Jake
That night at the hospital was a living hell. The nurses woke me up constantly. I’d hit my head pretty good on the concrete lip of the pool after the firecrackers exploded, and I had the goose egg to prove it. They kept waking me every few hours on concussion watch. I wanted to sob, Just let me fucking sleep.
Besides the irritating pupil-check brigade, my hands hurt like a son of a bitch. They were both wrapped wrist to fingertip in bulky bandages like a prize fighter. It was kind of a cool look—Andy would probably like it. If not for, you know, the burns. It felt like the bandages were lined with ground glass or maybe razor blades. Even twitching a finger caused a sensation like my skin was being ripped off. And, of course, twitching was exactly what I did every time the nurses asked me about the pain.
I was on some good drugs, and if I could keep my hands perfectly motionless, the pain faded away. But they were hands. I would unconsciously go to move them—to pull up the sheet, scratch my nose, or reach for the glass by my bed—and I’d be in agony again. The actual pain level had to be bad if it hurt that much despite the drugs. On top of that, the reality of what had happened was slowly sinking in.
This wasn’t like any of the other stunts Andy and I had pulled over the years. I’d never gotten hurt before, at least not seriously. In fact, I’d gotten way more cuts and bruises playing one-on-one basketball or touch football with Andy than I had on our dares. But this . . . this was going to be a serious problem. I didn’t know how serious until I talked to the doctor. The nurses promised me he’d be by first thing in the morning.
Dr. Benji came in just before 8 a.m. He looked like he was playing dress-up in his lab coat. It had a jaunty belt at the waist and was a blinding shade of pure white that was matched only by the brilliance of his teeth. He was Asian, had straight black hair past his shoulders, probably weighted ninety pounds soaking wet, and appeared to be about my age. Seriously. If I’d been a bar bouncer, there was no way I’d be fooled by his fake ID. As a physician, he wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring.
“Hey there! I’m Dr. Benji!” He grinned. Then he pouted his lips. “You boys are lucky to not have lost some fingers.” He waggled his own fingers at me.
“It wasn’t supposed to actually be dangerous,” I muttered.
Dr. Benji stared at me, a little frown between his eyes. “Holding on to a lit firecracker is not dangerous? How do you figure that, buddy?”
“Uh, well, they were in our open palms.” I went to demonstrate by moving my hands and winced at the pain, giving up instantly. I gritted my teeth as the sharp daggers subsided. “The . . . the explosion was supposed to go upward and . . .”
I trailed off, seeing the wide-eyed disbelief on Dr. Benji’s face. He was studying me like I was a total and complete idiot. He had a point.
“Never mind,” I said.
He glanced at my chart, flipped a page. “Okay! So. Second- and third-degree burns on pretty much the underside of your entire hand. Both hands. Um-hmm. Um-hmm.” He looked up, his eyes bright and cheerful. “Yup. Pretty bad. Hope you don’t have any exciting plans for the summer, Mr. Masterson.”
I regarded my two mummy-wrapped hands, feeling the first wafts of panic. “But . . . how long do I need to wear these?”
“Six to eight weeks, buster. You need to use your hands as little as possible. The less you use, the quicker you heal. Got it? So I hope you have a patient girlfriend.” He tittered.
My mind immediately went into the gutter.
It must have shown on my face, because Dr. Benji’s mouth dropped open and his cheeks pinkened. “For feeding you! And helping you dress. Things like, um, that.” His eyes went wide with embarrassment and he stared back down at my chart. “Okay! So, you are very lucky. You narrowly escaped the need for skin grafting. Or, you know, losing your entire hand at the wrist. But still. The damage is serious. The top layers of your skin were fried. Kind of like sausages on a grill.”
“Great.”
“So it will take a while for what itsy bitsy layer of healthy skin you have left to heal and grow new layers. You know? And for the damaged layers to peel off.” He was back to his cheerful tone. “So. No using your hands, right? You damage that last bit of good skin, you may yet end up with surgery and skin grafts. Let’s avoid that, whaddya say?” He winked.
Now it was my turn to stare. “When you say ‘no using your hands,’ do you mean I won’t be able to type?”
Dr. Benji laughed with genuine amusement. “Heavens no! Definitely no typing. That’s the last thing you should do. That would pull all kinds of skin and tendons.” He mocked typing in the air with delicate fingers. “Plus, it would hurt like a bear. No, you want to keep your hands as immobile as possible until your new skin is completely healed.”
“Oh shit.” I wanted to cover my face with my hands, but just starting to bring them up reminded me of the inadvisability of that idea. And that made me realize how hard this was going to be. Every other minute I was going to start to do something only to realize I couldn’t do it. And that was just ordinary day-to-day stuff. That didn’t even touch on my job, which I was supposed to be starting in two weeks.
