“I thinkyoudo.”
He looked down at his trembling hands and wrung themtogether.
“I won’t tell Mom and Dad on onecondition.”
Jake lifted his head, and the tiniest ray of hope shone in his tired eyes. “Whatcondition?”
“Tell me why you wanttodie.”
* * *
The bed tentwas one of my finest. I’d taken extra care to clip it higher than usual. Jake had recently begun a growth spurt, and I knew his gangling arms and legs would not fit in my standard-sizedcreation.
Before retreating to my room, we’d repaired the bathroom to the best of our ability. Aside from a wobbly shower rod, it would be impossible for our parents to know what Jake had been doing while they were away. I still wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing with this deal, but nothing else had worked on him, so I felt it was worthatry.
“What is this?” Jake asked, touching the smoothness of thesheet.
“It’s a safety tent. When you’re inside, nothing canhurtyou.”
“Emma, no offense, but you live in a fantasy land. Nowhereissafe.”
“Well, this is. I spent months under this with Quinn and Grace after you came home. They were scared of yourscreams.”
Redness enveloped his cheeks, and he fidgeted uncomfortably before looking away. I touchedhisarm.
“It wasn’t yourfault.”
“Gracehatesme.”
“She doesn’t hate you. Grace just doesn’t understand what you’ve beenthrough.”
“Shehatesme.”
Sighing, I gestured toward the opening in the tent, welcominghimin.
“I’m not climbing in there. That’sstupid.”
“We have a deal, Jake. Get in before I changemymind.”
Begrudgingly, he crawled through the opening and I followed him in. Once we were both sitting cross-legged on my bed, Jake repeated his earlier observation. “This isstupid.”
“I know. We’ve alreadyestablishedthat.”
Although he preferred silence, my brother had slowly begun to communicate again. More often than not it was surly remarks or angry outbursts, but at least he was talking. It had been nine months since the kidnapping, and up until today, he’d seemed to be improving. Of course the whole school ordeal had been a setback, but now that he was home again and making music, I’d thought the suicide days werebehindhim.
Jake picked up a book on my bed, turned it over a few times, and then said, “You studyalot.”
“What else do I havetodo?”
“Go outside. Have fun with friends. Anything but staying inside andstudying.”
“I could say the sametoyou.”
“I don’tstudy.”
“I meant the staying inside part. Do you missschool?”
The bitter scoff was his only reply. After multiple rounds of heavy debating, it had been decided that Jake would return to his middle school to finish up the last semester of his eighth grade year. A string of tutors had kept him at grade level during the months that followed the kidnapping, so when the time was right, he could rejoin his classmates. Academically, he was more than ready, but we all knew that wouldn’t be the main problem. Socially Jake had regressed to timid toddlerlevels.
