All That I Can Fix Read online

  Didn’t do the math, but if you say so.

  I’ve been watching this thing since he uploaded it—so, so cool.

  Yup. And fyi—I put a couple additions on your cookie house, tried to make a little cookie jacuzzi but it didn’t do well when I turned the blowers on. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.

  LOL and so great! BTW, I just decided I’m going to invent a solar-powered window shade that moves with the daylight.

  She sent that to me in a text, I kid you not.

  You’re the best. Remember, best does not mean perfect.

  No, you’re the best!

  Because god knows I’m not perfect.

  LOL! But you ARE the best.

  No, you are.

  No, you are.

  No, you are.

  I could do that all day.

  The basement door opened, and Jello came crashing down the stairs. I swear, he doesn’t just go down the stairs like normal people. No. He’s a freaking bowling ball.

  Jello grinned when he saw me. “Wow, Ronney, you’re early.” He fake punched me in the shoulder. I fake fell over. “And you pissed all over my computer chair.”

  “It’s the rain,” I said, picking myself off the floor.

  “And your feet smell like rot. Put your shoes back on.”

  “They’re wet.”

  Jello fake threw up on my feet.

  “There’s a wolf in the neighborhood,” I said.

  Jello snapped to attention. “Really? Where?”

  “I talked with this TV guy on the way over, maybe ten minutes ago. He was looking for Maricopa Drive.”

  Jello snorted. “He won’t find it.”

  “I know. But I gave him decent directions, which means—”

  Jello’s eyes grew big. “He’ll be getting there about now,” he finished. He ran around his room, gathering his gear. “R-Man, can you carry some stuff?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But I want to wear your shoes.”

  Jello threw me a look.

  “Mine are wet,” I said. “Socks, too. Clean ones,” I added.

  “But we’re going to get wet once we go outside,” he protested.

  I shrugged.

  Jello groaned. “Fine. Go get them.”

  I knew exactly where they were. It’s not like this was the first time.

  • • •

  One reason why it’s impossible to find Maricopa Drive is because it’s not really a street. It’s actually a hidden driveway for all the new la-di-da houses to branch from so they can feel smug together. Makersville is small, about twenty thousand people, but land is cheap; this part of the neighborhood popped up when folks in Bloomington realized they could build for almost nothing and make the commute. So you have the old side of the neighborhood—where Jello, George, and I live—that has dinky houses, and then the new side, with McMansions. I try to avoid this area whenever I can. George’s parents are talking about moving to the McMansion side next year, which blows, but I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it.

  However, a hungry wolf roaming around the McMansions is another reason to make a visit, if one happens to be on a safari.

  Sure enough, by the time Jello and I got over there, with our bikes’ back tires kicking even more water onto us, the crew from the TV news van was unloading. The distant sound of sirens cut through the rain.

  Dan the News Man ran over to us.

  “Ronney, right?” He was frantically zipping up his waterproof jacket, which, by the way, I rather envied at the moment.

  “Hey.” I tried to sound calm.

  “You boys need to clear out of here,” he said, adjusting the microphone under his jacket. “We overheard a call-in; a guy’s been attacked, okay?”

  “Really? Who?” Jello’s voice squeaked with excitement.

  I suddenly remembered we forgot the meat.

  The sirens were a lot closer now.

  Dan put a hand on my shoulder and turned us back to our bikes. “Go home, kids. The police are going to kick you out anyway. And seriously. This guy’s in bad shape.”

  “The wolf got him?” I asked.

  Dan’s lips twitched in the way that said I’m not supposed to tell you, but my lip-twitching just told you yes as another of the TV crewmen ran at us. “Dan! Get those kids out of here!”

  “I’m trying!” he yelled back.

  So we jumped on our bikes and backtracked, passing three squad cars and two ambulances—the most excitement this neighborhood’s had since World War II.

  A couple blocks away, Jello stopped so suddenly he skidded and almost fell over. “Okay, my dear Ronney,” he announced, wiping the rain from his eyes. “Let’s turn back.”

