Wrecked by E. R. Frank Page A

practically no tubes or machines, and somebody had washed your hair and you didn’t look too bad, and I wanted to write you a note or something on your cast, only there was no pen anywhere. Anyway …” Lisa and them are looking at me like I’m nuts. “The Ashleys keep saying hi to me in the hall, and Kevin and Trace called to ask how you were doing, and then they broke up and then got back together again. Lisa’s getting a Mac instead of a Dell, and we’re waiting for you to get out of the hospital so we can start an SAT study group, and did you know that Seth eats a different candy bar each week, like all week, and this week’s is Caramel Crunch, and I’ve seen him eat three already, and it’s not even twelve thirty? And there’s a rumor starting that Jason and Sleev-eth are going out, only Seth swears he’s not gay, and Jason swears that even if Seth was gay, Jason wouldn’t date him for a million dollars, which is an interesting question. The question being, What would we each do for a million dollars?”
    I hold my cell out to everyone. “Anybody want to leave a message?”
    Lisa takes the phone. “Anna is crazy, Ellen, but you must already know that. Get better! We miss you!”
    She hands it to Jason. “The only way out,” Jason says, “is to simply observe.” Then he passes the phone to Seth.
    “Get well soon. We need you for vocabulary.” Seth hands the phone back to me.
    “Bye,” I say.
    “The social worker at the hospital suggested we get some counseling,” my mother tells me.
    I’m in the family room, channel surfing. I’m used to having one eye right now, only I’m just a little worried it’s making me bend my head in a weird way.
    “You don’t need counseling, though, right?” my dad adds. They’ve sat down on the L of the couch next to me. They never sit on the couch in here.
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    “I think it’s a good idea,” my mother says.
    “Really?” I’m not even sure what counseling would be like. “Why?”
    “Right,” my dad tells my mom. “That’s what I think.”
    “The social worker thinks differently,” my mom says.
    “Did the social worker suggest Jack get counseling?” I ask.
    “She suggested it for all of us,” my mother goes. “But especially for you and Jack.”
    “Dad doesn’t think we need to, though,” I say. “Right?”
    “I don’t really see the point,” my father says. “We go through difficult times. We live. We learn. We move on.”
    “If she wants to go,” my mother says to my father, “she’ll go.”
    “Right,” my dad says. “If she really wants to.”
    “Does Jack want to?” I ask.
    “We haven’t asked him yet,” my mother says. “We’re waiting until he gets back.”
    I stay quiet. I’ll do whatever they tell me to do. But I don’t really care.
    “All right, then.” My father stands up.
    “I think we should talk about this more,” my mom says. He makes this huge, exaggerated sigh.
    “It’s fine,” I say to my mom. To keep them from arguing. To keep him calm. “I don’t really want to go.”
    Besides music Jack loves movies. Films, he would say.
    “We’re not watching this,” I went one afternoon, years ago, as soon as I saw words on the bottom of the screen.
    “But it’s a classic,” Jack said. “It’s The Four Hundred Blows .”
    I was too young then to make an obscene comment about that title. But I was old enough to know it wasn’t going to be as good as the top countdown on MTV.
    “It’s in French,” I said.
    “So?” Jack argued. “The French make really good movies. Just give it a chance.”
    “Watch it in your room, then.”
    “My screen’s too small in there,” he told me. “You have to see this stuff on a big screen.”
    “Mom!” I yelled. “Jack’s hogging the good TV again!” Which wasn’t even fair of me, because we’d already made a deal about whose day was whose.
    “Work it out,” she yelled back from her office upstairs.
    “It’s Thursday,” Jack