For a moment I imagined myself showing up for work with my hands bandaged like this. Hey, here I am, reporting for duty! One small thing, though—I can’t type, hope that’s okay. Or hold a pen. Or open my desk drawers. Or even, you know, get inside the damn building, because I can’t grasp the door handle. Other than that, I’m raring to go!
I closed my eyes and groaned. Dread and a sense of shame at having been very, very foolish prickled my neck and tightened my belly. I was so, so screwed. I was so getting Andy back for this.
Only the moment I thought it, I realized something that hadn’t occurred to me: Andy had been holding firecrackers too.
My eyes flew open. “Shit. My friend Andy. Is he okay? He didn’t lose any fingers, did he?” I couldn’t even imagine that. Andy was so physical. The entire world was like one huge game to him. If he didn’t have a ball of some sort in his hands, it was a stick or a dart or a bat. He had beautiful hands, crazy dexterous. Not that I thought a lot about my best friend’s hands.
Okay, I did. I thought a lot about my best friend’s hands.
Dr. Benji relieved my fears. “He’s in the same boat you are, pretty much.” He winked at me again. “Which means the two of you will need someone else to paddle.” He laughed, ho ho ho, at his own joke.
This guy was a real comedian.
“So he didn’t require skin grafts either?”
“Not so far. And he won’t if he’s careful and follows doctor’s orders, just like you.” He gave me a warning glare that was as harmless as the bark of a Chihuahua. “Look at the bright side, though! Turns out you don’t have a concussion and you won’t have much scarring in the end. Cool, right?” He raised his hand up for a high five, and then, as if remembering I wasn’t supposed to move my hand, grimaced and dropped it again. “So, uh, yeah. See ya, sport. Okay? Hey, watch out for the lime Jell-O!”
He walked out, laughing. Jesus Christ. Fucking modern healthcare.
I lay in the hospital bed trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do now. I needed to call my sister, Sierra, and confess how royally I’d screwed up. She was two years older than me, and had helped me get a job as a programmer at the company where she worked, Neverware. And then what? I was supposed to move to California on Saturday. Could I even travel like this? No way could I move boxes or drive my car. Hell, I couldn’t even get my dick out of my pants to take a piss.
Holy crap. How was I going to eat?
It struck me that I was helpless as a baby. And that was for at least six weeks, maybe as long as eight. What was the point of going to California if I couldn’t work? A programmer needed to type. That was pretty much a minimum skill set right there. I couldn’t stay on campus, our place was already rented out to someone else. And wherever I landed, I’d need someone to take care of me.
My summer was ruined. And maybe more than that too.
On the bright side, I could ask the nurse to bring me a couple of servings of that lime Jell-O. Maybe I’d get lucky and that shit would kill me.
Andy
The first thing I saw when I woke up in the hospital was my dad. He was sitting in a chair drawn up close to my bed, watching me with a blank face.
I closed my eyes again, inwardly groaning. Oh God, what had I done to deserve this hell? My hands were both bandaged and hurting. Worse, Jake was hurt too. I wasn’t even sure how badly he’d been hurt, because we’d been driven to the hospital in separate cars. The nurse in the ER told me he hadn’t lost any digits and was “doing as well as could be expected,” but I was still worried. Now on top of all that I had to deal with my father. Talk about a seriously crappy day.
“I know you’re awake, Andrew. So you might as well stop pretending.”
I opened my eyes. Looking at my dad was like looking into a mirror that aged me twenty-five years. His face had a few lines and his blond hair was gray at the temples, but mostly he seemed old because of the serious set of his . . . everything. He wore glasses and dress pants, a shirt, and a tie, even now. What was it, like, 8 a.m.? He and my mom had been at my graduation the day before, but drove home after the ceremony. It was a four-hour drive from our house near Boston to NYU, so, yeah, he couldn’t have been happy to have to turn around and drive right back. I could add exhaustion to the list of his reasons to be pissed at me. Wonderful.
“What on earth were you thinking?” he asked.
I swallowed, but my throat felt like I’d been snacking on a bucket of sand. “Coffee?” I croaked.
“Coffee,” he muttered with a huff, as though I’d asked for a hit of meth. He grabbed a glass with a sippy straw from the nightstand and held it up for me. I struggled upright a little on my elbows and drank. It was warm water that tasted vaguely of chemicals. It was disgusting, but at least it soothed my throat.
“Well, Andrew,” my dad began as he put the glass back, “you’ve ruined your summer, if not your entire future. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
I bit back a sarcastic reply. There was no escaping this ordeal of a conversation, so I had to grit my teeth and bear it. And, to be honest, I deserved it. I had miscalculated. Hugely. I should never have rushed a stunt like that. I should have tested those firecrackers way more thoroughly. Damn it. I’d hurt myself, but more importantly, I’d hurt Jake. And that was unacceptable. This convo with my dad was just the cherry on top of the shit pile.
“My future is not going to be ruined if I don’t get to work at Kosen & Kosen this summer,” I said calmly, trying to keep the conversation from escalating.
“It was on your five-year plan,” Dad pointed out.
