The Little Brother by Victoria Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

with a start, and sat up. “Faaack,” he said.
    I gave him room to regain his composure. It took him a few head-shaking and throat-clearing minutes. Then he squinted at me and said, “Even, what’re you doing here?”
    â€œFinding you,” I said. “Mom’s worried.”
    He shook his head, a hand on his forehead.
    â€œThey left you?” I asked.
    He shrugged.
    â€œNot cool,” I said. With a rush of gratitude, I thought about Mike. “What kind of friends do that?”
    â€œDo what?” he said, holding his head.
    â€œLeave you passed out in a playground, shoved inside a slide?”
    He didn’t answer.
    We rode double on my ten-speed, Gabe sitting on the bike seat, me standing and pedaling. He put his hands on my waist to steady himself. We took a long detour to a gas station, buying mint gum to camouflage Gabe’s breath.
    But by the time we got home, Mom had taken a couple of Xanax—the bottle was on the coffee table—and she was sleeping on the couch, her hands folded on her stomach, the afghan slipped to the floor.

7.
    T HE NEXT WEEK , Gabe called. “Is Dad there?” he asked. “He’s not answering at his office.” His tone alarmed me. But more than that, we’ve always had a shorthand receptivity, whereby we both can tell when the other is in trouble.
    I sat in one of the dining room chairs near the kitchen. I had just woken to the phone ringing, wearing my boxers and an undershirt, at about eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning.
    The night before, I had pretended to be sick—coughing, complaining about a stomachache, spending noticeable extended amounts of time in the bathroom, where I both masturbated and read books—and Dad, a school fanatic, probably because he’d been a high school dropout, let me sleep late and stay home.
    â€œNot sure,” I said.
    â€œFind out!”
    â€œHe’s not,” I said, fingering the note he’d left on the dining room table: Golf with K. Home later. “He’s golfing with Krone and his buddies. I just found his note.”
    Gabe groaned and then breathed into the phone. We both knew that Dad turned his cell phone off when he golfed. It was the onlytime he did so, saying that it was his “church time.” Church time could last multiple hours, depending on whether he played eighteen holes.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    â€œI’ve been arrested.”
    A tingling ran up my neck.
    â€œPublic intoxication,” he said. “I’m at the Cucamonga police station.”
    â€œOh, shit.”
    â€œI don’t have my clothes.”
    â€œWhy not? What are you wearing?”
    â€œThey gave me this scratchy jumpsuit. It’s really big on me.”
    In the long silence that followed, I could hear a gardener’s leaf blower in the distance, Gabe’s breathing, and the busy chattering noises of the police station in the background. From the window, a beam of sunlight made the flecks sparkle in the kitchen tiles. I’d detected a note of belligerence in Gabe’s tone and wondered if he was still drunk.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked, perching the phone in the crook of my shoulder, so that I could pour myself a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. When I’m scared, I get thirsty.
    â€œI can’t call Mom,” he said.
    â€œGabe, what happened?”
    He didn’t tell me, but I found out later from the police report that he was arrested at Ralph’s grocery store near his high school. On a dare, he slid down the aisle in his socks and boxers, his friends recording him on his Samsung camcorder—the same video camera that would get us in so much trouble later. Dad gave it toGabe for his twelfth birthday. Gabe used it to record his and his friends’ skateboarding feats.
    His friends ran away before the cops arrived, taking Gabe’s clothes with them. Even so, Gabe refused to rat them out. Because