because you have nothing better to do on a Saturday
than make up stories about dragons
to soothe an angry burrito.
Confession:
I ran to José’s house today,
just for three minutes
to borrow his math book.
Mom knew where I was going.
She watched from the doorway.
But now I can’t think about math.
I can only think about other dimensions
like maybe right now our world exists somewhere else,
but everyone has bunny ears
or their butts on the fronts of their bodies.
When I go to José’s house it’s like another dimension.
The house is exactly the same as mine,
same rooms in the same places
except it is also exactly different.
They have seven people,
we have three.
They have noise and chaos,
we do too.
But it’s just all so different,
so different.
It’s hard for me to figure out
who has the best chaos—
Beeping alarms, or screeching sisters?
Backpacks everywhere, or medical supplies?
Fuzzy baby head, or guinea pig running loose?
And all of it,
all of it is hidden behind the same-looking front door,
the same-looking windows,
the same-looking garage.
A whole different dimension.
It’s just three houses down.
And the only real thing we share
between the two places
is this one lousy math book
that I can’t even concentrate on.
José’s dad bought a car.
It’s a car he says used to be cool.
Now it looks like a giant rusted turtle
with no guts inside.
T-man, you can’t keep doing this.
The box drops at my feet.
Don’t call me T-man.
A bobblehead falls next to my foot.
I don’t crush it.
I need the trunk for groceries.
Her hands on her hips.
Her jaw clenching.
Put this stuff away.
The toe of my shoe pushes at the box.
Football. Shaving cream. Random Dad stuff.
I imagine it on fire.
I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava.
I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava
with fireproof sharks circling it.
I imagine it on fire in an ocean of lava
with fireproof sharks circling it
and shooting it with their laser eyes.
There are never any groceries to go in the trunk.
I say it quietly. To the box.
Levi starts coughing.
Mom goes to him.
When I kick the box, more stuff falls out.
The suction machine is louder than my kicks.
I kick and kick and kick
until Mom stops suctioning
until Levi stops coughing.
Now I’m in my room.
The box is not on fire.
And it’s not in the trunk.
And the bobblehead is not in my hand.
And I’m not thinking about Dad.
And how he sucks even more than the suction machine.
You know those super sunny days?
The ones that come out of nowhere,
where every slant of sunshine
bursts through the window blinds
warming up whatever they touch
not too hot
but just right
and you can feel the sun burning on your face
burning in a good way
like if you could stand inside fireworks and not
get burned?
This fresh-squeezed orange juice
left on the porch
with a box of chocolate doughnuts
and a bag of breakfast tacos
with fiery red salsa
is making the inside of my mouth feel
just like those fireworks
just like that slant of sunshine.
WEEK 10
I know I can’t go to José’s house
to help work on the car.
Duh, James.
I was just mentioning it, that’s all.
You don’t have to always jump down my throat
trying to snatch away my words
like they are bombs about to tear the world apart.
I’m just writing in my journal
like I’m supposed to do.
Jeez.
Do you think every thought I have
is about breaking rules?
Do you think every thought I have
is about how to drive you crazy?
Your squinched-up lips
and grouchy eyebrows
say yes.
Could you be more of a tool?
That is not a challenge.
Baby Signing Adventure.
A DVD left on the mat,
seemingly innocent
but like a time bomb
ticking ticking ticking
MILK MILK MILK
in a CUP CUP CUP
I LOVE LOVE LOVE
My MILK in a CUP.
MORE MORE MORE
MILK in my CUP
I LOVE LOVE LOVE
MORE MILK in my CUP.
Someone left this DVD for Levi
but as a punishment for me,
right?
Because, you guys.
This is worse than juvie.
I am not even kidding.
Five times he’s watched this DVD today.
FIVE TIMES.
Happy leg kicking away.
I can almost see the smoke
shooting from his ears
as that little brain of his works and works.
But seriously.
Baby Signing Adventure might kill me.
For real.
My ears will bleed from all those songs.
My heart will explode from running
to get away from Miss Jill
and her pointy talking fingers.
