Maybes hurt more than Nos
Mom says
almost to herself
and that’s when
I stomp
away.
Timothy and I are sitting on the couch
just writing back and forth now.
How is this easier
than words out of our mouths?
I’m not sure.
But it is.
I guess he has no words
for rolling his eyes
because he stares at me,
takes the pen,
rolls his eyes
then writes:
This is probably the time
I should mention
the breathing through a straw feeling
but instead
I write back:
And he snatches the pen
writes:
After a minute Timothy takes a breath,
puts his hand on my arm
gives a half smile.
writes:
I just want him to see
what’s out there
I want him to see
how things
can be different.
How can we trust him
after everything?
Maybe everything is a result
of us NOT trusting him.
When have we given him space
to just be . . . him?
We can’t afford different.
We can do anything.
Can we?
Miracles happen, Mom.
Don’t we know that
better than anyone?
The dishes clatter
as Mom and Timothy
wash and dry
and I hide
a little mouse
around the corner
twitching my ears
listening
listening
listening.
All I do now is read
Timothy’s old journal.
I can’t believe
the things he did.
I can’t believe
how much of his time was
spent on . . . me.
No wonder Timothy hates Dad.
I never knew all of it . . .
how he just left
with no word,
how Mom and Timothy
struggled so hard.
It was just . . .
so much.
I never knew it was
that bad.
Mom says I can’t
just flat-out
stop
seeing Dad
so
I had my vacation from him
but now
here I am . . .
Ta-da.
You can keep boxing, you know.
One concussion shouldn’t end
a promising career.
Dad says this
when he picks me up
as if nothing has happened.
And instead of feeling mad,
instead of feeling upset,
it feels like
the first good news
I’ve ever had
in my whole
dang
life.
But then I remember—
There’s no way Mom will say yes,
I sigh.
She’s still so mad I lied,
she might never forgive me
ever.
I’ll talk to her.
He sounds so confident
it makes me laugh.
Have you ever met Mom?
I ask.
And now Dad laughs.
Just let me talk to her.
I don’t really get it,
Dad says,
wiping beer foam
from his beard.
This school
Xaviers
seems a little
tooty-fruity,
doesn’t it?
Why do you need
a snooty school,
Sport?
Timothy lived through regular school
and he’s a big
strapping
man
now.
Dad sips his beer.
Wipes his beard.
At least
as far as I can tell.
I don’t know why
I thought he’d understand.
Sigh.
When I can’t breathe like this
it’s different
this tightness
in my throat
and I feel my chest contract
feel it act
like a flat
balloon
with its sides stuck together
not filling
just sucking sucking
and it scares me
to feel invisible hands
squeezing my throat
when my lungs
for once
are ready to roll.
It’s starting to scare me
more
so I finally tell Mom
and of course
she freaks.
I don’t like these symptoms
Mom says
as I suck my inhaler
and it continues to not work
(stupid inhaler).
I think we should go to Cincy.
Now.
(Now!)
Spring break is practically here,
we’ll try to go a week earlier.
She bites her lip.
It means she’s worried.
And that makes me worry.
And that makes me
not breathe
even more.
I’m tired of this island at lunch.
I’m tired of missing Tam.
I’m ready to fix it.
I walk up to her table,
everyone stops talking.
Hi.
Tam’s face is stone.
She looks right at me.
Hi.
(Kate says a stone-faced hi, too.)
I cough. I keep talking.
How are you?
Fine. How are you?
Fine. Well, not so fine.
Looks like we’re going to Cincy
for spring break.
Earlier, actually,
to make sure my lungs
aren’t about to fall out
or whatever.
Tam’s forehead wrinkles
that worried look I know so well
and she starts to say something
but Kate jumps in,
Wow, that sounds awesome.
A road trip
to the hospital?
Looks like you’re on some kind of
hospital tour these days.
Way to live it up, Levi.
Way to live life to the fullest.
I almost tell Kate
about all the times
I nearly died
but then I decide
No
she’ll just say something dumb
and I’ll want to scream
so rather than that
I tell her she’s mean.
You think I’m mean?
Kate seems genuinely shocked.
I nod.
Yeah.
I forget I was talking to Tam,
I just
barrel forward
my mouth
a runaway train.
You’ve stolen Tam
I say.
I’m like a little fly
you swat away,
and now you think it’s funny?
A sick kid in a hospital?
Who’s sick now?
I say.
But. Levi
Tam says, standing tall
arms crossed.
Don’t you think you’re mean, too?
She glances at Kate,
her lips pressed tight,
and Kate’s eyes look from me to the table
before she sighs
.
You made fun of her
with that stupid chicken head,
not even trying to be friends,
ignoring HER at lunch every day.
We aren’t enemies, Levi.
We aren’t enemies, Kate.
We can all be friends.
Can’t you two dummies see that?
It’s a standoff,
the three of us.
I want to say I already apologized.
I want to say Kate came from nowhere
and now she’s everywhere.
I want to say I miss how Tam and I were.
I want to say I miss her.
But I can’t find any words
so I walk away.
I walk away and
BAM
in my face
signs and flyers
mascot tryouts
coming up.
Every page
every word
stabs me
in the heart.
I want to knock.
I want to go in.
I want to take his journal
or any paper
and ask him
about Tam
about what I should do
but I don’t.
