
“How can you even understand what he’s saying?” Mom complains, spearing a bite of meat at the end of her fork. “He sounds like he’s talking with his mouth full.”
Dad shovels in more lamb as potatoes splurt out the sides of his lips.
Mom puts her hands over her eyes. “This is all over the parenting books. You’ve got one child with special needs, the other one has to act out.”
I wonder where that leaves the baby.
Jess makes noises in his throat. “Don’t call me special needs, God. I sound like I should be drooling in a wheelchair.”
“Lord’s name in vain, Jesse!”
He rolls his eyes.
I say, “I am not competing with Jesse.”
Jesse revs the blender one last time. Will raises his voice to compensate.
Jesse pours our smoothie into two glasses and hands one to me. I get a straw so I can wedge it between my teeth, and Jesse chugs his. His Adam’s apple bobs. He makes drinking look like an Olympic sport.
I gag, which feels sort of dangerous and exhilarating with the broken jaw. “This tastes like crap.”
“You get used to it.” Jesse plunks his empty glass down on the counter and heads toward his room. He strolls past Mom and Dad’s steaming plates of poison, his chin in the air.