commit suicide?â
âYes! I told you that.â
âAnd theyâre not kidding?â
âOh, gee, Jack, I never thought of that, let me ask him.â
Jack considers this for a moment. Itâs long enough for me to realize that this is the most weâve talked in a month. Ever since Dad told him they might have to raid his college account to pay for Mr. Halpern if my account isnât enough.
âYou think he means it,â Jack says finally, as if my sarcasm was totally lost on him. Maybe it was.
I lean against my door frame. âI donât know,â I say. âProbably not. I mean, what are the chances, right?â
Jack snorts, and, very quickly, a look of pure disgust passes over his face. It makes my heart shrivel.
âBut so far, he sounds for real,â I go on. âI donât know.â
âWhere is he?â
âSome hill. Outside. One of the mountains, I guess, on a highway I think. I heard one of those tractor-trailer horns going by.â
âThatâs all you got?â
âYeah. Jack, please, youâve got to help me. If something happens, if heâs really serious and something bad happens, and he has my number on his cell . . .â
âHowâd he get your number?â
âSays he dialed it randomly.â
âYou believe that?â
âNot exactly. But I donât have any choice.â
Jack snorts again. âYou got that right.â Suddenly Jack shakes his head and backs off. âWell, good luck,â he says.
âWait!â I whisper-screech. âCanât you at least let me borrow your laptop?â
âNo.â
âJack!â
âWhat?â
âCome on! At least let me look up his number!â
Jack shakes his head again, melodramatically walking backward down the hall toward his door. âNo,â he repeats. âThis is your mess, Vic. Maybe you should figure a way out of it. Or maybe try, I dunno, helping the guy out. Be a nice change of pace.â
âI can help him if you let me use your laptop, dumb-ass!â I say, following him into the hallway.
âRight, because I have satellite-imaging capabilities and just so happened to plant a tracking device on this guy too. Brilliant.â
âI can at least look up his number and see if it matches the name he gave me,â I say. âThat way if heâs lying, I can go to sleep.â
âAnd that helps him somehow, right?â
I clench about three dozen fists. âGoddammit, Jack!â
âItâs still all about you, isnât it?â Jack says. âJesus, Vic. Why canât you just assume heâs for real? Why canât you just offer to listen or to talk him down, or whatever needs to be done?â
âBecause Iâm on fucking trial , Jack,â I whisper, and it sounds demonic.
Heâs not impressed. I never could scare him. âAll the more reason to stick with him, even if heâs full of crap,â Jack says. âIf itâs a sick joke, you lose a little sleep. If itâs not, maybe you canââ
He cuts himself off, snapping his mouth closed. I peer at him in the dark hallway, trembling at the many, many ways that sentence might end.
âMaybe I can what?â
My big brother stares at me. For a long time. Then he snorts and shakes his head. âMy computer canât help you help him,â Jack says. âYouâre gonna have to do that on your own. If you want to.â
âIf I want to?â I say. âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
âOh, now suddenly you donât remember Jack Pus -Berger? Krakatoa? Cystââ
These are all names Jack got called during the worst of his acne. I interrupt him. âWhat does any of that have to do with this?â
Jack narrows his eyes. âI was an inconvenience to you last year,â he says. âAnd thatâs the only way you could see me. Well, now this guyâs
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