His back is to the door
headphones on,
books everywhere.
I’m sure Future Dr. Timothy
will be studying for a while
and for once
I don’t want to bother him.
I just stand there for a second
and watch him work so hard.
This is not a yes.
Not a commitment.
Not anything.
Mom stops talking.
Starts over again.
I know this is not exactly a
superfun spring break trip.
So I was thinking . . .
IF Dr. Sawyer says you’re fine.
IF he says you’re OK,
then maybe
maybe
we can think about Xaviers
maybe.
Mom talks.
Timothy smiles.
So when we’re done in Cincinnati
IF everything goes well
we’ll swing by Xaviers,
take a short tour.
I start to jump and clap
Mom holds out her hand.
Remember:
It’s not a yes.
Not a commitment.
Not anything.
Just a quick visit.
Because it’s on the way home.
And I want you to have something . . .
to look forward to.
And your brother wouldn’t stop bugging me.
So I said yes
just to get him to leave me alone.
Mom’s face is stern.
Serious.
But there’s a smile there, too,
so I do three cartwheels
and shadowbox Mom’s face.
Timothy walks back to his room
but on the way
he pokes my arm,
he winks.
My insides have exploded
into sparkles.
I’m sure Dr. Sawyer
will be like
Whoa,
this is new
why does Levi’s body
have all these sparkles inside?
and that will be because
WE ARE VISITING
(If he says OK,
which . . .
he will, won’t he?
I’ll be OK, won’t I?)
I grab the phone to call Tam
and then I remember
she’s still mad
AND she doesn’t know
anything
at all
about Xaviers.
Tam Tam Tam
my very best,
my only friend.
If I change schools
what would happen
then?
I have so many “friends”
but only have
(had?!)
one real friend.
I make people laugh
but does that count
as making friends?
It’s something,
the crowd-pleasing,
but it’s not everything.
It’s not lie on the floor
and talk about secrets
and throw popcorn at each other
and watch movies all night
and visit when you’re sick
and finish each other’s sentences.
Will I find someone else to do that with?
Do I even want to?
I can feel my nerves
tingling in my fingertips
so instead of calling
I’ll just walk.
It’s kind of far,
but not too far,
and Mom said yes
when I told her
so I’m walking
to Tam’s house
to tell her about everything
to see if anything
can ever be
OK
again.
How’s your face?
Tam stands in the doorway,
looking at me
as she chews her lip.
She mimes Kate’s slap.
I had to get a transplant.
Does it look the same?
She rolls her eyes,
smiles,
lets me in.
It looks great.
Then, more seriously
I’ve missed you, Levi.
I’ve missed you, too, Tam.
My eyes are wide.
In a hole?
It’s not a big deal.
Tam, that is so gross.
It’s not! It’s just how it is!
She laughs, and it sounds
so perfectly perfect
my whole body relaxes.
My whole self smiles.
I could never do that.
I sit on her bed.
Sure you could.
No way.
Then how will you ever camp?
In a cabin. With a real bathroom.
Ha. Well, good luck with that.
Tam’s family’s big spring break trip is coming up.
They are hiking in some forest
up a mountain
and to a lake
no bathrooms
for seven days.
That makes
Cincinnati
seem like
a piece of cake.
Would you really go?
If your mom says yes?
She’ll say No
I say that
but don’t want to
believe it.
But if she goes crazy
and actually says yes,
would you?
I shrug.
I hate school without you.
I’m there every day.
But her face—
it tells me
she knows what I mean.
I would miss you so much, Tam.
But I already miss you so much.
So.
I look at my hands
feel the bed squish as she sits
next to me.
Her shoulder bumps mine.
I bump hers back.
I told Kate
to be nicer
but she’s
jealous of you.
My eyebrows shoot up
sky high.
Jealous of me? Why?!
She’s used to being . . .
on top, I guess.
You knocked her down a notch
with that mascot thing.
Plus, she knows how close we are.
She can never be my Levi, you know,
never in a million years.
She’s my Kate.
You’re my Levi.
I love you
both.
There’s a great sweep
of calm
as I lean my head
on Tam’s shoulder
and take a deep breath.
Finally,
finally
feeling knocked out
from something good.
Have fun pooping in a hole!
I play punch Tam’s arm.
She punches me back.
Harder.
Have fun getting your guts scraped out.
You know that’s not what they do,
goof.
Have fun getting your brain transplant, then.
Try not to crack your head,
or get struck by lightning,
or get eaten by a bear.
You’re the one getting eaten
by a bear
if you don’t poop
in the right hole.
Touché
she says
laughing.
Have a good spring break, Levi.
Take care.
You too, Tam.
You, too.
I know it’s silly
to worry
but I worry.
What if something is really wrong with me?
What if Dr. Sawyer says no way to Xaviers?
What if something bad is happening inside me?
What if I need a trach again?
I try not to think
about all the things
that could be wrong with me
but in my mind I see
the doctor from when my head got bashed
I see her worry
and that worries me.
Where’s your bag?
I say to Timothy
when I barge into his room
looking for socks
to steal.
Why aren’t you packing?
I have to study, Levi,
the MCAT
is so soon.
I have to stay here.
How is this going to work?
Timothy is always there
when I wake up,
holding a purple popsicle
and a blue sports drink