“Hey, I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault.”

  “I know.” There’s silence. Then, “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, charmer. Say, is it all right if I let Sylvia know what’s going on?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re gonna need an advocate at school. D’you think your classwork isn’t gonna suffer, whoever gives up a kidney?”

  “Good point.”

  “Hey, maybe if you miss some school, I can bring stuff over, help you with homework. Sound like a plan?”

  “Sounds like the only good thing I’ve heard all week.”

  “What else can I do?”

  I nearly lose it. I have to press the phone against the bedspread for a couple of seconds so I can get everything under control again. “Just be there. I, uh, I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on.” We listen to each other breathe for a second. Then I say, “Max, I’m sorry. I mean, you know, you didn’t bargain for this. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  He gives a kind of snort. “Hey, dude, don’t go getting all wimpy on me. I don’t deal with anything I don’t want to. I figure you’re worth it. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  This makes me smile; not sure why. “Deal.”

  “Call me when you know more. Or if you’re up for a little phone sex.”

  My smile gets bigger. “You bet.” Then I say out loud something I once texted. “Dream of me?”

  His response, thank God, is the same: “Always do.”

  I lie there for maybe fifteen minutes, thinking of Max, being glad he’s in my life. It amazes me how much better I feel than before I called him. I suppose some of that is just from talking to someone not in the thick of it. But a lot of it must be him. Eventually I go downstairs and sit with my folks for a bit, watching Dad cruise from channel to channel, not caring what’s on.

  The first part of Sunday morning is pretty much a blur. At the hospital, they tell us that the sepsis is clearing nicely, so a new kidney is the next step. We all go into separate rooms, this guy asks me a lot of questions, makes me fill out a lot of forms, and just before he gets ready to start with the X-rays he examines me all over for whatever. Skin cancer, maybe? Anyway, that’s when he finds my tattoo.

  He freezes, and maybe five seconds later I hear, “How long have you had this?”

  With everything that’s happened lately, I haven’t really thought about my tat in a while, so it takes me a minute to get what he means. “Oh. Um, I think . . . maybe a few weeks ago?”

  “Okay. Get dressed.”

  I pull up my underwear and pants first and turn to face him. “Does it make a difference?”

  He nods. “Sure does. You’re not exhibiting any symptoms, and no infection showed up in the blood tests. But there’s no point in any other testing. You can’t donate.”

  I’m working my sweater on over my head when I hear him say that I’m out of the running. I’m glad he can’t see my face, which probably looks wildly relieved. But then another thought occurs to me. “You, um, you don’t have to tell my folks why, do you?”

  “They don’t know about this?”

  “No. And this seems like a bad time to spring it on them. Can’t you just tell them you saw stuff in the blood test that means I can’t be a donor?”

  “You don’t think they’ll want to know what?”

  “They don’t want me to donate if one of them can, anyway.”

  “But until we know, they’ll want you to go through the rest of the tests. We’re not going to do that now. They’re very expensive. And I’m not telling your parents there’s something wrong with your blood when there isn’t. You’re the same blood type as your brother, and there were no other contraindications.”

  Fuck. Shit! “But they don’t need this right now!”

  “They don’t need any of this. But they’ve got it. Don’t you think they’ll be a little more focused on your brother than on the fact that you have an illegal tattoo? I suggest you tell them yourself. You might get a little credit for that. If I tell them, it could even add embarrassment to their list.”

  He’s right. But—shit.

  “By the way, do the rainbow colors mean what I think they mean?”

  Suddenly it’s hard to get a breath. “Which is . . . ?”

  “That you’re gay?”

  I shrug to hide how nervous I am. He won’t lie about the blood tests. What will he say about this? “My mom knows.”

  “Does your primary MD?”

  “No.”

  “You should fix that at your very next appointment. Seriously. It’s very important for you. And now that I know, I can give you a choice. You say your mother knows you’re gay. If your father does, too, then you can avoid revealing the tattoo. Legally we can’t even take blood from gay males, let alone an organ. Does he know?” I shake my head. “Then you have a choice. You can decide which would be more difficult to do. Tell both your folks you have a tattoo, or tell your father that you’re gay.” He waits, and I don’t say anything. “So, who’s talking to them?”

  “I am.” My voice sounds small and frightened.

  “And you’re telling them what?”

  “About the tattoo.” At least Dad might see a tattoo as a “guy” thing to do. He has one himself, after all. And I’m just not ready to tell him anything else.

  “A suggestion? If you tell them in a relatively public place, like a hospital, it might be less dramatic.” He ruffles my hair, which surprises me. “Okay, Ethan. We’re done here. But take this.” He fishes in his pocket and takes out a business card with his name and number. “Talk to your MD, seriously. And if you’d like to talk to someone else as well, give me a call. We play for the same team.” He slaps my arm and leaves me here, staring at the door he closed behind him.

  Life’s a funny thing. They send me in here with a male nurse or whatever so there won’t be any perception of foul play, and it turns out we’re both gay. Go figure.

  It’s a little while before I’m in the same place as my mom and dad at the same time. We end up in a waiting area around eleven, after everyone’s initial exams.

