Hidden Truths, page 8
“That’s what I like to hear, my friend,” he said as he counted my quad squeezes and then helped me stand and use the walker so my body doesn’t weaken and shrivel up. “That attitude is what’s helping you get stronger, Dani. That’s why you can already sit up, stand, and almost walk to the bathroom with the walker. That’s the winning mentality that will get you back to baseball.”
I smiled.
Then he hesitated.
And in that beat of nothing, worry crept in.
My world slowed.
“But it’s not likely going to be this season.”
The lights felt hot on my skin.
“You don’t know that. Dr. Jeffries doesn’t know that.” My voice was loud. “You just said I was doing great.”
Mom looked up from her phone. “Honey, all of us just want you to be realistic about your recovery,” she said. “It’s going to be past the end of baseball season before you—”
“You don’t get it!” I turned off the lights above me, but my body still felt like it was burning from the inside. “You never got it. You don’t even like baseball.”
“That’s not true. I love you and don’t want you to be disappointed. That’s all. I just want you to understand what’s possible.”
“But anything’s possible! That’s the point. I didn’t make the boys’ team by accepting the limits and stupid things people kept telling me.”
“Honey, please don’t raise your voice,” Mom said.
“It’s okay,” Waylan said. “I understand.”
They kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. I thought I could do this if I just worked hard. Then the cards fell, and now I’m not sure of anything.
Knock. Knock.
My mind flips back to now. It’s Coach Levi. “Okay to come in?” he says from the other side of the door.
Mom looks at me and I nod.
“Of course! We’re happy to see you,” she says.
“How’s one of my favorite Mapleville players doing?” Coach says.
My heart dips.
“Dani, pitching or not, you’re still part of the team.” He takes a Mapleville baseball hat from behind his back. “That’s the thing about us, we’re family.” He hands me the hat, and I notice it’s signed by all my teammates.
My insides churn. “Thanks, Coach.” I slide the cap over my short hair with my left hand.
He stays for a bit. We talk mostly about the Red Sox, and then Mom walks him to the elevator. I look in the handheld mirror at my team hat, and a sliver of pride slips in. Then the machine that monitors everything beeps, and my pride’s replaced with frustration.
I hate this place.
I’m adding beeping monitors to the top of my hate list when I see Meadow and a boy who looks a little older than Meadow with greasy black hair.
Meadow waves and comes in my room, and the boy heads down the hall.
“Hi,” she says. “I told you I’d still visit.”
I smile. Her sister was discharged yesterday, but Meadow promised she’d stop by whenever Millie came back for PT with Waylan.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I say, trying to ignore the pain tap tap tapping my shoulder. “And, great news, Dr. Jeffries said if I can walk all the way to the bathroom with the walker tomorrow, I can get out of here, too.”
She hugs me.
“Who was that with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, that’s Remi, my brother,” Meadow says softly. “I told him where they keep the red Jell-O.” Meadow sits in the chair next to the bed. “Busy?”
I grimace. Busy feels like a nonexistent state here.
She moves the jacket from the back of the chair and sits down. It’s Eric’s. Of course he left it.
“How’s your sister?” I ask, taking off my team cap.
She shrugs. “Okay, I guess.”
“It’s nice that you spend so much time with her.” I look around my empty room, wondering how long Mom will be talking to Coach. “Kind of wish I had a sister.”
“Well, now you have me.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling.
“How’d it go with your BFF?” she asks, extending her long fingers and laying them across her lap. I notice the blue polish on her ring finger.
Can I trust her?
I look at her a little longer. “Not good.” Then I share what happened. The truth. The whole truth.
“Whoa. So not really your BFF anymore.” She hands me a red Jell-O. I hold it with the only hand that works, and she pulls the lid off. Then I put it in my lap and grab the spoon with my left hand to eat it. Feels backward. Like I’m wearing shoes on the wrong feet.
“I don’t know. Right now I’m just sad. I mean, how could he have done this to me? If he’d just listened to me that night, none of this would’ve happened. I told him I didn’t want the stupid mac and cheese. I told him I wanted to go to sleep.” I grab the yellow putty with my left hand, put it in the palm of my right, and try to squeeze like Waylan showed me. But my right hand doesn’t move. Nothing happens except fear sliding into cracks of doubt.
