Page 124 of 72 Hours of You

“She had a little”—his eyes flick to mine—“accident.”

Like an idiot, it just now dawns on me that Peter finding me splayed out (and who am I kidding, totally concussed) on the curb means he also probably saw the thing leading up to it. AKA me doing my closed-eyed psychotic death run.

“Yeah, sure. Syd has had lots of accidents,” Jules says, keeping her eyes locked on Peter’s. “She pissed the bed until she was eight.”

I barely—just fucking barely—resist the urge to leap out of bed, tackle her to the ground, and shove her face into the carpet. “Jules, kindly get the fuck out of my room.”

She sighs and turns back to me. “I guess I’ll let you two get back to … whatever this is.” She raises an eyebrow at me, moving her fist back and forth and poking her tongue in and out of her cheek. Ever the gentleman, Peter pretends he doesn’t see her aggressive BJ sign language.

“Wait,” he says. Damn it. I was this close. “Sydney hit her head pretty hard. I think she’s concussed. She really needs someone to—”

Jules turns to me, a shadow of genuine concern flashing across her face. “You have a concussion?”

“No,” I say at the same time Peter says, “Yes.”

God, this fucking day.

“She needs to be checked on,” Peter continues. “Probably every twenty minutes.”

“Got it. Got it,” Jules says. “First you take care of her—wink, wink. And then I will. I assume you don’t take longer than twenty minutes?” She looks him up and down again and smiles. “Let me guess, seven and a half? Be gentle with the headboard, though, if she’s already got a concussion.”

Peter chokes a little bit and I briefly consider setting fire to my house. “Seriously, Jules, if you do not leave my room immediately, I swear to god I’ll—”

“Okay, okay.” She waves me off. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“Can you, though?”

“Sometimes!” she says brightly, turning and finally heading back through the Jack and Jules bathroom.

“Remember, every twenty minutes,” Peter calls after her.

“I’ll keep my AirPods in if you need to make some noise!” Jules yells from her room.

“Go fuck yourself!” I shout, matching the cadence of her singsong voice.

“I love you too!”

“I think maybe that’s my cue,” Peter says, heading toward my door.

“I’m pretty sure your cue was downstairs when I said, ‘You’re not coming in.’ Yet here we are.”

“Don’t go to sleep,” he says, ignoring me.

I ignore him right back and crawl under the covers. “Please, tall white boy with no discernible trauma, tell me more about how I should live my life.” I pull my teal comforter over my head. “You can go now.”

I hear him gently shut the door behind himself, followed by the muffled sound of him saying something to Jules about setting a timer, and then finally, mercifully, I’m alone again.

Until the nightmares.

Seven

MY FEET SWING UNDER THE STOOL. I can almost touch the footrest now. I am getting extremely big. Everyone says so.

I spill a little bit of my Fruity Pebbles on the counter, but that’s okay, because I can reach the paper towels now, and I am very responsible. I clean up my own messes, unlike Jules who still makes everyone else do everything for her like a preschool baby.

Mommy whispers something to Daddy. They’re in the hall and they think I can’t hear them. I totally can. I slip down off the stool and crawl like an army person toward their voices. I’m good at spying. It’s one of my best things. Jules is bad at spying. It’s one of her worst things.

“What am I going to do without my mother?” Mommy is crying into Daddy’s shirt. It’s the kind of crying she calls “ugly”—big and snotty. She’s sad because Bubbe is dying.