Free The Things a Brother Knows by Dana Reinhardt

KATZNELSON , A MERICAN HERO
    It’s been up there ten days now. Like Bowers’s little morning assembly speech wasn’t enough.
    Suddenly I’ve become the guy everyone goes out of his way to slap on the back, or say hello to, or share information with about the big party after finals that might have otherwise been kept a secret from someone with my social standing. The whole situation just sort of creeps me out. I want those letters gone, but it doesn’t much matter what I want.
    I guess I understand why they’d put that up. Bay State doesn’t have much of a history of graduating eighteen-year-old marines. Most seniors go on to top colleges or at least low-tier colleges for spoiled rich kids.
    So the school is taking some sort of pride in him, and I get that, I do. But they don’t know what all this has done to him.
    I don’t mention the sign to anyone at home, but now Mom is dropping me off at school because she needs the car I usually drive. Zim is out sick with some totally manufactured ailment, so I can’t catch a ride with him, which means that on top of suffering the indignity of being dropped off at school bymy mother, I’m staring down the dark tunnel of a do-nutless morning.
    “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She puts the car in park and gazes at the sign. “It’s wonderful, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t know, Mom. I guess so.”
    “Well, I’m going inside to tell Judy how much we all appreciate this.”
    Judy Ulene is the principal. Only parents are allowed to call her Judy.
    “I’m guessing you haven’t told her yourself.”
    “No, Mom, I haven’t.”
    “Why not?”
    I know I’m getting accused of something here, but I’m not totally certain of what. Laziness? Thoughtlessness? Self-absorption?
    Any of these is way better than what I’ve got a feeling she’s really digging into me for: not supporting my brother enough.
    “Because,” I say. “I guess I don’t think that a sign is all that important.”
    The bell has already rung for first period and we’re parked in the loading zone. Some stragglers are racing full speed up the steps to the school, but time has slowed down inside this car.
    In some ways, we’re on the brink of having one of the first real conversations we’ve had in years.
    “Care to explain?”
    “Mom. Those words up there … they’re just empty words, put up by some underpaid janitor on a shaky ladder.”
    “That is your brother.” Spit flies from her mouth and hits the windshield.
    “No, Mom. My brother is home holed up in his room. He won’t do anything. Or say anything. Or go anywhere. He won’t ride in a car. Did you know that? He doesn’t need to be worshipped by people who don’t know him or understand him. He needs help.”
    Mom slumps down into her seat, and I start to feel bad for snatching this small moment of happiness from her.
    “What he needs is time,” she says. “Time to readjust. To remember who he was and what he wants his life to be. He needs us. To be with his family again.” Her voice has lost most of its size.
    “Don’t you think maybe what he needs is some psychiatric help?”
    “They screen all returning soldiers for mental health issues before they’re discharged. He passed. They said he’s healthy.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “Look, he’s fine. He’s going to be fine. He has us. He has our undying love and support. He just needs time.”
    Mom turns to me, all optimism suddenly.
    I can’t quite figure her out. I mean, she’s a really smart woman. She grew up with really smart parents. There’s no reason for such a blind spot when it comes to Boaz, except that I guess she’s always had a blind spot when it comes to Boaz. He can do no wrong. Nothing can go wrong.
    She’s wearing the smile I’ve grown accustomed to. The kind that it takes some effort to believe in.
    “I’m going in there to thank Judy. And you, young man”—she reaches over and tousles my hair—“are going to go ask your