Free Break by Hannah Moskowitz Page A

someday we’re gonna be stronger, Charlotte.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “Yeah. Someday we’ll be beyond this.”
    I don’t know who I’m including in “we.” Or I do know, but I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather just let it hang in the air and pretend that will make it true.
    “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be a singer, you’ll be an architect. We’ll live happily ever after.”
    This scenario hardly answers all my questions, but it’s enough for now.
    We decide on this diner with crappy food and four tables. We share French fries and ketchup and start talking about each other.
    Our words rain down in a hurricane. We could do this forever.
    I guess I haven’t made it clear how I feel about Charlotte. Well, she puts my heart in a microwave and watches as it warms up and explodes. When I’m around her, my blood runs hot and thick. It’s beautiful.
    You could say there’s nothing special about her. You could make the case.
    But, really, she’s special because nobody else can do the microwave thing.
    “Do you have to babysit on Halloween?” she asks.
    My parents go to this Halloween event every year. High-school partying for religious grown-ups. “No. Jess’ll be at home.”
    “There’s a party at Marten’s,” she says. “You want to go?”
    I drag a French fry through some mustard. “I sort of hate Halloween.”
    She frowns. “If this is you trying to get out of going somewhere with me—”
    “No. This is me sort of hating Halloween.”
    She nods, chewing on her lip. “Then let’s go to a water park, all right?” She’s got ketchup on her lips, like blood. I want to kiss it off and fix it and make it better. “When it gets warm.”
    “What about tonight?”
    “Sleigh ride?”
    “It’s October,” I say.
    “Hay ride?”
    I shake my head. She sips her soda.
    I suggest, “Roll in the hay?”
    “Jonah.”
    “Damn. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
    She sets down her glass. “We’re not even dating.”
    “So we can’t have sex?”
    She rolls her eyes, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth.
    “It’s an honest question.”
    “It’s a stupid one. You know how I feel.”
    I don’t know why I have to honor her feelings when she isn’t honoring mine. But whatever. I’m not an asshole.
    She plays with her carnation. It’s pink and starting to brown along the edges. Pans rattle back in the kitchen, and I spend a moment just looking at this beautiful girl.
    I could stay here forever. I look at her easy smile and I know that I’m already enough for her. That I don’t need stronger bones or a stronger heart for this to be okay.
    She reaches out and takes my hand. I nod to myself, staring at the French fries.
    Enough screwing around, Jonah.
It’s time to face facts. This breaking thing . . . it’s time to stop. This is when I decide.

nineteen
    THE TROUBLE COMES WHEN IT’S TIME TO GIVE this news to Naomi. She bounds up to me on Monday before third period, a handful of Web printouts in her fist, and then she’s showing me pictures of people bleeding and people in traction and people’s bones oozing infection. “We’re going to have to be very careful with the next one,” she whispers, shoving the pages into my locker.
    “Look,” I say, and I know I should be breaking the news to her, but instead I dive into my pocket and come up with my physics test. “Look at this.”
    She sees the A and her face breaks into a smile. “Jonah! That’s awesome!”
    “It’s not just awesome, babe.” I rip a piece of a Post-it note and stick the test to the inside of my locker. “It’s another deposit on a ticket out of here. Architect school—”
    “You want to celebrate?” And she makes a breaking motion with her hands.
    Oh, Naomi. She does this all the time. She gets way too wrapped up in what she’s doing. It’s like her thing.
    One time we did this report on the 1960s, and she tie-dyed her carpet and stopped eating meat.
    One time we learned about the Atlantic