“Seems pretty selfish,” Meadow says, slurping her Jell-O. “You know, like he did what he wanted and now you’re stuck here and he’s out there living his best life.”
“I didn’t think about it like that.”
I try to squeeze the putty again, but still nothing.
“Well, maybe you should. Because he didn’t just do what he wanted. He went and lied about it.” She tosses the empty Jell-O cup in the trash. “Even worse.”
Anger ricochets across my body. Maybe Meadow’s right. Maybe Eric didn’t care what I wanted, then he hid the truth. A tightness pinches my chest.
“I didn’t want to say anything before because you were so psyched to see him,” Meadow continues. “But I know Eric. I mean, we’re not friends, but yeah, not surprised he’d do something like this. My cousin Leo’s told me stories about him. They’re kind of hysterical.”
“Wait, you and Leo are cousins?”
She nods and my stomach splinters.
“Yeah, it’s weird. Most people don’t even know we’re related. I think it’s because we hang with different groups at school and basically just see each other at family stuff.”
She pauses. “Either way, let’s forget about BFFs who don’t act like BFFs. Let’s forget about baseball.”
Let’s forget that you’re cousins with the enemy.
She eyes me. “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?” I look around my hospital room. “Not sure how many fun choices I have here.” I pause. “And I’m not shaving my head.”
She laughs. “Okay, shaving your head is out. What about another TikTok?”
“Of what?”
“Us. I mean, you’re stuck in here while everyone else is living their life.” She pauses. “No offense.”
I nod because it’s true. I mean, kids from the neighborhood have reached out and told me they love my new hair. Juanita from baseball camp keeps texting me funny animal GIFs, and the baseball team sent stuff. But everyone’s life is normal. Not some bad version of normal.
Meadow continues: “We need to do something before you die of boredom.”
She’s right. But…“Why are you doing this?” I ask. I need to know. Especially now.
“It’s what friends do,” she says, popping a piece of strawberry gum in her mouth.
I’m friends with Meadow Riggs.
“Besides, I’m here anyway with my sister. Might as well do something fun while I’m waiting around for her to finish PT. Right?”
“Okay. Let’s do it.” I smile and a little happiness slides in. I’m grateful to have a friend like Meadow. A friend who cares about me. A friend who doesn’t lie. Even if she’s related to Leo.
Meadow pulls out her phone. She takes a small tube from her pocket, dabs strawberry gloss across her lips, and offers me some. I do the same, even though I’ve never even worn Chapstick.
She gives me a thumbs-up, and I feel good in a totally new and different way.
She scoots next to me the way friends do, props the phone on a stack of pillows, and hits Record. “Meadow and Dani here. Bringing you another episode of Say It or Do It, straight from Harlow Hospital.”
I wave with my good hand.
Meadow talks and laughs like we’re hanging at her house eating pizza. Not sitting in a hospital eating Jell-O.
“Okay, I’ll go first this time.” I turn to Meadow: “Say It or Do It?”
She smiles at the camera. “Say it.”
“Who are you crushing on?” I hesitate, kind of stunned that I asked Meadow Riggs this question.
She taps her chin with her long nails, raises one eyebrow, and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she dishes how Aditi likes Pat, Greg likes Shannon, and Rome just wants to sing “Memory” for the school musical, Cats. She turns to me and says, “Say It or Do It?”
“Wait, you didn’t answer.”
She smiles. “No one’s really interested in me. But I know our fans want to hear from you.”
The camera stares at me, so I go with it. “Okay, since we’re not shaving my head, I’m picking Say It.”
“Remember, you wanted it,” she says with a wink. Then she says, “Is Eric Stein responsible for the accident that landed you in this hospital?”
My stomach drops and I don’t respond.
“Well, seems this one’s got her stumped. Stay tuned, time will tell.” Then she signs off.
I turn toward her. “Why did you do that?” My voice comes out higher than I wanted it to.
“What?”
“Ask me that about Eric?”
“He messed up big time. You practically said it yourself, you’re sad and he’s selfish. So if we’re really talking truth, why not share it all?”
21
Sinking Feeling
It’s only morning and I already hate today. I saw Dani’s latest TikTok video. I tried calling, texting, but nothing. Just a whole lot of silence.
