Down to the Bone by Thirteen Page A

his dad and Frankie, noticing how his brother barely spoke. Also, how his father never addressed Frankie unless commanding him to do chores.
    “Trash needs to go out. Get!” his father would snap, or “You want some coffee, Jet? Frankie, get him some coffee. And toast. Now.”
    And most often after dinner: “Help your brother study. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?”
    Frankie, without protest, would put down his own books to sit with Jarrett and quiz him on biology and popular literature.
    That was how it had been for the last few weeks. Tonight, to Jarrett’s relief, his father had finally taken a night off to play poker with his buddies.
    Alone in the house with Frankie, Jarrett paused on his way to his room to peer through the blinds. It was sleeting outside and the yard looked bare and icy. Most of the house was dark, but there was a light on in his brother’s room. The curtains were drawn, but not completely and a ray of illumination caused the half-frozen droplets to glitter as they passed in and out of shadow.
    Through the crack, Jarrett saw his brother, shirtless and bone thin, pacing restlessly. Jarrett didn’t mean to spy, but he felt suddenly uneasy. He watched Frankie appear at that opening in the curtains, and then vanish and then appear again. For about five minutes he watched like that, seeing nothing to worry him. Then he noticed the syringe in his brother’s hand.
    “Fuck!” He’d gotten good with the crutches, but it was still slow going swinging his way around the corner and down the hall. He reached Frankie’s room, grabbed the knob. The door was locked.
    “Frankie!” He pounded. “Open up!”
    “Jet?” The lock was turned and the door thrown open. His brother’s worried face appeared. “Are you all right? What—”
    Jarrett plowed in, forcing Frankie back until he hit a wall. Braced on one foot, the crutches deep under his pits, Jarrett grabbed his brother by his scrawny throat. Frankie’s eyes bulged with alarm.
    “Where is it?”
    “Wh-what?”
    “Do not shit me!” Jarrett shook his brother like a broken toy. “Your curtains were open. I saw the syringe. Where is it?”
    Frankie went pale as death. His eyes flickered and Jarrett saw it, half hidden on a shelf behind some books. It wasn’t easy, but he could just reach it with his free hand while still holding onto Frankie.
    “What the fuck is this?” he asked darkly, and held it up. “What are you shooting?”
    “Nothing.” Frankie’s voice cracked and his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed. He was looking up at his looming brother like a chicken about to have its neck wrung. “I mean, I haven’t done anything yet. I was getting up the courage—”
    “To do what? Get high? Overdose?”
    “No! No! It’s...” Another swallow and tears appeared in the kid’s eyes. “Steroids.”
    “Steroids?” Jarrett was appalled. Every guy he knew who played pro sports faced the temptation to take steroids. He, himself, had been offered them, and had had to force himself to refuse. He had never imagined, however, that he’d have to talk to Frankie about them. It was almost too crazy to believe. “Do you know what this can do to you?”
    Frankie licked his lips. “It can make me more like you.”
    “Oh, shit, Frankie!” Jarrett finally let him go. ‘That’s fucked up and it’s not true. This stuff will ruin your life.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” Frankie murmured.
    “What? Doesn’t matter? What’s the supposed to mean?”
    “It means I have to try something! Anything!” Frankie fairly shouted. “You don’t know what it’s like—” His brother came to a stop, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t care if Dad doesn’t like me. Well, I do, but he’s never going to like me because I remind him too much of mom. But I...I can hardly stand to think of what an embarrassment I am to you, Jet.” He bowed his head. “What a disappointment.”
    “Disappointment?” Jarrett pulled Frankie to him and