  “What?” I asked. I had heard him correctly; I just wanted him to sound stupid a second time.

  “Let’s turn back,” he repeated. “The wolf’s there—that’s what the man said.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said. “Maybe not anymore. And besides, we forgot the meat.”

  “We don’t need meat,” Jello said.

  “Like hell we don’t.”

  “The wolf already took a bite out of that guy. So it’s probably had a snack.”

  “A snack,” I said pointedly, “does not fill one up.”

  “You know what I mean.” Jello turned his bike around.

  Something in his voice pissed me off. “I absolutely know what you mean,” I snapped. “It’s had a snack. How many snacks a day do you fucking have, Jello? You’re trying to tell me that we’re going there without another little snack for it except our own meaty bodies?” I tightened my hands around my handlebars. “And you know I hate being out in the rain.”

  Jello looked at me, considering. The sound of sirens wailing was replaced by the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Then he shook his head, like he was stunned that his invincible reasoning had failed to persuade me. “Come on, R-Man. We can’t miss this,” he said.

  “No.” I got back on my bike. “That’s only the second time, anyway.”

  As we rode back to my place, we both kept our eye out for the wolf. Just in case.

  • • •

  That Sam freak was gone by the time Jello and I got home. Looks like he and Mina had reached some sort of study-buddy nirvana, and his brain couldn’t take any more. Jello waited around while I hopped in the shower to wash off the rain, and when I got out, I could hear Mom and him talking.

  Mom likes Jello. That’s a good thing, I guess, since he’s over a lot. She’s also deemed him “a good influence on me,” which illustrates her total lack of judgment. I don’t see how someone who would chase down a wolf without a gun or meat could be a good influence on anyone except a maniacal bush hunter. The only parentally admirable thing he does is finish his homework.

  For the record, homework is bullshit. Getting As does not guarantee intelligence, and Jello just illustrated that. I don’t care that he aces AP Chemistry; if they had a class on common sense, he’d be screwed. He even told me once that I could teach that class, and I’d probably give him an F. I like to remind him of that whenever I can.

  Okay, I know what Mom thinks she means. She thinks that since he doesn’t do drugs or anything like that, he’s therefore a virtuous, upright teenager. And I have to say in that sense she’s right. Jello doesn’t do drugs because, clearly, he doesn’t need to alter his mind any further. However, according to Mom’s own definition, my very own pill-popping, mood-altering, sometimes-not-so-regimented mother is not, therefore, a good influence on me. I really want to point this out to her one day, but that would only make her take her pills.

  Hilarious, isn’t it?

  Mom’s got her good points; don’t get me wrong. She puts my shoes away on a daily basis, makes great mango cheesecakes and coconut puddings, and listens to Mina a hell of a lot better than Dad. And though she’s pretty spineless, sometimes I can’t help but feel bad for her. I mean, what Dad did to her. If I were her, I’d feel stupid as hell for choosing to marry someone who would blow out his shoulder
while trying to blow off his head. Sometimes I’ve gotten really mad that she hasn’t picked up and left him, and other times I respect the fact that she’s still sticking around, which means that she hasn’t given up on us all.

  Before Dad got depressed, he used to tell us stories of what it was like growing up, and he did it in a funny way so Mom would laugh. Actually, Mom would laugh so hard she would snort, and that would make us start laughing, and us laughing would make her laugh harder and snort more, which would make us laugh harder—that kind of thing. It was a well-known fact in our family that Dad could make Mom snort. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Now she’s pretty quiet; she only talks when she needs to tell me to put away the dishes or ask Mina to set the table. In the beginning she and Dad would talk in hushed voices behind their closed door, and now sometimes I still hear her voice through the door, but I never hear his voice in return. People in town have told me that Mom is known to snap at her employees at the bank, which I find strange, because she isn’t testy with us at home, not even close.

