SAMPLE CHAPTER
Chapter One: Making Toast
Randall and Jon
Sounds of terror pop my eyes open, jolting me from sleep. Glancing to my right, my fuzzy head registers the neon red numerals glowing from my alarm clock. 2:10 a.m. It’s that time, I realize, and I wait for the second horrible wail to confirm my suspicion. It arrives in seconds: a sustained cry of naked terror. Almost simultaneously I hear the ruffle of bedding as my parents jump from underneath their covers and sprint down the hall. Despite familiarity, my heart begins to race and my throat tightens.
I am twelve years old. I am in my own bed, on the second floor of the house I have lived in all of my life. My entire immediate family is here: my parents and Jon, my nine-year-old brother. I am warm, the covers pulled up around me. I am also scared.
The screams of terror come from my brother. They continue at an increasing rate but decreasing volume. Between the screams and the occasional sobs, I hear the voices of my parents.
“It’s okay Pudge,” my dad repeatedly says in a voice mixed with sleep and panic, my brother’s family nickname slipping from his lips.
“Jon. Jon, open up, come on,” my mom says in a firm, determined voice, the same one she uses when telling me to sit down and do my homework.
I stay in my bed, sheltered by the covers for a minute or so more, and then decide it’s time to get up and help. Pushing aside the blankets, I swing my legs down to the floor. The fog of early morning sleep has been swept away by the terrible noises coming from my brother’s room. Adrenaline rules the hour now.
In my fuzzy dark blue pajamas with their nondescript football helmet pattern, I quickly walk out of my room into the hall, past my parents’ now vacant bedroom, and turning, above the stairway to approach the doorway of Jon’s room. I know what I will find inside. I have seen this scene so many times, but still I hesitate, fighting familiar fear.
Crossing the threshold, I stop at the expected scene. My brother sits on the edge of the bed, cowering in his red Star Wars pajamas. To the left of Jon sits my dad, his plain navy blue pajamas wrinkled from sleep. He perches on the edge of the bed with his arm around my brother, supporting him. Mom’s white nightgown brushes Jon’s knees as she half kneels, half stands in front of him. My parents’ faces are intent and grave. My brother’s mouth still releases those soul-wrenching screams.
Jon also shakes uncontrollably. My parents speak to each other in soft tones, with only hints of panic. My mom fights with my brother to keep his mouth open so that she can squeeze small packets of honey inside. If necessary, she squeezes the honey onto her fingers and shoves them into Jon’s mouth, rubbing the sticky, sugary substance into the inside of his cheeks. She has been bitten before, but she continues without hesitation.
There is no need for me to stay still and soak in the all-too-familiar actions.
“I’ll get the toast,” I declare to the room in a voice still filled with sleep and now tinged with bit of fear.
“Okay, go ahead.” The response is from my dad, his arms still supporting my brother’s back.
Turning out of the doorway, I am glad to have something to do and even happier that the task requires me to leave Jon’s bedroom. I hit the stairs and sleepily stumble my way to the first floor, heading for the dark kitchen.
Before I am out of earshot, I hear my mom’s firm and unwavering voice once more. “Jon, look at me. Open your eyes, Jon, and look at me.”
Flipping the light switch to the left of the doorway from the hall, I turn on the kitchen lights overhead. They’re shockingly bright at that hour and remind me that I should be in bed, sleeping for another four hours or so. Instead, I am squinting and moving to the bread drawer. I am here making toast.
A rustle of fur, blanket, and metal tells me that I am not alone in the kitchen, even at this hour. Cassie, the dog gifted to my brother when he learned to give his own insulin shots, is in her crate in the adjacent laundry room. She stirs but does not get up. Even she is becoming used to this early morning routine.
From the bread drawer I pull out the loaf of white bread, open the plastic sleeve, and slide out the first two slices. Placing them in the nearby toaster, I remember to slide the button all the way down. I don’t want to forget that again and try my parents’ impatience. I take a deep breath, lean against the cold kitchen counter, and wait.
The silence of the kitchen is comforting. I am glad to be downstairs, away from my trembling, terrified brother. I don’t want to be my parents, forcing honey down Jon’s throat. I don’t want to hear the sobs or screams from him. Making toast is my job, and I do it happily.
The toaster’s “pop” reminds me that my job is only partly complete. Turning toward the toaster and the countertop, I remove a creamy white plate from the cupboard and gingerly take the hot slices of bread from the mouth of the toaster, placing them on the plate. I open the refrigerator for the butter and jelly. With a knife, I spread the butter first and then layers of jelly. I am generous with the jelly; I don’t want to do this again before dawn.
With the toast buttered and jellied, I take the plate and march through the kitchen and hallway and back up the stairs. I hear Jon talking now. He is responding to Mom’s questions. His confusion is gone. He knows where he is, who she is, who my dad is. He will be okay.
Toast in hand, I arrive again at the doorway to my brother’s room. My dad is picking up the emptied honey packages from the floor. Mom is wiping Jon’s sticky mouth with a wet washcloth. His eyes turn to me when I walk into the room. He is quiet now and his body is still. He is back in control, and back to being the brother I know so well.
My mom puts the washcloth down and takes the plate of toast from me. She thanks me but then reminds me that I can go back to bed. I stay for a few more minutes. Jon is talking again, answering more of Mom’s reassuring questions.
Dad rises from the bed, places his hand on my shoulder as he passes me, and walks out of the room and into the adjacent bathroom. This too is part of our well-rehearsed, early morning routine. Having risen from bed so quickly in response to my brother’s terror, my dad is sick to his stomach. It happens every time.
The first half of the toast is gone, and Jon busily shoves the second half into his mouth. He is smiling and looks content with the early morning snack. I say a weary goodnight to the room and leave my mom and brother sitting on the bed.
