That’s what I’d call it if I ever talked to anybody about it: dodging. When we were about seven, Brandon and I built a treehouse in a pussywillow at my grandma’s. I say treehouse, but it was just an old board or two we found stuck across some branches. The boards broke; we both fell. When I drew in a breath to start screaming, something twisted in me and in the world. It was Brandon screaming, and Brandon going to the hospital. I drew a lot of pictures on his cast. I don’t know how much I thought about it until a year later—we were at Rushmore, and we had ice cream. I dropped mine, and immediately I thought never happened . Things flexed again; my cotton candy cone was back in my hand and it was Brandon crying, being told we were too far to go back. I’ve been nice to Brandon since then; I avoid skinned knees and fender benders by moving them somewhere else, to someone random. What harm? Those things were always going to happen. When Jane said those words, maybe I could have prevented m...
Worlds are best when they feel heard