  Mom says, “So the other tests are all this afternoon, and then I guess we wait for the results. I’m going to go see how Kyle’s doing.”

  Dad says we should all go, and I spend about a nanosecond debating whether to tell them right now or wait, and maybe tell them in Kyle’s room, or maybe look for a place to pull them aside, and a nanosecond turns out to be too long. Before I know it we’re all standing around Kyle, who’s still unconscious. I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. The nurse tells us he was awake for a few minutes earlier, and that was a good sign, but that he needs to rest as much as possible. So we don’t talk, and we don’t stay long. As we leave, I get up the guts to say something. For once my voice doesn’t get ahead of me. I’m right with it.

  “Mom? Dad? I have to talk to you about something.”

  Mom says, “We have some time. Let’s go to the cafeteria.” Of course Mom wants me to start talking on the way, but I say we should get our trays first and sit down. She stops walking and looks at me. “This is something serious?”

  “Not necessarily. Can we go?”

  I probably should have just blurted it out. By the time we get sandwiches and follow Dad into a corner where he can sit with his back to the wall and watch the room, my whole body feels prickly.

  Mom shakes a sugar packet and tears it open. “Okay, Ethan, out with it.”

  “I can’t donate a kidney.”

  “Why not?” She stares at me. Maybe glares is a better word. “You’re the same blood type. How do you know already? What’s wrong?”

  I take a breath and try not to let it shake on its way out. “Evidently if you got a tattoo recently, they can’t use your organs for someone else. And . . . well, I have a tattoo.”

  All motion ceases. Dad’s no longer interested in his sandwich. Mom’s coffee could freeze for all she cares. She sits back hard in her chair. “I do not need this, Ethan. I do not need this. What kind of damn fool—”

  “Charlene.” Dad’s voice is heavy, solid. Mom and I both look at him, and she falls silent. “Ethan, where did you get a tattoo?”

  “It was a few weeks ago.” I can’t tell him where, though it occurs to me with a fright that Mom will figure it out. But I promised Shane, so I give Dad what I can. “It’s a yin-yang symbol. For balance.”

  Mom snorts. “And it’s worked really well, hasn’t it.”

  I know better than to respond. “I’m sorry. It means I can’t help Kyle. I would have, you know that.” Safe enough to say that now, of course. “But how was I to know he was gonna need a kidney?”

  Mom’s not swayed by this logic. “You know damn well you shouldn’t go around getting tattoos!”

  “Charlene, it’s done. Ethan, they took blood tests, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Nothing else, though. No point.”

  He turns to Mom. “If the tattoo caused any problems, we’ll know.” He glares at me now. “And young man, don’t try and tell us you didn’t know better. Where did you get the money?”

  This is not a question I had anticipated. I could lie and tell him I’d saved it up. But I knew that would put an end to any further spending money. “They, um, they didn’t charge me.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I’m underage.”

  Mom can’t stop herself. “So they shouldn’t have given you one at all!” So much for the protection of a public place. She’s practically shouting. “I have a good mind to have them arrested!”

  Shit. She knows. She remembers the shop next to This Time For Sure. Again, I try for distraction. “Look, I’m really sorry. I only got it because everything seemed so out of synch. I felt like everything was all mixed up, all moving in different directions.” I work up a little self-righteous indignation as ammunition. “First you guys get separated, then Kyle starts treating me like some kind of slave, then he starts with the hand, then all that shit with the election and school, and then Two got killed and now this! I needed balance.”

  Dad says, “Ethan, half that stuff happened after you got the ink.”

  “Not all of it! I’m telling you, I felt like everything was spinning.”

  Mom’s not sympathetic. “And you thought a tattoo would help how, exactly?”

  “Not just because it’s a tattoo. It’s balance, and it’s part of me now. It’s permanent.” She does not look convinced. “Look, I don’t need this right now either, you know. I was gonna tell you about it. Just not yet.” And my voice, harsh and sounding almost like I don’t mean it, adds, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry!” And I leave my sandwich and my soda and my parents where they are and practically run out of the cafeteria, my mom’s voice calling my name behind me. I head for the nearest men’s room and hole up in one of the stalls, arms around my ribs.

  My brother is dying, and I can’t help him. I can’t help my parents help him. I can’t do anything except upset everyone. I may as well have told Dad I’m gay. Couldn’t feel any worse if I had. I couldn’t feel any less trapped, any less helpless, any less like a stupid little kid.

  My voice surprises me. “It’s not all about you.” Thank God I’m alone in here or they’d lock me up in the psych ward.

  It’s not all about me. What does that mean this time? My brain is a complete and utter blank for about five seconds. Just try that. I’ll bet you can’t get there. And then my eyes look inward. What I see is how my dad might have reacted if I’d told him I’m gay instead of confessing to the tattoo, and it’s not pretty. I don’t think he’d kick me out of the house or anything, but I don’t really know that. And he might get really crazy right off the bat and do or say some things he might not be able to take back, or that I might not be able to get over even if he tries. I think I was right, based on his relatively calm reaction to the tattoo, that at least he gets the idea.

