Free House Arrest by K.A. Holt Page A

car.
Isa curled up in the passenger seat.
Her glasses on the tip of her nose.
A book in her hands.
I slide in next to her,
shut the door quietly,
put my hands on the steering wheel
then my forehead on it, too.
Isa’s hand,
light as a butterfly,
lands on the back of my neck.
And neither of us says one word.

WEEK 3 3
    No I will not ask her.
What is this?
Are you also twelve?
YOU ask her.
James, you are going to make me go to juvie
so fast my head will spin
because I am going to flick you in your beard
if you keep asking me about Mrs. B.
Fine.
I will look and report back.
You know she reads this, though, right?
This is not very sneaky of you.

    It was like 147 degrees this afternoon.
I’m not exaggerating.
My jeans were stuck to me
in places you don’t want to think about.
Where are your shorts, Timothy? Mrs. B was wearing a floaty dress.
It’s so hot. You’ll get heatstroke wearing jeans. I didn’t say anything.
Go in there. She pointed to her tiny bathroom.
Hand me your jeans. My swamp-ass jeans?
That haven’t been washed in weeks?
Ha! No way, you crazy lady!
That’s not what I said, though.
I just shook my head.
A broken record head shaker.
Then she snapped at me!
A hurry-up, Mom-person kind of finger snap.
So I went into the bathroom, hid behind the door,
threw my swamp-ass jeans at her.
Waited, hidden, in my underpants.
Face hot.
Butt cooling off.
After a few minutes,
knock, knock. A hand reached around the corner,
like in a horror movie.
But instead of a hatchet,
this hand was holding shorts.
Cutoff shorts that used to be jeans.
I put them on.
My knees breathed for the first time in weeks.
I stepped out of the bathroom and Mrs. B smiled,
a triumphant benefactor.
Those were José’s jeans , I said.
She stopped smiling.
I started smiling.
Then I started laughing.
And she started laughing.
And I thought we would never stop.

    Dear Dr. Sawyer,
Subglottic stenosis.
That’s what Levi has.
I know you know what that means,
it is like taping your nostrils shut
and trying to breathe through a tiny coffee straw
glued to your lips.
That’s why he has the trach.
Your website says
you fix things like this
and since you have a website
I imagine—
and I am only guessing here—
you must know how to use a computer.
Also, your super fancy fingers
that can magically fix tracheas
must also be able to—
and I am still just guessing—
type e-mails.
Please write me back.
Timothy

    It’s so hot that
if the sun had a sun
and that sun had a sun
and you put all of the suns together
in one giant oven
set on
BROIL
then set that oven on fire
that would be about half as hot as it is today.
Just walking to José’s house
I sweated about sixteen gallons
which is exactly what Isa said
when she opened the door.
Did you sweat sixteen gallons
walking over here? Her nose turned up.
Shut UP, Gordita . José pushed her out of the way,
pushed a controller in my hand.
Aliens to kill, bro. Stat. I gave Isa a look that hopefully said
sorry for being gross,
sorry your brother is an idiot,
sorry it is the fiery hotness of ten thousand suns today.
She gave me a look that said
take a shower.

    Don’t. Mom pointed at me before I could say anything.
Papers all over the table,
a calculator,
Carla Ramirez’s card,
an open brochure for
the facility .
Don’t. She couldn’t look at me,
couldn’t look at Levi in my arms
signing more dog instead of brother ,
pulling my hair.
DON’T! She shouted it this time,
standing up fast,
fluttering the papers,
knocking the chair over,
making Levi cry.
I didn’t say any —
I tried to talk
but she pointed at me again.
She started to cry,
ran upstairs.
Mama sad ,
Levi signed.
Mama sad.
Mama sad.
Mama sad. He just kept signing it
until I put my hand over his hands.
Yeah, little dude.
Mama sad.
More dog sad, too.

    That crumpled flyer
from so many weeks ago,
the one for the Carnival of Giving . . .
it’s still on my desk.
Making our