How to Say I Love You Out Loud (5 page)

My father clears his throat. “There are space issues at Park. Apparently, they already had to set up a whole bunch of modular classrooms because of the size of the freshman class this
year. So what they plan to do is set up a temporary classroom for all students from the district that are coming back from Bridges until their new placements are found.” His eyes cloud with
renewed worry. “Jordyn, honey, they’re setting up the classroom at Valley Forge.”

My breathing cuts off.

Valley Forge. As in my school. As in . . . no.
Just no.

My nails cut into my palms as the words escape from my mouth. “No. Absolutely not. That’s not a solution.” I fold my arms across my chest.

My mom’s face is twisted with concern but her words offer little comfort. “I’m not sure it’s really up to us, honey. All we can do is get moving on this as fast as we
can. I’ll pound the pavement, speed the application process along the best I can. We’ll get Phillip in the door somewhere that’s right for him. As soon as humanly possible.”
She inhales sharply. “But, no, we can’t make that happen overnight. We’ll just all have to deal with this for a little while.”

“No,” I repeat. Salty, frustrated tears coat my throat as I remember the very recent scene at the restaurant, and I struggle to speak around them. “I don’t care if
it’s ten days, I don’t care if it’s two days. One day is too much.” I suck in a shaky breath. “It’s not
fair
.”

It’s not. I cannot deal with Phillip at school. I can’t take the whispers and stares, having them turned in
my
direction once everyone realizes what Phillip’s last
name is.

For once, my parents have the decency to refrain from defining the concept of fairness for me. But that doesn’t mean I get off entirely lecture-free.

“Jordyn, this is hardly ideal for anyone,” my mom says tiredly. “It’s not particularly fair to Phillip or to us as his parents. This last-minute notification is just
appalling.”

I actually resort to stomping my foot against the hardwood floor. “It’s not appalling, it’s bullshit!” I yell. “Why did we have to move into this stupid district
last summer if this was going to fall through
one
year later? Why did I have to leave the school I went to forever, all my friends, so that Phillip could live close enough to go to Bridges
and have a reasonable bus ride? Are you kidding me? It worked out for
one
year and now we’re back to the drawing board after changing so much in the first place?”

“You’re at a really good school now, a better school,” my dad tries to remind me. “There are opportunities for you here as well. You’ll have your pick of colleges
with Valley Forge at the top of your transcripts.”

I shake my head, furious. “Don’t act like this move was about me, please, do not
seriously
try to play it like that. If Phillip hadn’t needed to go to Bridges, we
never would have moved.”

Their eyes reveal everything. What I said is true.

“And for the record,” I inform them, “Phillip will get eaten alive at my school. Kids will be mean to him. Teachers will be mean to him. Trust me, at my school, you’re
expected to fit in. You’re going to subject him to that?”

My mom rubs at her temples and closes her eyes. “It’s temporary. By November, all of this will be over.”

“By November, my life will be over! Thanks.”

My father’s jaw tightens, and I can tell my parents are reaching the point where they will yank me back into line. But before they get the chance to do so, Phillip joins us in the foyer.
His hair is disheveled from the headphones and from playing with it and his face is tight with agitation.

“Gary, what are you doing here? You’re causing a scene!” he screams. Another stupid SpongeBob line. “A scene, Gary!”

He charges toward me, wagging his finger in my face, because as always, it’s all about him.

I never yell at my brother.

But tonight, I do. “I can yell if I want to!” I scream back right in his face, which only makes him scream more, as if he’s been zapped with electricity.

I stomp up the stairs, tears of anger and bitterness blurring my vision. It’s. Not. Fair.

All I wanted tonight was the chance to enjoy a chicken enchilada in peace.

All I wanted was to be going on with life as I know it.

Everything is changing. And somehow I have ended up on the brink of a disaster, one I can’t do anything about.

An hour later, I sit uselessly at my desk, head in my hands. Someone knocks on my door, and my mom doesn’t wait for permission before coming into my room. She carries a
cup of steaming tea and balances a plate of shortbread cookies on her forearm.

She sets the plate and cup on my desk. “I’m sorry,” she says a minute later.

“Stop apologizing,” I mumble, staring at the fake wood grain of my desk. “That’s not what I want.”

I hate when they apologize for Phillip.

She leans in closer to brush the hair back off my forehead. Her voice is less timid this time. “I
am
sorry,” she repeats honestly. “I’m sorry that you have to
deal with this, too. I’m sorry that our dinner, something I love and cherish, got . . . well . . . ruined. I’m sorry you’re feeling so upset right now. You’re my daughter, I
love you more than anything, and I am so,
so
sorry about these things.”

Tears fill my eyes again. “I’m sorry” doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make any of this better.

“Why can’t he just stay at home till he can go somewhere else?” I whisper in desperation.

My mom perches on the edge of my bed. “I thought about it,” she admits, “requesting homebound instruction, or a tutor.” She sighs loudly. “But in my heart, I know
that if we let Phillip stay out of school for two months? If we give him that out? We’ll never get him back, honey. He’d regress a lot.”

“And you don’t think he’s going to regress anyway, making him go through so many changes in two months’ time?”

