By Diane D. Gillette

I sit perched on the concrete steps of Natalie’s house. Despite the fact that Natalie is three years older than me, a friendship of convenience has grown between us. We’re also the only two girls on the block. As I am a dismal failure at cultivating friendships, I’m grateful for Natalie’s acquaintance.

Natalie is painting her toenails a shimmering violet as I flip through Pride and Prejudice, searching for the scene where Darcy is rude to Elizabeth at the ball. Natalie had to read the book for school last year, whereas I found a copy of it in my grandma’s basement and read it for fun. I like Elizabeth’s sass, but Natalie loves the happily-ever-after. My brother Jack tells me that my know-it-all attitude and obsession with fictional characters are why I don’t have any friends. He says it’s exhausting.

Jack rides his bike back and forth in front of Natalie’s house, waving at her, but she doesn’t look at him. I roll my eyes at his obvious peacocking. Jack should have been in summer school, retaking freshman English because he refused to read Pride and Prejudice. He’d begged me to help him, and I didn’t want him to get into trouble again. Natalie is still focusing on her purple toenails when Jack calls out, “Hey, Nat! Look at this!” When we both look up, we see him teasing his thick, dark hair out of his eyes with his fingers. He stands up and rides for at least six feet solely on the back wheel of his bicycle. However, the bolts holding his front wheel must be loose because it flies off as Jack’s bike crashes to the ground, taking him with it.

He lands face-first on the asphalt. His wheel descends to the end of the road and veers toward the corner. After giving Jack and the wheel a quick glance, Natalie jumps up and sprints after it, standing stiffly on her heels and pointing her newly painted toes upward toward the sun. I drop my book and rush to Jack. One side of his face is shredded from the asphalt, and there is a jagged cut along his jaw. A piece of broken glass from a shattered bottle on the road hangs from the cut. I have to look away, gagging a little, understanding why Natalie took off after my brother’s wheel instead of facing the blood.

Our dad hobbles over from three houses down. He’s been sitting in our yard all afternoon, watching planes pass while sipping Wild Turkey. It’s his favorite thing to do after watching his morning soaps. It’s all he’s done since his gout got bad enough that he got to retire early and collect a disability check. He has a cigarette clamped between his lips as a smoke trail follows him. He hitches up his pants and lurches around the broken bottle in his bare feet. Jack groans as Natalie stands behind me, bicycle wheel clutched in her pretty pink hands. Nails perfectly polished into a violent purple so brilliant it hurts my eyes to look directly at their sheen.

Natalie’s mom comes rushing out of the house. Her long blonde hair, straight and soft as spring rain, streams behind her. She delicately extracts the glass and then presses a dishtowel to Jack’s cut, cooing soft, comforting mom words while patting his back and looking over him instead of at him as his blood ruins her pristine white dish towel.

I crouch down and look Jack right in the eye. “That was really dumb,” I inform him, as is my right and duty as his little sister.

Natalie’s mother shushes me. “He’s hurt and that’s not helping.”

“Your sister’s right,” our dad says, siding with me. “That was a pretty stupid thing to do.”

I bit my lip. Sorry to have said anything.

“Now I have to drive you to the hospital and get your face fixed, I suppose,” Dad continues as Natalie’s mom helps Jack stand up. I recognize the dark humor our father regularly uses to mask his anger. Jack will likely pay for this stunt with more than a trip to the hospital when we are all home and away from the neighbors’ judging gaze.

“I can drive you both,” Natalie’s mom offers.

“No, I can take care of my family.” Our dad yanks Jack away from Natalie’s mom’s gentle grasp, causing Jack to wince.

I watched our dad get Jack into the pickup truck to drive him to the hospital. Natalie’s mom observes them driving off with her lips pressed into a thin, tight line, clamped shut as if trying to keep words from escaping. Once the truck turns the corner, she suggests that I come in and call my mom.

“What’s going on, Ruby? We’re slammed right now.” My mom’s voice fights against the familiar clang and clatter of the kitchen behind her. I glance at the brass clock resting on Natalie’s mantle and note it is still probably the lunch rush, the most hectic part of my mom’s day.

“Jack fell off his bike. I think he broke his face. Dad’s driving him to the hospital. I’m at Natalie’s house.”

I wait for my mom to say something, but all I can hear between the banging of pans and the sizzle of the fryer is the muffled call for someone to please go into the walk-in and get another damn box of tortillas. Finally, I hear my mom sigh, and I realize she isn’t saying anything because she knows everything she needs to know about the situation. There are no words to make it all better. We stayed on the line for a long time, neither one saying a word.