But Levi can’t get enough.
So thanks.
Whoever left it here.
I guess.
No, Mrs. B.
There is no way
no how
no where
no when
that Mom would ever
in one million years
allow a benefit to raise money
to help us.
Because we don’t need help.
We’re just like everyone else.
Or so she says.
I got home from school,
Marisol handed me a package.
An envelope with padding.
Can you fit a million dollars
in an envelope with padding?
I opened it and must have given her a look
because she laughed.
What are these?
Chains.
I can see that, Marisol.
For Levi. Come here. Help me.
We burrito-ized Levi.
I whispered the story in his ear,
the one about the dragon
and the knight who talks with his fingers.
Marisol unfastened the fabric around his neck,
the ties that hold his trach in place,
the ties that get ten times disgusting
whenever he barfs
or spits out his milk
or sweats
or all of those things combined.
Marisol gently pulled the ties away from the trach,
using her other hand to hold the trach in Levi’s neck.
One slip,
one distraction,
and the trach could
fall out,
could mean no more breathing for Levi.
Hand me the chains?
I handed them over and she measured the perfect fit.
Cut right here.
I took the wire cutters from the package.
I cut right there.
Marisol connected the chain through the trach
and around Levi’s neck.
No more yucky ties.
She smiled.
So easy to clean.
I smiled.
And look at that cute little neck!
Levi smiled.
OK. So. Not as good as a million dollars.
But close.
There are sharks in my throat.
Tiny sharks.
With supersharp teeth.
With laser eyes.
They are destroying my throat.
From the inside out.
There are trolls in my head.
Evil trolls.
With superheavy hammers.
With thundering fists.
They are destroying my head.
From the inside out.
It’s possible I am dying.
Infected with sharks and trolls.
But I have a math test today.
NO REST FOR THE WEARY.
I can hear them downstairs.
Mom has that voice.
The one she uses when she’s really mad
but trying to be calm.
I call it her
I Will Kill You, But in a Superpolite Way voice.
Tonight’s nurse is getting a face full of
IWKYBIASWV
I hear the words go-bag and organized
then the fake laugh that is like
IWKYBIASWV’s sidekick.
The nurse makes a pshhh noise
and I want to yell,
Jump back, lady!
You’re about to get murdered with words!
But I stay at the top of the stairs
listening, listening, listening.
No one messes with the go-bag.
It has everything Levi needs if we have to leave the house.
Not that he ever does.
Except for doctor visits.
Or emergencies.
The go-bag is a work of art.
Labeled supplies, rescue meds, extra trachs,
even a handheld suction thing.
You don’t touch the go-bag.
You don’t go near the go-bag.
The go-bag is perfection.
It’s like a tiny hospital
in an ugly red duffel.
I think the nurse tried to reorganize it.
MISTAKE.
That go-bag is the most perfect thing
Dad ever created.
Except maybe me. Har.
WEEK 11
We don’t take Levi out a lot
because of the germs, you know?
Sometimes we have to, though.
And that’s when we see
Other
People
dun dun duuuuuuun.
First the forehead gets wrinkly,
then the lips turn down in a frown,
the head tilts to the side,
sometimes there’s a tsk-ing noise
or a sigh and a head shake.
A lot of times there’s an “I’m sorry.”
But that’s dumb.
I mean, come on.
Why are you sorry, ugly lady at the grocery store?
Did you give Levi a messed-up airway?
Did you give him a trach?
No.
That’s the one thing I like about you, James.
Maybe the only thing.
You see Levi all the time
And you never say you’re sorry.
You wash your hands,
you ruffle his hair,
you soft-punch his tiny baby shoulder
and say, What’s up, sir.
Did they teach you how to not say you’re sorry?
At Probation Officer University, I mean?
Or is that just a James thing?
Either way, thanks.
Thanks for never being sorry, James.
Should I call social services?
Mrs. B asked me that.
I thought she meant because I’m quiet,
because my social skills are lacking,
like I need a tutor for learning how to talk to people,
but that’s not what she meant.
