Читать книгу Born in Syn - Beth Kander - Страница 18

Nathan was way, way too big for his crib. He was six years old – a kindergartener! – and for some reason refused to transition from his baby crib to an actual big kid bed. Howie was getting incredibly irritated about the whole thing.

For a smart, allegedly “advanced” kid, Nathan sure was stunted on this front.

Howie shared his thoughts on the bed issue, over and over: You’re too big for a crib. It’s weird that you still sleep in one. As with most things that Howie said, Nathan ignored him. But this particular morning, Howie pinpointed exactly why it bothered him so much: It reminded Howie of when Baby Nathan was in the incubator, at the hospital.

The very first time Howie ever saw his brother, he’d been disturbed to view him trapped in a box and hooked up to machines. It was just wrong.

“You’re too big for a crib,” Howie tried again over breakfast, as both boys shoveled cereal into their mouths. “It’s a baby crib. You’re in kindergarten.”

“I like my crib.”

“It’s for babies.”

“It’s not for babies. Other cribs are for babies, but mine isn’t. It’s for me. It’s mine.”

“Why do you like that stupid crib so much?”

Nathan took another bite of cereal, chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked at his big brother. He spoke deliberately, as if reading from a memorized text.

“My crib is secure. It’s where I can do my best thinking.”

“You’d think just as well in a big-kid bed. Maybe even better. You need a new bed.”

“No, I don’t.”

With that, Nathan pushed his chair back, and slid out of it, leaving Howard alone at the table. Their mother entered the room as Nathan exited; she stepped around him, letting him continue on his path uninterrupted. Nathan preferred not to be touched, and his mother and brother were conditioned to automatically honor this preference. Lila absently dragged her hand through Howie’s hair, tousling it on her way to the coffee maker.

“Mom,” Howie said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. He wanted to sound reasonable. Adult. At nearly nine, he figured this should be doable. “Why is Nathan still allowed to sleep in his stupid baby crib?”

(He realized too late that saying stupid baby crib diminished the chance of him sounding like a reasonable adult.)

“He likes the crib,” his mother shrugged, having clearly already conceded this battle. “He says he wants to keep sleeping in the crib as long as he can fit in it. If it makes him happy, nu… it makes him happy.”

“But doesn’t it bother you?”

“No, baby,” Lila said. Usually Howie didn’t mind her calling him that, but when he was trying to underline the fact that his brother was, in fact, the infantile one, it stung.

“It doesn’t bother you, at all?”

“Howie,” Lila said, a bit bemused. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“It’s just… stupid,” Howie said unconvincingly.

“Ah,” said his mother, before turning her full attention to the coffee maker.

Later that morning, as the boys walked to school together, Howie was still irritated.

“Hey, Howie!” Phil D’onofrio called out from behind them. “Wait up!”

Phil D’onofrio was their next door neighbor, seven and a half years old, right between their ages. Howie thought Phil was nice, but he knew Nathan thought Phil was an idiot.

“Can I walk with you guys?”

“Sure,” Howie said.

“Thanks! Hey, Nate.”

“NATHAN,” Nathan snapped. “Not Nate. NATHAN.”

“I have a cousin named Nathan, but everyone calls him Nate,” Phil said blithely. “Whaddaya got against

‘Nate’?”

“I’m not your cousin,” Nathan said, without looking at Phil. He began purposefully dawdling, putting a half block between himself and Howie and Phil, unsubtly exiting the conversation.

“Sheesh,” Phil said to Howie, rolling his eyes, can you believe that guy? “Hey, you wanna play after school today?”

“Sure,” Howie said, grinning.

The best thing about playing with Phil was that Phil had a dog, a big yellow Labrador named Mack. Going out for hikes with Mack, tossing a tennis ball for him to chase, rolling around; there was something easy and joyful about romping around with the dog. Nathan, of course, thought dogs were dumb. (Mack’s frequent butthole-licking made Nathan’s case a strong one. As did the dog’s tendency to run smack into walls when he got excited.)

“Great,” Phil beamed. “You can bring your little brother, if you wanna. I know he doesn’t always like coming over, but if you want to bring him, you can. I’ll call him Nathan, not Nate. And we can put the dog up so Nathan won’t scream.”

“He might want to come, but probably not,” Howie shrugged. Nathan found both Phil and butthole-loving Mack banal, but he also hated being left out or excluded by the older boys. He still wanted them to see him as a big kid.

This gave Howie an idea.