  But she does take her pills, and she started that when I was a kid. For anxiety. As needed. I mean, why not do something to calm you down? When I’ve asked her that, she says it’s not that easy. And you know, I get that. I do. It’s not always that easy. Still, sometimes she takes her meds more than she should, and then she gets tired and sleeps a lot, and then I have to take care of Mina and the house and Mom’s pills, and sometimes that’s just one thing too much.

  The first time I found Mom doubling up on her pills was a couple years ago. She was sleeping, again, and I went in and counted her meds and saw that she only had four pills left, when she had just refilled the bottle the week before. And I couldn’t do shit about any of it.

  That’s when I took that pill bottle, slammed it against the wall, and must have started shouting, because Dad and Mina came to see what was the matter. Dad’s mouth was moving, telling me to stop shouting although I could swear I wasn’t, and Mina started crying. Mom of course was still sleeping, and all I could hear was this great hissing silence in my ears, and the world went all one big angry color until Mina ran at me and hugged me around the waist, and what do you know, a rush of sounds came crashing back down on me, like they had been stuck on the ceiling. Somehow during it all I broke a window in the dining room, although I could swear I hadn’t even touched it.

  That only happened once. My shouting, I mean. And the window. Mom’s done her sleeping thing a number of times since Dad’s suicide attempt, but for those I didn’t freak out or anything. I mean, how the hell can I fix any of this? So I do what I do really well these days: focus on my own shit.

  Mina has yet to learn this. Once she snuck into my room while I was listening to some Rachmaninoff and was bawling her eyes out. Turns out she thought that Mom was taking her pills because of something the two of us did. She crawled into my lap like some little puppy and just cried and cried, and I think she’d still be crying today if I hadn’t told her that Mom’s pills are none of our business. Mina didn’t quite get that, but she’s a kid. It’s true, though. What Mom does has nothing to do with us.

  Mina also has yet to learn that she can’t go around just trusting everyone. Like that Sam. So what that he doesn’t pull her hair? Maybe he’s not the hair-pulling type. But who’s to say that he’s not the kind of freak who lures people in and then chops them up when they’re not looking? There’s lots of different types of stalkers out there; you can’t lump them all into one category.

  Mom and Jello were watching TV—Dan the News Man’s voice was loud and rapid-fire, all crazed—when I went back into my bedroom to get my favorite T-shirt. Rain slashed at the windows. And freaking-A, as I was grabbing my shirt off of the back of my chair, that’s when I noticed it, and I almost pissed myself.

  My jeans were gone.

  8

  I BARGED INTO MINA’S ROOM, kicked aside her teddy bear, and hauled her out of her orange desk. “Where did they go?” I yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  Her almond eyes went wide with fear. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Like hell you don’t.”

  “He told me to.” She teared up. “They’re his brother Nick’s, and you took them. That’s what Sam said.”

  “And you believed that little punk-ass?” My voice pinched. The TV was still blaring in the living room.

  “No,” she said, choking on the word. “But he said you wouldn’t mind.”

  “That you would freaking steal my jeans? For him?”

  She gave a little cry. “Stop it!”

  I loosened my grip on her shoulders, but not entirely.

  “What is going on here?” Mom asked, rushing in. She yanked me away from Mina.

  “That little shit went into my room and stole my work jeans,” I said. I articulated the words nice and hard.

  Mina pressed the palms of her hands to her ears and started to cry.

  “You will not call your sister that name,” Mom said.

  “A little shit? I could call her a lot worse things than that. For instance, I could say—”

  Mina started howling.

  “Ronney,” Mom said.

  “I can’t help it she can’t take it,” I replied. “She stole my jeans.”

  Mom’s face hardened. “She’s in fourth grade, Ronney.”

  “Oh, so she can do anything she wants, then? You want to raise a brat?”

  Mom turned and yanked Mina’s hands from her ears. “Did you steal Ronney’s jeans?”

  “They belong to Sam’s brother,” she moaned in a stuffed-up voice.

  “I bought them from the secondhand store with my own money,” I retorted. “This Nick is a shit for giving them away and wanting them back.”

  “Ronney,” Mom said, turning to me.