“I’m afraid so. If Phillip ever comes to believe that school is an
option,
he’ll go back to fighting having to go with every bone in his body.”

Her voice is resolute. There is no wiggle room.

I scratch at my desktop with the empty metal socket where the eraser used to sit atop my pencil, leaving gashes behind. “When is this going to start?”

She takes a deep breath. “Probably by Monday. We need to get him back, somewhere, before he gets used to sitting at home. But I already have a list of four potential schools,” she
follows up quickly. “It’s sixty days, at the most. If one of these schools can take Phillip sooner, the district is ready to move on it as soon as possible, okay? I just need you to
hang in for a little while, and this will all be over. Worst-case scenario, it’s still only two months.”

I try to picture Phillip walking through my school. I think of the pressure us normal kids have to deal with, how it’s like a tightrope—balancing, going along precariously without
disrupting the flow. Meeting expectations, impressing the crowds.

She doesn’t get it. Two months will ruin everything. Two months will knock me right off.

Knock him right off even faster.

There is no sense in trying to make her understand.

“Okay,” I mutter, even though it’s not okay at all.

My mom stands to leave, leaning down to kiss the top of my head on her way out. “Have a cookie. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Yeah, right,” I grumble.

But the second she leaves, I stuff both cookies in my mouth, barely bothering to chew. And once it cools some, the tea is actually soothing, and for the first time in two hours my head starts to
clear.

I notice something sitting on the corner of my desk. It is the first-aid guide from the required summer training at the tennis club. I haven’t glanced at it in months, but now I read the
first-responder credo on the cover with new eyes.

Thou Shalt Not Panic.

The steps are outlined below: Tame your emotions. Apply logic. Promote positive thoughts.

To me, Phillip showing up at my school is as much of a crisis as anything. I look at the final step to resisting panic. Take charge.

There is no way to make good of a crisis situation. The best I can do is attempt to survive it.

Take charge.

I unzip my book bag and pull out my shiny, blank agenda. I turn to September and find Monday’s block. I write the number one in the upper left corner. I count my way through September and
October, making a sixty-day timeline. Maybe I will feel better when I see the actual end in sight. This will not last forever, and now I can see that in black and white. I just have to survive
it.

I have sixty days. Sixty days to just survive.

I don’t know what I expect to happen on Monday, as I sit in my car until the last possible moment, dreading going to homeroom.

It’s not like the initials “P.S.” have been stitched onto my jacket, revealing my identity as Phillip’s Sister to all. It’s hardly like anyone’s strung up
some banner in the lobby welcoming him to Valley Forge High School. I don’t think anyone plans to announce his arrival, but . . . discretion isn’t really Phillip’s thing.

I sigh and climb out of my car, slamming the door and shaking my head as I walk toward the building. Phillip’s transition to Valley Forge isn’t my problem. I think it’s a
terrible idea to begin with, but it’s not my job to worry if he’ll survive the day. He has a one-on-one aide for that, someone who must have the patience of a saint, who agreed to
follow him from Bridges back to district placement.

Her name is Anne. It’s Anne’s sole responsibility to keep Phillip content and contained, and to keep him from disrupting the lives of others. She maintains his comprehensive binder
of strategies and behavior plans. I really hope she’s good at her job.

Even knowing that Anne accompanied Phillip on the short bus to school this morning, I brace myself as I walk into the empty lobby, expecting to hear yelling coming from some distant part of the
building. Phillip doesn’t take to new places and he hasn’t been forced to attend school in almost a week. If either of these realizations crosses his mind, I’m sure I’ll be
able to hear his piercing screams from the farthest point in the school.

In fact, as I stand in the large vacant room, I’m half convinced I
do
hear him, that there’s a phantom ringing in my ears I can never quite escape, knowing he’s on the
premises. Eager for distraction, I scurry toward the wing of junior homerooms. I take a quick moment to give thanks that my part of the building is far, far away from the home economics kitchen,
which has been converted into a makeshift classroom for my brother and his few classmates.

But physical distance doesn’t grant peace of mind, and I’m on edge all day. Even though I don’t spend a single second with my brother, I have the same feeling I do when my
family is out in public. Exposed. Vulnerable. On edge. I take long, looping paths around the outer wings of the school, on high alert for the screaming, arriving at two classes late and earning
pointed looks from the teachers. It’s only the fifth day of school, after all.

I almost welcome our grueling hockey practice. I know that Phillip is tucked safely away at home, and beating my body into the ground provides a strangely welcome alternative to the mental
stress I subjected myself to all day.

As I climb back into my car to head home, I notice a bag of grape Jelly Bellies, my favorite, on the passenger seat. There’s probably over ten dollars’ worth from the candy store at
the mall, where you can scoop your favorite flavors instead of having to hunt for them in the mixed bags. Curious, I open the small tag attached, finding my mom’s handwriting inside.

Thanks for “bean” such a good sport about this—your father and I think you’re really “grape.” It’ll all work out.

I grimace and set my gym bag on top of the candy. If she had just left well enough alone, I may have smiled at her stupid pun. But she had to go and add a false promise.

My day had been hell, and all I have to show for it is a single line crossing off
one
day in my planner. One down, fifty-nine to go. This isn’t working out at
all
.