Then Mom told me at breakfast that Dani’s getting out of the hospital later this afternoon, and there’s some kind of welcome-home party thing. Dad said they’d patched things up with Alice and it’s important that we all attend together.
But I can’t even think about how messed up that is right now. All I can think about is that Dani told Meadow everything. Then just sat there and let her basically tell everyone that the accident was my fault.
I mean, maybe it was and maybe I deserve for everyone to know I’m the worst friend ever. But I never thought Dani would do this to me. I thought it would make a difference to her that it was a mistake. That she’d forgive me. That she’d keep it between us.
But now the entire school knows, and that’s a whole other bucket of unfair.
I eat waffles, share bites with Casey, toss my gray hoodie on over my newest Avengers tee, and walk to school. In the hall I wave to some kid I know from math last year. He says, “Whoa. Thought you and Dani were friends.” I tuck my hand back into my pocket and pick up the pace. Another kid I don’t know says in a way-too-loud voice, “That’s messed up, man.”
I pull on my hood, stare at the tiles on the floor, and try pretending he’s wrong. Try ignoring the words ripping at my heart.
But it’s hard. Because no matter how annoyed I am with Dani or how mad I am at Meadow, they’re not totally wrong.
This is my fault.
In history I slide into a seat next to Rachel. I cross my fingers, hoping she hasn’t seen the latest Say It or Do It, but by the look in her eyes, I can tell she has. “That’s gotta sting,” she says, offering me pity and a piece of gum.
I take the stick of spearmint. “Just so you know, there’s more to this. It’s not what you think. I mean, I just don’t know. I can’t remember what happened. That’s all.” I stop talking, because I’m not sure my words are making anything better.
“I forget stuff, too,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “And I wouldn’t want someone blabbing about it to the whole school.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I don’t eat lunch in the cafeteria, because I don’t want to bump into Leo or Meadow. Instead, I find an empty spot in the room where we met for Speak Out!, open my brown paper bag lunch, and eat my glazed donut first. Something Mom recommends when you have lots of complicated feelings bouncing around your body.
I’m relieved when the school day ends, until I spy Leo standing, arms crossed, in front of my locker.
Nerves worm across my chest.
God, if you’re there, a little help would be great.
“You need to move,” I say, hoping I sound bigger, stronger, and more confident than I feel.
“What are you going to do about it, burn down the hall?” His voice is loud and echoes through the circle of kids starting to crowd around.
I see the staring eyes, and my insides twist. “I need to get my stuff,” I say.
He doesn’t budge. “Well, guess you’re going to have to get through me, then.”
My knees wobble as beads of sweat slip down my back.
“All good here?” It’s Coach Levi, dispersing the circle of gawkers with a wave and a “Get home.”
“Sure,” Leo says. “We’re just joking around. Right?” He shoulder-checks me, laughs, and walks away.
“You okay?” Coach asks.
I nod, grab my stuff, and head home, my brain crowded with embarrassment.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mom’s standing there with her no-kidding, I’ve-got-important-things-to-tell-you face.
My worry spikes. I stop in the doorway for a few stand-still seconds. A sinking feeling stabs my insides.
God, I’m not sure I can take another bad thing right now.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, her voice low.
I’m too nervous to answer.
“Why are you here? I mean, home? Why are you home? You said you’d be working late?”
She walks toward me.
What did I forget to do this time?
I step back.
“What’s going on?” I drop my backpack onto the kitchen floor and stare at the geranium that’s drooped in the pot on the windowsill. The one I didn’t remember to water.
Mom touches my shoulder.
Don’t.
Do.
That.
She leans in and says in a voice coated with love, “We got a copy of the fire investigative report while you were at school.”
My stomach tightens.
I can barely breathe.
I’m scared of the truth. Scared to know if I really am the most horrible, forgetful, worst friend in the whole world.
My hands shake. I stuff them in my pockets and try to breathe like a normal person.
Then Mom says, “The accident wasn’t your fault.”
My worry slams to a screeching stop.
Mom hugs my frozen body. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She gives me the report. I regain my senses and scan the paper until I get to the part where it lists the cause of the explosion. I hold my breath and read: “Cause of explosion: defective lithium-ion battery in remote-control car.”