  “I didn’t say that Mina was a—”

  “Nick ran away from home,” Mina blurted out. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  Mom shook her head. “Now, Mina, you don’t want to go around spreading rumors—”

  “But it’s true,” Mina said, swiping at her little pug nose. “Back in the spring.”

  I gave her a you are dumb look. “Then why haven’t we have heard of this? No TV? No newspapers?”

  Mina gave me a hurt look back. “His parents didn’t want a public search. Nick just turned eighteen, and his dad said that if he wanted to come home, he’d come home. And Nick’s parents have been giving everything of his to the secondhand store.”

  “Are you kidding? They’re dumping off his stuff?” I asked. That’s harsh. Even for me.

  Mina dragged the back of her hand across her nose. “Sam’s been trying to buy it all back with his allowance,” she said.

  I whistled and shook my head, impressed.

  Now that I thought about it, I had vaguely heard of Nick Caldwell at school; he was two years ahead of me, a senior, and into baseball. We were completely different, except that both our parents sucked ass. I mean, you don’t run away from home unless it’s really crap. With the size of our town, either Nick didn’t tell a soul where he was going or he had some damn good friends with locks on their mouths. If Sam was so stalker-bent on getting those jeans, he and his brother must have been close. Real close. Stalkers can be determined, I realized. Maybe for good reasons.

  Dad appeared in the doorway of Mina’s room and looked at the three of us. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “So nice of you to join us,” I said.

  “The kids were fighting,” Mom said.

  Mina sniffled and looked at me.

  Dad looked at Mom. “You’re taking care of it?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said, but her voice was heavy.

  Dad started to walk away.

  “She has to take care of it,” I said loudly, “because you’re sure as hell not.”

  Dad stopped but didn’t turn and look at us.

  I know—
I can be a dick. I won’t pretend I’m perfect. But it’s amazing how you can learn to un-need people if you have to. It gets awkward when Dad is eating chips on the couch. Sometimes I stare at him and wonder what the hell he’s doing here. Maybe he feels the same way.

  Dad was running his hand through his hair when Jello poked his head into the doorway. “Um, hello?” he said. Jello tried to keep a distance from Dad. “I think I should be going home now. My parents want me back for dinner.”

  “You’re not taking your bike in this storm and with that wolf on the loose,” Mom said. “And all the other whatsits.” She looked at Dad. “You want to drive Jello home?”

  Dad shook his head. “I’m tired.”

  Mom looked away and exhaled slowly.

  “Of course you’re tired,” I said to him. “It’s hard work being tired all day.”

  “I’ll take you,” Mom said to Jello.

  We shuffled down the hallway, one big pod of us, when Dan the News Man appeared back on the screen. His face stared right into the camera, his raincoat shining from the pouring rain. “. . . the wolf is estimated to be at least one hundred fifty pounds and was shot dead just minutes ago by five deputies with assault rifles, authorized by a shoot-to-kill order from the county sheriff.”

  That’s when Mina started shrieking. I mean, shrieking. She doubled over, put her arms over her head like someone was going to hit her, and let loose these ear-piercing screams that no human should ever endure.

  This time Mom grabbed Mina by the shoulders. “Mina,” she shouted.

  “Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill!” Mina sobbed, shaking her head. Her entire body trembled as she gasped for air, only to cough-cry it out again. “I don’t want that wolf dead,” she moaned.

  Dad stood there, stick straight, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “That wolf’s gonna be okay, Mina,” I said quietly. Mina wrenched herself from Mom and threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist like a vine.

  “I don’t want to be alone, Ron-Ron,” Mina sobbed into my shirt.

  “We’ll go with Mom and Jello in the car, okay?” I said, rubbing her back.

  We all stood around like dumb-asses while Mina drenched my favorite T-shirt. When she was done, the four of us piled into the car and let Dad do whatever he did when we left him. I sat in the back seat with Mina, and Mom drove us over to Jello’s in silence. Mina had one hand in mine, and her other hand grasped her little orange bouncy ball. I normally would have been annoyed about her getting my T-shirt all nasty. But not this time.