If your mom is overwhelmed,
if there isn’t enough food,
if it’s not safe for Levi,
you can tell me, Timothy.
There are people and places who can help.
And it was like she hit me.
Right in the teeth.
She meant like Family Cops
who can take away babies
and kids
and put them in other people’s houses.
So I was like NO NO NO NO NO!
And she had to say OK a hundred times
and I’m sorry a thousand times
and I think maybe her eyes filled up with tears.
It was a little bit crazy.
But not crazy enough for social services.
I swear.
José brought over a crumpled picture.
Take one turtle
shoot it with a ray gun
set to ENLARGE,
remove the turtle’s eyes,
replace the turtle’s legs with flat tires,
take out all of the turtle’s guts,
replace with rusted metal.
This is the car José and his dad are fixing up,
a sad and busted turtle
who somehow managed to save his shell
but nothing else.
How am I supposed to know
what a stupid seal puller looks like?
What do you do when your dad yells at you
for no reason at all?
The question came out of his mouth
before he realized what he was saying.
I said nothing
but my eyes told him to shut his pie hole.
My eyes told him to get on back home
with his dad and their busted-up turtle car.
So he did.
And now I feel kind of bad.
But not that bad.
José is here.
Again.
I’m hiding from him.
In the bathroom.
He just . . .
He never stops talking.
How much he hates his dad.
How much he hates that car.
How much he hates his sisters.
How much he hates his lunch.
I just want to punch him in the mouth.
Hard.
At least you can hate your dad to his face.
At least you have time to spend together.
At least your sisters breathe through their noses.
At least you have a decent lunch.
I take back feeling bad yesterday,
when I was grouchy with him.
He just doesn’t even know.
Has zero clues.
About anything.
At least he brought his math book over.
He might not know anything about anything
but at least he remembers to bring his books
home from school
and at least he knows all the x- and y-axis stuff.
Freakin’ José.
WEEK 12
What’s the story with your face?
You have to work on your social skills, James.
What’s the story with my face?
It’s filled with sharks and trolls and snot and fire.
And now my neck and my knees and my elbows hurt.
But at least I don’t have a trach, right?
I can’t really complain about
the story my face is telling.
It’s just a cold.
I’m fine.
You’d think maybe I have the black plague
the way Mrs. B sucked in her breath
when she saw me this morning.
I’m fine.
It’s just a cold.
She shook her head.
Her hair swished.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hair down before.
You almost look like a movie star, Mrs. B.
Except with more lines around your eyes.
No offense.
She handed me a card.
People’s Clinic.
Go get checked out, Timothy.
Your mom can even take you after work.
This place is open nice and late.
I shrugged.
I didn’t say:
No nurse tonight.
No one to watch Levi.
No way we can bring him with us.
Maybe I should have.
It doesn’t matter, though.
I’m fine.
It’s just a cold.
I hate wearing a mask.
It’s already hard to breathe
and the mask makes it worse.
I’ve been trying to stay upstairs.
Keeping my germs in their own galaxy far, far away.
But sometimes Mom or Marisol still need my help.
On her way out the door
Marisol called up to me.
I staggered downstairs.
The zombie formerly known as Timothy.
She pressed a box in my hand.
Pills.
For the flu.
They’re from last year, but still good.
Take them, Timothy. Get better, sport.
I hate it when she calls me sport.
But I took the pills.
Even though it’s just a cold.
The sharks and trolls are battling inside me.
Marisol’s pills might actually be working.
Maybe.
I sat with Levi today.
Wearing my mask.
Sanitizing my hands.
The first day in a long time
we could kind of hang out.
I used my short fingers
to sign brother
over and over
and to fold his shorter fingers
to sign brother
over and over.
Brother
I patted my chest
then showed him the sign.
Levi fussed and cried.
Brother
I patted his chest
then showed him the sign again.
Levi fussed and cried.
Brothers
I folded my fingers
and folded his fingers.
He pushed away my hands.
He cried.
He needed suctioning.