I read it again and start pacing around the room.
“What does this mean?”
“It means the explosion wasn’t your fault,” Mom says. Her voice is steady, certain, unwavering. “There was something wrong with the battery in the remote-control car.”
“The one Dad got me that looked like our camper?”
She nods.
I stop moving. “What if the explosion was because of me and the defect thing? Like, I brought the stupid thing on our trip.”
She walks over and puts her arm around me. “Eric, it wasn’t your fault. The stove was off. The toy car was defective. This had nothing to do with you. They investigated and found it was the defect alone that caused the fire.”
My body uncoils.
I didn’t do this. I’m not the worst friend ever.
“But how did it happen?” I ask.
Mom looks at the report again. “It says something about the battery overheating.”
“We never even turned the car on. All I did was plug it in.” I pace around the kitchen table.
“They think it caught fire while it was charging, and then the fire spread to the rug or bedding in the back of the camper, then must have ignited something like a gas line or some such, which caused the explosion that shattered the back windows. From there it just kept going.”
The windows were closed. Dani was cold.
My head’s pounding. “Do you mean it was broken when Dad bought it?”
“I guess.” She rests her hand on mine. “For now, the important thing is that you’re not to blame.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe all that matters is that it’s not my fault.
I exhale. And finally let go of the guilt.
This report will fix everything.
22
The Jell-O World
It’s been four long days in the hospital. I can’t wait to get away from beeping machines and sick people and the smell of alcohol mixed with vomit and feet. This morning with Waylan, I sat, stood, and walked to the bathroom with the walker. Then Dr. Jeffries said that I was ready to be discharged.
Meadow FaceTimed me earlier today: “Your hair still looks great, and when you get out of there this afternoon, I promise to bring you red Jell-O so you feel right at home.”
“Very funny,” I said. “After this, I’m never eating Jell-O again.”
I look over at Mom, who’s making lists for my medication, my physical therapy, when I went to the bathroom (I’m not even kidding), and the people I need to write thank-you notes to. Then she lifts her head from her notepad. “I forgot to tell you. I invited some friends and family over as a kind of a welcome-home party. I included Eric and his family. I worked things out with Mr. and Mrs. Stein. Apologized, really. It was an accident, after all,” she says, like this is the only thing that matters.
I smiled.
Then he hesitated.
And in that beat of nothing, worry crept in.
My world slowed.
“But it’s not likely going to be this season.”
The lights felt hot on my skin.
“You don’t know that. Dr. Jeffries doesn’t know that.” My voice was loud. “You just said I was doing great.”
Mom looked up from her phone. “Honey, all of us just want you to be realistic about your recovery,” she said. “It’s going to be past the end of baseball season before you—”
“You don’t get it!” I turned off the lights above me, but my body still felt like it was burning from the inside. “You never got it. You don’t even like baseball.”
“That’s not true. I love you and don’t want you to be disappointed. That’s all. I just want you to understand what’s possible.”
“But anything’s possible! That’s the point. I didn’t make the boys’ team by accepting the limits and stupid things people kept telling me.”
“Honey, please don’t raise your voice,” Mom said.
“It’s okay,” Waylan said. “I understand.”
They kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. I thought I could do this if I just worked hard. Then the cards fell, and now I’m not sure of anything.
Knock. Knock.
My mind flips back to now. It’s Coach Levi. “Okay to come in?” he says from the other side of the door.
Mom looks at me and I nod.
“Of course! We’re happy to see you,” she says.
“How’s one of my favorite Mapleville players doing?” Coach says.
My heart dips.
“Dani, pitching or not, you’re still part of the team.” He takes a Mapleville baseball hat from behind his back. “That’s the thing about us, we’re family.” He hands me the hat, and I notice it’s signed by all my teammates.
My insides churn. “Thanks, Coach.” I slide the cap over my short hair with my left hand.
He stays for a bit. We talk mostly about the Red Sox, and then Mom walks him to the elevator. I look in the handheld mirror at my team hat, and a sliver of pride slips in. Then the machine that monitors everything beeps, and my pride’s replaced with frustration.
I hate this place.
I’m adding beeping monitors to the top of my hate list when I see Meadow and a boy who looks a little older than Meadow with greasy black hair.
