Upstander by James Preller (free ereaders .TXT) 📕

her mother about what happened at school and her conversation with Officer Goldsworthy. Mrs. O’Malley rubbed Mary’s back while she listened.

“We have so much to learn.” Mary’s mother got up and returned with a few pamphlets. “Here’s some information I got from the therapist. I should have involved you sooner. Maybe we can go together one day. All of us. A family session. I think it will help.”

She continued, “Your brother has a damaged brain. Think of it as a broken leg. It’s not that he’s ‘bad’ or ‘weak’ or ‘selfish.’ Yes, he’s made mistakes—it’s true. Haven’t we all? But now the drugs have impaired the way his brain processes information. It’s like his wiring is all screwed up. The signals and messages aren’t right. Even if Jonny sincerely wants to get on the road to recovery, it’s likely not going to be a smooth, straight line—there may be relapses, bad scenes.”

“Like the other night,” Mary said.

“I’m very sorry you had to go through that,” she answered. “I’ve tried to protect you from it. Maybe that was another of my mistakes. I do that a lot. But this is our life now. We don’t get to pick our stories. And I think for you—and for me—we’re going to have to learn how to carry this weight.” She reached out with two fingers and lifted Mary’s chin. “Head high, chin up.”

Mary felt a small change happening within her. As if a chrysalis had formed deep in her belly. Some new miracle would emerge. Not only a new way of thinking about her brother, but a new way of feeling about everything, and everyone. She silently promised herself that no matter what, she would never again feel ashamed of Jonny. Pissed off, maybe. Angry, hurt, disappointed, sure. But not ashamed.

“Did he ever find his phone?” Mary asked.

“The one he supposedly lost?”

Mary allowed a new thought to enter her mind. Maybe Jonny didn’t lose it. Maybe he sold it. She had to remember not to believe him. To love, but not to trust. It was confusing.

Mrs. O’Malley took a long, slow breath. “I bought him a cheap phone. Just so he can receive calls, text. That’s something I insisted on. We have to have a way to stay in contact. Especially if he needs us, ever, for any reason.”

“That’s smart,” Mary said. “Same number?”

“Yes, same number,” Mary’s mother answered.

Mary fell asleep early that night before ten o’clock. It had been a day, and her stomach was full. But a voice awakened her in the middle of the night. “Jonny?” she said, sitting up, expecting to see him by the side of the bed. But no one was there, just the lingering sound of his voice in her ears. Must have been dreaming. She picked up the phone to check the time. It was 3:37.

He was in trouble somewhere.

Mary punched in a message, writing to him by his old nickname: Jonny Bear.

He answered, amazingly, thirty seconds later. May Queen.

And that was enough. He was alive, somewhere in the night, and they were connected by a gossamer thread.

What are you doing up? he wrote.

Mary yawned, typed, Going back to bed now.

I’m sorry, he wrote. My little May.

Shhh, she answered.

I’m so sorry, he wrote again, five minutes later. You deserve better than me.

But she had already fallen back to sleep.

29[empathy]

Mary saw Eric in school during home base, lunch, and last period—English. They managed to talk a little, exchange a few words, every day. She noticed that he kept an eye on her, and she was pleased by the attention. They sometimes traveled the same pathways from class to class, silently in close proximity. Mary began to treasure these little moments of nearness. Nothing earth-shattering, just a growing ease in each other’s presence.

“Still no phone,” Mary teased, leaning on his desk in home base.

“Nope, but I do own a guitar,” Eric said, looking up at her, his blue eyes shining.

“Okay, maybe that beats a phone,” Mary said. “Are you any good?”

“No, I suck,” he said, laughing. “Every time I pick it up, it’s a knife fight—and the guitar kicks my butt every single time.”

Mary suspected it wasn’t true. He wasn’t the kind of kid who’d brag. If he was good, Eric wouldn’t say so. They talked about what kind of music they liked. Mary didn’t know many of the groups he mentioned, but she nodded at the familiar names. “I guess I’m more into radio stuff.” She named a popular hit song. “Do you like it?” A straight-up question.

“It’s okay, I guess,” Eric replied with hesitation.

Mary smiled, leaned closer. “I think it’s insanely bad. Makes my ears bleed.”

“Whew, I didn’t want to say,” Eric admitted.

“In case I liked it?”

“In case you loved it,” he answered. “It would have cast doubt on the future of our, you know, friendship.”

Mary heard it, the slight catch in his voice. By the look on his face, she guessed he didn’t intend to say it. Not the words so much, but the tentative, vulnerable way the words fell from his lips. She answered, “I’m glad to hear I passed the test.”

So, yeah, she was putting that out there.

“I wouldn’t go that far—it was just a quiz,” Eric joked.

“Talking about music makes me think of my brother,” Mary said.

Eric looked baffled. “Because … why?”

“He always used to have a passionate opinion about everything—and he was always right. I mean, sometimes I would like a song, but I wouldn’t know why. I’m not super sophisticated about music. I like what I like, and that’s as far as it goes. But Jonny—that’s my brother, but you guessed that—he would lay it all out in excruciating detail, and explain exactly why some song I liked was the worst song ever in the history of western civilization. In the most hysterical and cruel way!” Mary laughed, remembering how smart and caustically funny he could be. “A cheesy song filled with clichés would make him so angry. He’d snap pencils in half, throw things. But mostly, my