Jodi Picoult - House Rules

I could ask Theo why he has this, but something tells me I do not want to hear the answer. Not after this weekend, when I learned that Jacob’s been running away at night. Not after last night, when his math teacher called to tell me he’s acting out in class.

Sometimes I think the human heart is just a simple shelf. There’s only so much you can pile onto it before something falls off an edge and you are left to pick up the pieces.

I stare at the video game for a moment, and then I slip it back into the pillowcase again before leaving Theo’s room.

I taught my brother how to stick up for himself.

It happened when we were younger-I was eleven and he was fourteen. I was on a jungle gym on the playground and he was sitting on the grass, reading a biography that the librarian had purchased just for him about Edmond Locard, the father of fingerprint analysis. Mom was inside, having one of a bazillion IEP meetings to make sure that Jacob’s school could be as safe a place for him as his home.

Apparently, that didn’t include the playground.

Two boys on incredibly sweet skateboards were doing tricks on the stairs when they spotted Jacob. They walked over, and one of them grabbed his book.

“That’s mine,” Jacob said.

“Then come and get it,” the kid said. He tossed the book to his buddy, who tossed it back, playing monkey in the middle with Jacob, who kept grabbing at it. But Jacob isn’t exactly a natural athlete, and he never caught it.

“It’s a library book, you cretins,” Jacob said, as if that might make a difference. “It’s going to get ruined!”

“That would suck.” The boy tossed the book into a huge mud puddle.

“Better rescue it,” his friend added, and Jacob dove for the book.

I called out to him, but it was too late. One of the boys knocked Jacob’s feet out from underneath him, so that he landed facefirst in the puddle. He sat up, soaking wet, spitting dirt.

“Happy reading, ’tard,” the first boy said, and they both laughed and skated away.

Jacob didn’t move. He sat in the puddle, holding the book to his chest. “Get up,” I said, and I held out my hand to help him.

With a grunt, Jacob stood. He tried to turn the pages in the book, but they were glued together with mud. “It’ll dry,” I said. “You want me to get Mom?”

He shook his head. “She’ll be mad at me.”

“No, she won’t,” I said, even though he was probably right. His clothes were totally destroyed. “Jacob, you’ve got to learn to fight back. Do whatever they do, only ten times worse.”

“Push them into a puddle?”

“Well, no. You can just… I don’t know. Call them names.”

“Their names are Sean and Amahl,” Jacob said.

“Not those names. Try You dickhead. Or Cut it out, prick. ”

“That’s swearing…”

“Yeah. But it will get them to think twice before they cream you again.”

Jacob started rocking. “During the Vietnam War, the BBC was worried about how to pronounce the name of a bombed village-Phuoc Me-without offending their listeners. They decided to use the name of a nearby village instead. Unfortunately, it was called Ban Me Tuat.”

“Well, maybe the next time a bully is holding your face down in a mud puddle you can shout out the names of Vietnamese villages.”

“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!” Jacob quoted.

“You might want to go a little more hard-core,” I suggested.

He thought for a moment. “Yippee kay yay, motherfucker!”

“Nice. So next time a kid like that grabs your book, what do you say?”

“Pussbucket asshole, give it back!”

I burst out laughing. “Jacob,” I said. “You just might be gifted at this.”

I honestly do not have any intention of going into another house. But then on Tuesday I have an absolutely crappy day at school. First, I get a 79 on a math test, and I never get Cs; second, I am the only kid whose yeast doesn’t manage to grow in the lab we’re doing in bio; and third, I think I am getting a cold. I cut last period, because I just want to huddle in bed with a cup of tea. In fact, it’s the craving for tea which makes me think about that professor’s house I was in last week, and as luck would have it, I am only three blocks away when the thought enters my mind.

There’s still no one in the house, and I don’t even have to jimmy the back door; it’s been left unlocked. The cane is still leaning against the entryway wall, and that same hoodie is hanging, but now there’s a wool coat, too, and a pair of work boots. Someone’s finished the bottle of red wine. There’s a Bose stereo on the counter that wasn’t there last week, and a hot pink iPod Nano is charging in its dock.

I push the power button and see that Ne-Yo is cued up.

Either these are the hippest professors ever or their grandkids need to stop leaving their shit lying around.

The teakettle is sitting on the stove, so I fill it up and turn on the burner while I rummage around the cabinets for a tea bag. They are hiding on a shelf behind a roll of tinfoil. I choose Mango Madness, and while my water is heating, I scroll through the iPod. I am impressed. My mom can barely figure out how to use iTunes, and yet here is some elderly professor couple whizzing through technology.

I suppose they might not be that old. I’ve imagined them that way, but maybe the cane is for arthroscopic surgery, because the professor plays hockey on the weekends and blew out his knee as a goalie. Maybe they’re my mom’s age and the hoodie belongs to their daughter, who’s my age. Maybe she goes to my school. Or even sits next to me in biology.

I slip the iPod into my pocket and pour the water from the whistling kettle, and that’s when I realize that I can hear a shower running above me.

Forgetting my tea, I creep into the living room, past the monster entertainment system, and up the stairs.

The water sound is coming from the master bathroom suite.

The bed’s unmade. It’s a quilt with roses embroidered all over it, and there is a pile of clothes on a chair. I pick up a lacy bra and run my hand over the straps.

That’s when I realize that the bathroom door’s ajar, and that I can sort of see the shower reflected in the mirror.

My day has gotten considerably better in the past thirty seconds.

There’s steam, so I can only make out the curves when she turns and the fact that her hair reaches her shoulders. She’s humming, and she’s wicked off-key. Turn, I silently beg. Full frontal.

“Oh, crap,” the woman says, and suddenly she opens the door of the shower. I see her arm emerge as she blindly feels around for her towel, which is hanging on a rack beside the shower door, and wipes her eyes. I hold my breath, staring at her shoulder. Her boob.

Still blinking, she lets go of the towel and turns.

In that second, our eyes meet.

People say things all the time they don’t mean, and neurotypical folks manage to figure out the message all the same. Take, for example, Mimi Scheck in school. She said she’d die if Paul McGrath didn’t ask her to the Winter Formal, but in reality, she would not have died-she would just have been really sad. Or the way Theo sometimes smacks another kid’s shoulder and says “Get out!” when that really means he wants his friend to keep talking. Or that time my mom muttered “Oh, that’s just great ” when we got a flat tire on the highway although it clearly was not great; it was a colossal hassle.

So maybe when Jess told me to get lost on Sunday, she really meant something else.

I think I might be dying of spinal meningitis. Headaches, dementia, stiffness of the neck, high fever. I have two out of the four. I don’t know if I should ask my mother to take me for a lumbar puncture or just ride it out until I die. I have already prepared a note explaining how I’d like to be dressed at my funeral, just in case.