Meadow waves and comes in my room, and the boy heads down the hall.
“Hi,” she says. “I told you I’d still visit.”
I smile. Her sister was discharged yesterday, but Meadow promised she’d stop by whenever Millie came back for PT with Waylan.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I say, trying to ignore the pain tap tap tapping my shoulder. “And, great news, Dr. Jeffries said if I can walk all the way to the bathroom with the walker tomorrow, I can get out of here, too.”
She hugs me.
“Who was that with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, that’s Remi, my brother,” Meadow says softly. “I told him where they keep the red Jell-O.” Meadow sits in the chair next to the bed. “Busy?”
I grimace. Busy feels like a nonexistent state here.
She moves the jacket from the back of the chair and sits down. It’s Eric’s. Of course he left it.
“How’s your sister?” I ask, taking off my team cap.
She shrugs. “Okay, I guess.”
“It’s nice that you spend so much time with her.” I look around my empty room, wondering how long Mom will be talking to Coach. “Kind of wish I had a sister.”
“Well, now you have me.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling.
“How’d it go with your BFF?” she asks, extending her long fingers and laying them across her lap. I notice the blue polish on her ring finger.
Can I trust her?
I look at her a little longer. “Not good.” Then I share what happened. The truth. The whole truth.
“Whoa. So not really your BFF anymore.” She hands me a red Jell-O. I hold it with the only hand that works, and she pulls the lid off. Then I put it in my lap and grab the spoon with my left hand to eat it. Feels backward. Like I’m wearing shoes on the wrong feet.
“I don’t know. Right now I’m just sad. I mean, how could he have done this to me? If he’d just listened to me that night, none of this would’ve happened. I told him I didn’t want the stupid mac and cheese. I told him I wanted to go to sleep.” I grab the yellow putty with my left hand, put it in the palm of my right, and try to squeeze like Waylan showed me. But my right hand doesn’t move. Nothing happens except fear sliding into cracks of doubt.
“Seems pretty selfish,” Meadow says, slurping her Jell-O. “You know, like he did what he wanted and now you’re stuck here and he’s out there living his best life.”
“I didn’t think about it like that.”
I try to squeeze the putty again, but still nothing.
“Well, maybe you should. Because he didn’t just do what he wanted. He went and lied about it.” She tosses the empty Jell-O cup in the trash. “Even worse.”
Anger ricochets across my body. Maybe Meadow’s right. Maybe Eric didn’t care what I wanted, then he hid the truth. A tightness pinches my chest.
“I didn’t want to say anything before because you were so psyched to see him,” Meadow continues. “But I know Eric. I mean, we’re not friends, but yeah, not surprised he’d do something like this. My cousin Leo’s told me stories about him. They’re kind of hysterical.”
“Wait, you and Leo are cousins?”
She nods and my stomach splinters.
“Yeah, it’s weird. Most people don’t even know we’re related. I think it’s because we hang with different groups at school and basically just see each other at family stuff.”
She pauses. “Either way, let’s forget about BFFs who don’t act like BFFs. Let’s forget about baseball.”
Let’s forget that you’re cousins with the enemy.
She eyes me. “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?” I look around my hospital room. “Not sure how many fun choices I have here.” I pause. “And I’m not shaving my head.”
She laughs. “Okay, shaving your head is out. What about another TikTok?”
“Of what?”
“Us. I mean, you’re stuck in here while everyone else is living their life.” She pauses. “No offense.”
I nod because it’s true. I mean, kids from the neighborhood have reached out and told me they love my new hair. Juanita from baseball camp keeps texting me funny animal GIFs, and the baseball team sent stuff. But everyone’s life is normal. Not some bad version of normal.
Meadow continues: “We need to do something before you die of boredom.”
She’s right. But…“Why are you doing this?” I ask. I need to know. Especially now.
“It’s what friends do,” she says, popping a piece of strawberry gum in her mouth.
I’m friends with Meadow Riggs.
“Besides, I’m here anyway with my sister. Might as well do something fun while I’m waiting around for her to finish PT. Right?”
“Okay. Let’s do it.” I smile and a little happiness slides in. I’m grateful to have a friend like Meadow. A friend who cares about me. A friend who doesn’t lie. Even if she’s related to Leo.
