Dana Reinhardt - The Things a Brother Knows

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2010 by Dana Reinhardt

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reinhardt, Dana.
The things a brother knows / Dana Reinhardt. 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Although they have never gotten along well, seventeen-year-old Levi follows his older brother Boaz, an ex-Marine, on a walking trip from Boston to Washington, D.C. in hopes of learning why Boaz is completely withdrawn.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89762-7
[1. BrothersFiction. 2. SoldiersFiction. 3. Post-traumatic stress disorderFiction. 4. WalkingFiction. 5. JewsUnited StatesFiction. 6. Family lifeMassachusettsBostonFiction. 7. Boston (Mass.)Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R2753Thi 2010

[Fic]dc22

2009035867

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v3.1_r1

For Mark Reinhardt and Justin Reinhardt,
my beloved brothers.

I USED TO LOVE MY BROTHER .

Now Im not so sure.

Thats a terrible thing to say. Believe me, I know it. I wouldnt ever say it out loud to anybody, not even Pearl. Especially since everyone else loves him. Even the people whove never met him. They cant get enough of him. They worship him.

I used to worship him too. All little brothers worship their big brothers, I guess. It sort of goes with the job description. Think about it. Your brothers face is one of the first you ever see. His hands are among the first to touch you. You crawl only to catch him. You want nothing but to walk like he does, talk like he does, draw a picture, throw a ball, tell a joke like he does, let loose one of those crazy whistles with four fingers jammed in your mouth or burp the ABCs just like he does. To your little mind, hes got the whole of the world all figured out.

But then you grow up. You start thinking for yourself. You make your own decisions and those decisions change you, and they can even change the people around you, and my brother made one big whopper of a decision, and in the end, its made it really hard for me to love him anymore.

And I feel like shit about it. Really, I do. But what can I say? Its how I feel.

Hes coming home. Sometime tonight.

Everyone knows it.

For one thing, they made an announcement at morning assembly. So thats how my day started.

Even though Mr. Bowers never said my name, and even if there were people there who didnt know about Boaz, how many dudes have the last name Katznelson? Our Boston suburb isnt exactly packed with relocated Israelis.

So when Bowers said, We all, each and every one of us, owe a personal debt of gratitude to Boaz Katznelson, a graduate of this very school, who returns tonight from three years as a marine, and who has served this country at great personal sacrifice. I was pretty sure people were staring at me.

I pulled the brim of my Red Sox cap down low over my face. A smattering of applause echoed off the gym walls.

He could have chosen any sort of future he wanted. I know this is hard for some of you seniors to imagine, but any college would have taken him. He was, in every way, a superlative student. But he chose duty. He chose to serve our great nation in this very difficult and very challenging time of war.

At this point there were a few hisses and muffled boos. I felt random hands slap my shoulders and back.

I typically start my mornings in the courtyard with Zim, comparing notes on the homework we blew off, sipping coffee from 7-Eleven and eating mini doughnuts. The kind we eat are so fake theyre not doughnutstheyre do-nutswhich makes you wonder whats really in them. But anyway, this morning was a weird one. Like the day didnt already promise to be weird enough.

Zim caught up with me after the assembly.

You okay?

Zim and I share a birthday. He moved in across the street when we were both seven years, eight months and eleven days old. Id say he was my best friend if there werent a Pearl in my life.

Yeah. I guess so.

Cool, man. Ill catch you later. Im pretty sure my moms cooking something inedible to bring by your place tonight. Seriously, whatever it is, it reeks. Proceed with caution.

Will do.

And Levi?

Yeah?

Im glad hes coming home.

Yeah. Me too, I said, because of course Im glad hes coming home. Im glad hes okay. Glad doesnt really do it. Im thrilled, relieved, ecstatic, whatever. Id say a prayer of thanks, if I were that sort of person, that my brother is returning from this war I dont believe in. This war I cant understand. This war for which nobody should have given up so much, and hurt so many people, and worried his mother down to a sack of bones.

But this was his choice. And weve all lived with it ever since.

Look, I know how this makes me sound. Like a whiner. Some sort of self-pitying wuss. And yes, on some level, thats who I am. But Im not only talking about me here. Im talking about my family, about how we used to be before he left and who we all are now. And Im talking about what hes been like those few times hes made it back home: how he shuts himself in his room and doesnt say a word. Im talking about the letters he failed to send.

Maybe I sound even worse than self-pitying: un-American or anti-American. Thats a tight spot to be in for a guy with a weird Israeli last name and a father with a thick accent who makes me call him Abba instead of Dad like we all still live in Israel, but Im neither of those things. Im not un or anti. I just dont know what to think about this whole big mess were in.

And who knows. Maybe thats even worse than being un or anti, because at least then you know where you stand.

When I get home from school its an afternoon like any other since hes been gone. Nothing elaborate cooking on the stove. No streamers, banners or hand-painted signs. No champagne in the fridge. Not even a cake.

I go up to my room. Lie down on the floor. Pull out my iPod and put Abbey Road on shuffle. I stare at my feet. I heard someplace I cant remember, but probably from Zim because hes a wealth of totally useless knowledge, that if your second toe is longer than your first, youre twice as likely to reach a position of power in your life.

Abba asked me to empty the rain gutters after school. He didnt ask, he barked. Thats Abbas way. But Im sitting on the floor, staring at my long first toe, and how it dwarfs my second.

Mom is downstairs cleaning, filling the house with the smell of fake spring. This is how she spends her days. Wiping, polishing, folding, straightening. She hums as she cleans. Tuneless, shapeless humming.

I know enough about Mom and her superstitions to have predicted that no celebration would be under way. Not until he walks in the front door and closes it behind him. You dont spill salt on the table without throwing some over your shoulder. You dont let an object come between you and someone else without saying Bread and butter. You dont place a hat on the bed. And you never celebrate your good fortune until its real enough that you can hold it in your hands or clutch it to your chest.