  But my being gay? Not so much. Telling him he has a gay son would not have gone over well at all. I guess this was a lose–lose proposition. Pole–pole. I had to choose, and I chose, and it’s done. At least this way they have someone to blame, even if they never actually go after Shane. With gay, they have no one to blame unless they blame me or themselves. And right now I think it’s probably a good thing for them to have someone outside the family to blame.

  So maybe I did the right thing, for them. But for me? I’m not sure there was a right thing.

  “Ethan?” It’s Dad. He’s found me.

  “In here.” I flush the toilet like that’s the only reason I’m hanging out here.

  When I come out of the booth Dad wraps his arms around me. “Things will get better, son. I promise.” He pushes us apart but holds on to my shoulders. “Now you promise. No more tattoos until you’re over eighteen.” I take it that he’s managed to calm Mom down.

  I nod. “Promise.” So much for the pit bull head. But Shane said not to do anything right away, anyway.

  While my folks finish having their tests, I wait in a chair next to Kyle. He’s still unconscious, so I pull out my iPod and earbuds and let music wash over me for a while. At one point a nurse comes over to check on him, and after she leaves I watch his face for a couple of minutes. I hardly recognize it, and not just because he’s lying there nearly dead. It’s been a long time since I really looked at my brother. If I ever did. He seems almost like a stranger to me. And yet I have more in common with him than with anyone else in the world, on so many levels. In between the beeps and the boops of everything attached to him I remember the promise I made him yesterday. I can’t quite bring myself to kneel, not here at least, but I sit up straight in my chair, hands in my lap, and close my eyes. And I whisper.

  “Okay, God, it’s been a really long time, I know. You probably don’t know who I am anymore. But you know Kyle, because he’s been talking to you, like, nonstop, for months. You’re not much of a God if you don’t know he’s in trouble, but it’s supposed to help things if people pray for someone in trouble. I don’t understand it, but Kyle thinks he does, so I’m praying for him. Please don’t let him die. And don’t let him blame some other body part, okay? Otherwise he’s just going to do all this again.”

  I’m about to say Amen when something else occurs to me. “And please help my mom and dad get together again. They really need each other.” And then, “Be nice to Etta, will you? She doesn’t mean to cut me out, she’s just hurting. I’d ask you to make sure she wins the election, but I don’t really know what she wants at this point.” And finally, “One more thing. Can you make sure this thing I have going with Max works out? I know the Bible isn’t real friendly about us, but somehow I don’t think we’re understanding it right. I don’t think you’d make us gay just to make us miserable. That doesn’t make any sense. So. Amen.”

  I sit there another minute or so, trying to see if I know how to meditate, until some noise just down the hall startles me. And now I’m feeling weird about praying. Who am I kidding? Won’t God see it as totally hypocritical?

  I only wish I knew whether it could actually help.

  As soon as we get home, Mom goes up to Kyle’s room and cleans up whatever mess is in there. Makes me wish I’d done it last night when I’d thought about what it must be like in there. I feel guilty, and I’m mad at Mom for making me feel that way. Talk about not making sense.

  Dinner is pretty silent again, partly for the same reasons as last night and partly because Mom is still pissed at me.

  Balance. I want it so much! Here we are, the three of us, and we should all be pulling together for the same thing: Kyle’s recovery. But Mom and I know something about me that would totally blow Dad’s mind in a very bad way so he can’t know, and Dad and I have this simpatico thing going on around the tattoo while Mom fumes and has to force herself not to yell at me about it. So we sit there in silence.

  Is this a kind of balance, only not the kind I want? Is this one of those Be careful what you wish for moments? Christ!

  We get a little relief around eight when the phone rings. Dad answers it and then hands it to me. “It’s Etta.”

  I stare at the thing. What the hell am I going to say to her right now? But I take it.

  “Ethan, I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Heidi told me how upset you were. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you myself. It was just too overwhelming.”

  Two. She means upset about Two, not Kyle. “Um, okay, I guess. I, uh, I talked to a friend who helped me get a handle on . . . you know. How I felt. But . . .” I don’t know what to say next. She knows what’s been going on with Kyle up to now. Should I tell her more? I decide yes. “Did you know Kyle is in the hospital?”

  She didn’t. I give her an update, and her reaction is all Etta. She wants to know what she can do to help. Of course I can’t come up with anything, so when I run out of news she asks for Mom, who asks Etta to make sure I get dinner Monday night, and then she says something no one has told me. Mom and Dad are under strict orders not to eat or drink after midnight, because in the morning they’ll know if one of them is going under the knife. She doesn’t say anything to Etta about why I’m not a donor, but listening to this conversation is the way I find out that I’m expected to go to school tomorrow and probably stay here alone tomorrow night. Whichever parent doesn’t donate will stay at the hospital.

  I consider protesting at how all these decisions are being made not only without my agreement but also without my knowledge. I consider it. But I don’t do it.

  Monday morning before it’s even light I watch my folks drive off in the Subaru. I can’t exactly participate in what’s going to happen today, but I don’t much like being so completely left out, waiting for someone to call with news. At least Mom seems like she’s forgotten all about the tattoo. She has other things to worry about today.