Meadow pulls out her phone. She takes a small tube from her pocket, dabs strawberry gloss across her lips, and offers me some. I do the same, even though I’ve never even worn Chapstick.
She gives me a thumbs-up, and I feel good in a totally new and different way.
She scoots next to me the way friends do, props the phone on a stack of pillows, and hits Record. “Meadow and Dani here. Bringing you another episode of Say It or Do It, straight from Harlow Hospital.”
I wave with my good hand.
Meadow talks and laughs like we’re hanging at her house eating pizza. Not sitting in a hospital eating Jell-O.
“Okay, I’ll go first this time.” I turn to Meadow: “Say It or Do It?”
She smiles at the camera. “Say it.”
“Who are you crushing on?” I hesitate, kind of stunned that I asked Meadow Riggs this question.
She taps her chin with her long nails, raises one eyebrow, and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she dishes how Aditi likes Pat, Greg likes Shannon, and Rome just wants to sing “Memory” for the school musical, Cats. She turns to me and says, “Say It or Do It?”
“Wait, you didn’t answer.”
She smiles. “No one’s really interested in me. But I know our fans want to hear from you.”
The camera stares at me, so I go with it. “Okay, since we’re not shaving my head, I’m picking Say It.”
“Remember, you wanted it,” she says with a wink. Then she says, “Is Eric Stein responsible for the accident that landed you in this hospital?”
My stomach drops and I don’t respond.
“Well, seems this one’s got her stumped. Stay tuned, time will tell.” Then she signs off.
I turn toward her. “Why did you do that?” My voice comes out higher than I wanted it to.
“What?”
“Ask me that about Eric?”
“He messed up big time. You practically said it yourself, you’re sad and he’s selfish. So if we’re really talking truth, why not share it all?”
21
Sinking Feeling
It’s only morning and I already hate today. I saw Dani’s latest TikTok video. I tried calling, texting, but nothing. Just a whole lot of silence.
Then Mom told me at breakfast that Dani’s getting out of the hospital later this afternoon, and there’s some kind of welcome-home party thing. Dad said they’d patched things up with Alice and it’s important that we all attend together.
But I can’t even think about how messed up that is right now. All I can think about is that Dani told Meadow everything. Then just sat there and let her basically tell everyone that the accident was my fault.
I mean, maybe it was and maybe I deserve for everyone to know I’m the worst friend ever. But I never thought Dani would do this to me. I thought it would make a difference to her that it was a mistake. That she’d forgive me. That she’d keep it between us.
But now the entire school knows, and that’s a whole other bucket of unfair.
I eat waffles, share bites with Casey, toss my gray hoodie on over my newest Avengers tee, and walk to school. In the hall I wave to some kid I know from math last year. He says, “Whoa. Thought you and Dani were friends.” I tuck my hand back into my pocket and pick up the pace. Another kid I don’t know says in a way-too-loud voice, “That’s messed up, man.”
I pull on my hood, stare at the tiles on the floor, and try pretending he’s wrong. Try ignoring the words ripping at my heart.
But it’s hard. Because no matter how annoyed I am with Dani or how mad I am at Meadow, they’re not totally wrong.
This is my fault.
In history I slide into a seat next to Rachel. I cross my fingers, hoping she hasn’t seen the latest Say It or Do It, but by the look in her eyes, I can tell she has. “That’s gotta sting,” she says, offering me pity and a piece of gum.
I take the stick of spearmint. “Just so you know, there’s more to this. It’s not what you think. I mean, I just don’t know. I can’t remember what happened. That’s all.” I stop talking, because I’m not sure my words are making anything better.
“I forget stuff, too,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “And I wouldn’t want someone blabbing about it to the whole school.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I don’t eat lunch in the cafeteria, because I don’t want to bump into Leo or Meadow. Instead, I find an empty spot in the room where we met for Speak Out!, open my brown paper bag lunch, and eat my glazed donut first. Something Mom recommends when you have lots of complicated feelings bouncing around your body.
I’m relieved when the school day ends, until I spy Leo standing, arms crossed, in front of my locker.
Nerves worm across my chest.
God, if you’re there, a little help would be great.