“Say, Phil. Did you sleep in a crib when you were a baby?” Howie asked loudly, making sure Nathan could overhear this conversation.

“Yeah?” Phil said, blinking, confused.

“How old were you when you got a big-boy bed?”

“I dunno,” Phil shrugged. “Two? I don’t remember. I was really little.”

“Interesting,” Howie said. “You were really little. Because cribs are for babies, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Phil said, having no idea what Howie was driving at with this exchange.

“Stop right now,” Nathan warned. “Don’t say anything else, Howard.”

“Whatsa matter, Nathan?” Howie smirked, looking over his shoulder. “You don’t want me to tell Phil here that you still sleep in a baby crib?”

“What?!” Phil burst out laughing. “No way! Nate, you don’t really still sleep in a baby crib, do you?”

A muscle in Nathan’s tiny jaw twitched. They had reached the school, and he steamed past them, saying nothing.

But the exchange wasn’t over.

At recess, Phil pointed at Nathan, whispering something to some of the other first graders. Word spread, and soon what felt like the entire schoolyard began haranguing Nathan.

Weirdo sleeps in a baby crib.

Hey, baby crib. Do you also suck your thumb?

Do you wet your bed? Ooooh, sorry, I mean do you wet your crib?

Or does it stay dry because of your diapers?

Baby. Baby. Baby!

Nathan didn’t respond as a normal six-year-old might have. He didn’t cry. Didn’t hit. Didn’t go looking for a teacher. Instead, he got on a swing, and pumped his little legs as fierce and hard and fast as he could. He put himself above the fray, swinging higher, and higher, above the other children, above their barbs.

From the other corner of the playground, Howie watched as Nathan swung back and forth, frantic, too high—and then, as if in slow motion, Howie watched Nathan slide forward off the seat of the swing, let go of the chains, and plummet from the highest arc of his swing toward the crowd of swarming children and the hard-packed dirt below.

“NO!” Howie yelled, racing toward his brother.

Too slow. Too late. No way to reach him in time.

The children parted like the Red Sea, only a few caught by the small boy’s flailing limbs as he dropped like a cannonball toward them. Nathan landed with a hard thud and a loud crack. He screamed, once, and then went silent.

The scattered children stared for a moment, and then gasps and cries and nervous laughter and hiccuping sobs of terror rose up in popping bursts of sound. Several of them took off running to find a teacher. Others just stared. Howie shoved the staring bystanders aside, making his way to his baby brother’s side.

“Nathan,” Howie panted. “Nathan, are you okay?”

“No. I’m not.”

“What’s wrong? Tell me where it hurts. They’re getting a teacher—”

“Shut up,” Nathan said.

“Nathan—”

“Shut. Up.” Nathan repeated. “You betrayed me.”

“I was just trying to get you to understand—”

“I know what you were trying to do.”

Mrs. Matthews came running outside, her oversized round Coke-bottle glasses emphasizing the wide-eyed look of shocked concern on her face.

“Oh, my goodness! Nathan Fell, you stay right there and just stay still. The vice-principal is getting the school nurse, and we’ll see if you need to go to the hospital or maybe just come in and see the nurse for a Band-Aid, or—”

Then she let out a shrill little shriek. Howie followed her gaze, and blanched at the unnatural angle of the pale, grisly bone protruding from Nathan’s small leg.

“You’re going to need to go to the hospital, Nathan,” managed Mrs. Matthews, whose face was suddenly as pale as the exposed bone staring up at her. “You’re going to need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Nathan,” whispered Howie desperately. “I’m sorry.”

Nathan turned his head, looking away from his brother. His voice was soft but clear, and laced with anger: “I’ll have to get a real bed now. I won’t be able to get into my crib. I can’t scrunch up my knees. You won, Howard.”

“Nathan…”

Nathan ignored Howie, gritting his teeth against the pain but reciting lines as if from a script: “I also guess I won’t be able to go to school, so we won’t walk together anymore.”

Tears welled in Howie’s eyes and spilled hotly down his cheek. He hadn’t meant for it to escalate like this; hadn’t meant to hurt his brother so badly, emotionally and physically. He felt terrible. He hated himself; abhorred himself.

“Nathan, I’m sorry. Please, look at me. I’m sorry, all right? I’m really, really sorry.”

Nathan turned his steely eyes toward Howie. Though his face was red from the pain, his eyes were dry and cold. He did not smile, nor did he glare. He simply looked at Howie levelly, as if confirming that this moment was something he would never be able to forget, and would never attempt to forgive.