Liza regards me. “You can’t fix him, you know.”
“I know.”
“You can’t fix him because he isn’t broken. He’s just Joey. He has a disease. It’s management and care, like cancer. You hope for the best. But, for the record, you should tell your parents he got high and then let whatever happens, happen.”
She gives me a long look.
I tear up a little. “Can we get back to the thing you’re planning? I don’t feel up to talking about Joey right now.”
“Okay. But we’re going to talk about Joey at some point, all right?” She tosses me my phone. “Read out the names or numbers of the people who texted you.”
I hold the pink phone in my lap. “Why?”
“I’m going to find out who they are. I worked in the office last year a few hours a week with Mrs. Tisby as part of communications work-study. I still have access to the student directory with names and phone numbers because Mrs. Tisby isn’t smart enough to change the password. And then I’m going to use the power of social media.”
“You? How?”
“It’s better you don’t know. That way you can claim total innocence. And when you come back to school Thursday, try to look as sad as possible, okay?”
“Well,” I say. “That won’t be hard.”
“Start reading. And then delete and block.”
31
WHEN LIZA AND I go downstairs after finishing her mysterious list, my mother and Nana are in the kitchen, making lunch.
“Would you girls like something to eat?” my mother asks. I notice that she doesn’t look at me, just busies herself with pulling out bread and slicing tomatoes.
Liza slides onto an island stool. “I would,” she says.
I slip onto a stool next to Liza. I wonder how long it will take my mother to acknowledge me directly.
“You have grown so much,” Nana tells Liza. “You were just a little thing the last time I saw you.”
“I think I’m taller than you now,” Liza says.
Nana smiles.
“Well,” Liza says, her voice awkward. I can tell she notices that my mom is freezing me out. “We cleaned up Emory’s room.”
Her voice trails off.
My mother hands her a plate with a tomato and cheese sandwich.
“Thank you,” Liza says. She bites into her sandwich delicately, chewing slowly.
My mother slides a plate over to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
My mother sips a cup of tea. “Quarter grades are up,” she says lightly.
I stop eating my sandwich. “Oh?”
“Yes.” She finally looks at me. “You did well. All As, except for American Classics. There’s no grade posted for that.”
Liza swallows. “That’s because we only have one assignment. A paper. Thirty pages at the end of the semester. There was a bit of a rebellion in class about the reading list.”
“Interesting,” my mother says.
She gazes at me. “Your brother’s grades were not what I’d hoped.”
My heart sinks. “What…what were they?”
“They were Cs and one D.”
“Well, that’s…not bad. Is it?”
“He needed to get at least a B-minus in each class.” She tilts her head to the Rules for Joey under the magnet on the refrigerator. “He had a tutor. I don’t understand what happened.”
Nana shakes her head. “You work him too hard. A job, school, his therapy. How can he do well when he’s tired?”
My mother doesn’t answer her. She just keeps staring at me.
“I was disappointed. And I think he was, too. He left for school this morning a little upset.”
“I heard that,” I say. “I heard you fighting. Did you make him feel bad? He’s trying! I sat with him while he did his work and he was trying. It’s just hard for him, Mom. He’s not me. He’s not Maddie.”
I’m very aware of how quiet Liza is, and what she said upstairs, about telling my parents Joey got high. But I can’t. I just can’t.
“I understand that, Emory. I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. Maybe Nana’s right. Maybe things were too stringent. I’ll have to sit with your father and perhaps we can work out a better plan.”
“Maybe you could ask Joey what he needs,” I say.
“Your brother isn’t very good at articulating his needs, Emory. That’s one of the issues. If he needed help, he needed to ask for it.”
“Maybe he’s afraid to ask for it, Mom.”
Liza gets up and pointedly puts her plate in the sink.
“I should probably get going. Thanks for lunch, Mrs. Ward. It was nice to see you again. You too, Nana Ward.”
Nana gives Liza a hug. My mother gives her the faintest of smiles.
“Walk me to the door?” Liza asks me.
I follow her out to the living room, and as she opens the front door, she says casually, “I meant to ask upstairs, but I forgot. How did you and Gage, like, even start this whole weird process?”
I look at the floor. Remembering it makes me feel sad, all of a sudden, because it was so small, and unexpected.
“A poem,” I tell Liza. “It started because of a poem. That Anne Sexton one from eighth grade, remember that? The warning the stars one. He remembered it.”
I look at the floor, almost ashamed. “He told me I was beautiful. Perfect.”
“You are,” Liza says. “You absolutely are, in the messiest, best way.”
I try to smile.
Liza shakes her head. “Poetry always causes trouble, you know.”
She pats my shoulder.
“See you,” she says, closing the front door behind her.
* * *
—
Back in the kitchen, I take a deep breath. “Mom. Joey is trying. But he needs some room to breathe. And to maybe…fail a little. Is that so bad?”
“Well,” my mother says. “I did mention military school again this morning. Really, it might be his best option. Away from here. From his memories. A fixed schedule. But he wasn’t happy with that suggestion.”
“You didn’t.” I stare at her. This is the worst thing she could have said to him. It was the last thing he wanted, to be sent away. To be disappeared.
“I was frustrated.” she says. “I’m very frustrated right now. I have the town council on my back about the damn Mill, I’ve agreed to pay for the Galt boy’s hospital and rehabilitation therapy in exchange for them not pressing assault charges. There’s you.”
I wince. “You’re paying for Gage?” This is all too much.
“I have to live next door to these people, Emory. I have to throw them an olive branch. I hope you’re done with that boy, though.”
I push my sandwich around my plate. “I’m done,” I say softly.
“I mean, for goodness’ sake, I’m not stupid. I read the paper. I hear things. I know what kids do these days. The photo thing. Sexting.” It’s like that word burns the inside of her mouth, because she takes a long sip of her tea. “But I never thought you would do it. We have to hold ourselves to a standard, Emory. These things can follow you for the rest of your—”