“You need to move,” I say, hoping I sound bigger, stronger, and more confident than I feel.
“What are you going to do about it, burn down the hall?” His voice is loud and echoes through the circle of kids starting to crowd around.
I see the staring eyes, and my insides twist. “I need to get my stuff,” I say.
He doesn’t budge. “Well, guess you’re going to have to get through me, then.”
My knees wobble as beads of sweat slip down my back.
“All good here?” It’s Coach Levi, dispersing the circle of gawkers with a wave and a “Get home.”
“Sure,” Leo says. “We’re just joking around. Right?” He shoulder-checks me, laughs, and walks away.
“You okay?” Coach asks.
I nod, grab my stuff, and head home, my brain crowded with embarrassment.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mom’s standing there with her no-kidding, I’ve-got-important-things-to-tell-you face.
My worry spikes. I stop in the doorway for a few stand-still seconds. A sinking feeling stabs my insides.
God, I’m not sure I can take another bad thing right now.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, her voice low.
I’m too nervous to answer.
“Why are you here? I mean, home? Why are you home? You said you’d be working late?”
She walks toward me.
What did I forget to do this time?
I step back.
“What’s going on?” I drop my backpack onto the kitchen floor and stare at the geranium that’s drooped in the pot on the windowsill. The one I didn’t remember to water.
Mom touches my shoulder.
Don’t.
Do.
That.
She leans in and says in a voice coated with love, “We got a copy of the fire investigative report while you were at school.”
My stomach tightens.
I can barely breathe.
I’m scared of the truth. Scared to know if I really am the most horrible, forgetful, worst friend in the whole world.
My hands shake. I stuff them in my pockets and try to breathe like a normal person.
Then Mom says, “The accident wasn’t your fault.”
My worry slams to a screeching stop.
Mom hugs my frozen body. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She gives me the report. I regain my senses and scan the paper until I get to the part where it lists the cause of the explosion. I hold my breath and read: “Cause of explosion: defective lithium-ion battery in remote-control car.”
I read it again and start pacing around the room.
“What does this mean?”
“It means the explosion wasn’t your fault,” Mom says. Her voice is steady, certain, unwavering. “There was something wrong with the battery in the remote-control car.”
“The one Dad got me that looked like our camper?”
She nods.
I stop moving. “What if the explosion was because of me and the defect thing? Like, I brought the stupid thing on our trip.”
She walks over and puts her arm around me. “Eric, it wasn’t your fault. The stove was off. The toy car was defective. This had nothing to do with you. They investigated and found it was the defect alone that caused the fire.”
My body uncoils.
I didn’t do this. I’m not the worst friend ever.
“But how did it happen?” I ask.
Mom looks at the report again. “It says something about the battery overheating.”
“We never even turned the car on. All I did was plug it in.” I pace around the kitchen table.
“They think it caught fire while it was charging, and then the fire spread to the rug or bedding in the back of the camper, then must have ignited something like a gas line or some such, which caused the explosion that shattered the back windows. From there it just kept going.”
The windows were closed. Dani was cold.
My head’s pounding. “Do you mean it was broken when Dad bought it?”
“I guess.” She rests her hand on mine. “For now, the important thing is that you’re not to blame.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe all that matters is that it’s not my fault.
I exhale. And finally let go of the guilt.
This report will fix everything.
22
The Jell-O World
It’s been four long days in the hospital. I can’t wait to get away from beeping machines and sick people and the smell of alcohol mixed with vomit and feet. This morning with Waylan, I sat, stood, and walked to the bathroom with the walker. Then Dr. Jeffries said that I was ready to be discharged.
Meadow FaceTimed me earlier today: “Your hair still looks great, and when you get out of there this afternoon, I promise to bring you red Jell-O so you feel right at home.”
“Very funny,” I said. “After this, I’m never eating Jell-O again.”
I look over at Mom, who’s making lists for my medication, my physical therapy, when I went to the bathroom (I’m not even kidding), and the people I need to write thank-you notes to. Then she lifts her head from her notepad. “I forgot to tell you. I invited some friends and family over as a kind of a welcome-home party. I included Eric and his family. I worked things out with Mr. and Mrs. Stein. Apologized, really. It was an accident, after all,” she says, like this is the only thing that matters.