“I know that. But I’m just starting Harvard Law in the fall. It’s not like I won’t have other opportunities for internships.”
He frowned. “Letting down a prestigious agency at the last minute is the perfect way to ruin your reputation before you even get started. And there’ll be a suspicious gap on your résumé.”
God, my résumé. The holy fucking grail. It wasn’t as if other twenty-two-year-old future lawyers didn’t have a single summer in their lives when they didn’t work. I was sure there had to be others who were backpacking in Europe, or sailing around the Bahamas—or lying around recovering from burns.
“I’m injured, Dad.” I sounded more irritated than I should have. “I have a good excuse for bailing on my internship. And it’s not like I was going to be that valuable at Kosen & Kosen anyway. It was just a clerk job.”
My mom had gotten me that internship—not at her law firm, that would be too nepotistic, but at a firm she worked with frequently. I’d gotten the impression it was more a favor to her than a critical need for my help on their part.
My dad’s frown didn’t shift one iota. “Obviously, you’ll have to say you were injured, but we need to come up with a story about how it happened. You certainly can’t tell them you were doing something idiotic on a dare. No one wants a lawyer who has no ability to foresee the most obvious consequences.”
I gritted my teeth harder.
My dad’s voice softened, became more worried than angry. “What were you thinking, Andrew? I’d really like to understand. The nurse said you were both holding lit firecrackers? Were you drunk? High? Was it Jake’s idea? I thought you were finally done with all that nonsense.”
There was so much wrong with that statement. A spark of anger flared in my chest. I hated it when my dad talked smack about Jake. And yes, I did sometimes get drunk. But I was way more responsible than most guys my age. My dad didn’t have to act like I was a loser. Not when I’d busted my ass doing what he wanted for so many years. Hell, I’d just graduated at the top of my class at NYU.
“It was my idea, not Jake’s,” I said in a low, tight voice. “It was a stunt that went wrong, that’s all. Yes, it was stupid, but I can’t change it now.”
“A stunt! You and your interest in David Blaine and all that magic nonsense. It’s enough of a waste of time that you watch it on video or read about it. But to try to do it? Don’t you realize these things are dangerous? What is the point?”
I was surprised he even knew I was into David Blaine. So he actually paid attention to the shows I watched or books I read? The thought was worrying.
“Sometimes there isn’t ‘a point,’” I said calmly. “Sometimes you do things because they’re funny. Or exciting. Or they seem like a good idea at the time. I already admitted the firecracker idea was dumb. It was a mistake, and I should have been better than that. What else do you want me to say?” I started to clench my fists, as I often did when talking to my dad. Agony shot through both hands, making me writhe on the bed.
Fucking hell. Don’t move your hands. Idiot.
“Should I ring for the nurse?” my dad asked worriedly. He reached out and brushed the hair out of my eyes. Crap. Just when I wanted to shut him out, he had to be nice.
“No, I’m fine.” I gasped through the pain. I already felt loopy from the drugs they’d given me overnight. I just needed to . . . not move. I lay there, staring at the ceiling and panting.
“Mom?” I asked to change the subject.
“She was going to come back with me, but I told her not to. The doctor who called us said it wasn’t critical, and your mother had a full slate of meetings this morning. But she sends her love. I need to text her and let her know how you’re doing.”
“Okay.” I let my breath out slowly as the pain began to fade—thank fuck.
“Well,” my dad said grudgingly. “From what I understand there’ll be no permanent damage. I hate to say it, but maybe this injury will turn out to be a good thing. Maybe this is what you needed to finally wise up and stop with this daredevil business. It’s time to grow up, Andrew. Your entire future is on the line now.”
He was right. My future was on the line. But then, when had it ever not been? It seemed like it had been absolutely critical that I do everything right since I started earning a report card in first grade.
As the pain left my hands, I relaxed on the bed, feeling miserable. All I’d wanted was . . . what? To do one more spectacular dare with my best friend? To somehow hold on to Jake?
To somehow hold on to Jake.
The nurse had given me the impression Jake’s injuries were much like mine. So maybe he wouldn’t be leaving for California. The thought made me feel considerably less miserable.
“The doctor says you can’t do much of anything all summer. I suppose we’ll have to hire you a nurse. Your mother and I can’t just take off work to wait on you day and night.”
“No. I know that. Will the insurance cover a nurse?”
“Of course it will! Physical therapy too. Unlike most people’s insurance. Good insurance can save you millions, you know.” My dad sounded pleased with himself. He took insurance seriously. He was a financial planner, and believe me, it wasn’t just a day job for him. Sometimes I wondered if he’d ever thought about anything else in his life.
He rambled on about the importance of health insurance for a while. “We could afford a much better hospital, but they’re going to release you tomorrow morning anyway, so there’s no point in having you transferred.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine here.” I’d rather be where Jake was than in the most luxurious hotel in the world. “So, Dad . . . about this summer.”