Returning to my bedroom, I slide back under the sheet and pull the blankets up around me. Before closing my eyes, I glance at the neon red numerals of my alarm clock. 2:53 a.m. It’s funny how it always seems to take longer than it actually does.
Dad will be calling my name in just a few hours to get me up for school. Closing my eyes, I hope for quick sleep.
I am twelve years old. I am in my own bed, on the second floor of the house I have lived in all of my life. My entire immediate family is here: my parents and Jon, my nine-year-old brother. I am warm, the covers pulled up around me. I am also scared.
The screams of terror come from my brother. They continue at an increasing rate but decreasing volume. Between the screams and the occasional sobs, I hear the voices of my parents.
“It’s okay Pudge,” my dad repeatedly says in a voice mixed with sleep and panic, my brother’s family nickname slipping from his lips.
“Jon. Jon, open up, come on,” my mom says in a firm, determined voice, the same one she uses when telling me to sit down and do my homework.
I stay in my bed, sheltered by the covers for a minute or so more, and then decide it’s time to get up and help. Pushing aside the blankets, I swing my legs down to the floor. The fog of early morning sleep has been swept away by the terrible noises coming from my brother’s room. Adrenaline rules the hour now.
In my fuzzy dark blue pajamas with their nondescript football helmet pattern, I quickly walk out of my room into the hall, past my parents’ now vacant bedroom, and turning, above the stairway to approach the doorway of Jon’s room. I know what I will find inside. I have seen this scene so many times, but still I hesitate, fighting familiar fear.
Crossing the threshold, I stop at the expected scene. My brother sits on the edge of the bed, cowering in his red Star Wars pajamas. To the left of Jon sits my dad, his plain navy blue pajamas wrinkled from sleep. He perches on the edge of the bed with his arm around my brother, supporting him. Mom’s white nightgown brushes Jon’s knees as she half kneels, half stands in front of him. My parents’ faces are intent and grave. My brother’s mouth still releases those soul-wrenching screams.
Jon also shakes uncontrollably. My parents speak to each other in soft tones, with only hints of panic. My mom fights with my brother to keep his mouth open so that she can squeeze small packets of honey inside. If necessary, she squeezes the honey onto her fingers and shoves them into Jon’s mouth, rubbing the sticky, sugary substance into the inside of his cheeks. She has been bitten before, but she continues without hesitation.
There is no need for me to stay still and soak in the all-too-familiar actions.
“I’ll get the toast,” I declare to the room in a voice still filled with sleep and now tinged with bit of fear.
“Okay, go ahead.” The response is from my dad, his arms still supporting my brother’s back.
Turning out of the doorway, I am glad to have something to do and even happier that the task requires me to leave Jon’s bedroom. I hit the stairs and sleepily stumble my way to the first floor, heading for the dark kitchen.
Before I am out of earshot, I hear my mom’s firm and unwavering voice once more. “Jon, look at me. Open your eyes, Jon, and look at me.”
Flipping the light switch to the left of the doorway from the hall, I turn on the kitchen lights overhead. They’re shockingly bright at that hour and remind me that I should be in bed, sleeping for another four hours or so. Instead, I am squinting and moving to the bread drawer. I am here making toast.
A rustle of fur, blanket, and metal tells me that I am not alone in the kitchen, even at this hour. Cassie, the dog gifted to my brother when he learned to give his own insulin shots, is in her crate in the adjacent laundry room. She stirs but does not get up. Even she is becoming used to this early morning routine.
From the bread drawer I pull out the loaf of white bread, open the plastic sleeve, and slide out the first two slices. Placing them in the nearby toaster, I remember to slide the button all the way down. I don’t want to forget that again and try my parents’ impatience. I take a deep breath, lean against the cold kitchen counter, and wait.
The silence of the kitchen is comforting. I am glad to be downstairs, away from my trembling, terrified brother. I don’t want to be my parents, forcing honey down Jon’s throat. I don’t want to hear the sobs or screams from him. Making toast is my job, and I do it happily.
The toaster’s “pop” reminds me that my job is only partly complete. Turning toward the toaster and the countertop, I remove a creamy white plate from the cupboard and gingerly take the hot slices of bread from the mouth of the toaster, placing them on the plate. I open the refrigerator for the butter and jelly. With a knife, I spread the butter first and then layers of jelly. I am generous with the jelly; I don’t want to do this again before dawn.
With the toast buttered and jellied, I take the plate and march through the kitchen and hallway and back up the stairs. I hear Jon talking now. He is responding to Mom’s questions. His confusion is gone. He knows where he is, who she is, who my dad is. He will be okay.
Toast in hand, I arrive again at the doorway to my brother’s room. My dad is picking up the emptied honey packages from the floor. Mom is wiping Jon’s sticky mouth with a wet washcloth. His eyes turn to me when I walk into the room. He is quiet now and his body is still. He is back in control, and back to being the brother I know so well.
My mom puts the washcloth down and takes the plate of toast from me. She thanks me but then reminds me that I can go back to bed. I stay for a few more minutes. Jon is talking again, answering more of Mom’s reassuring questions.
Dad rises from the bed, places his hand on my shoulder as he passes me, and walks out of the room and into the adjacent bathroom. This too is part of our well-rehearsed, early morning routine. Having risen from bed so quickly in response to my brother’s terror, my dad is sick to his stomach. It happens every time.
The first half of the toast is gone, and Jon busily shoves the second half into his mouth. He is smiling and looks content with the early morning snack. I say a weary goodnight to the room and leave my mom and brother sitting on the bed.
Returning to my bedroom, I slide back under the sheet and pull the blankets up around me. Before closing my eyes, I glance at the neon red numerals of my alarm clock. 2:53 a.m. It’s funny how it always seems to take longer than it actually does.
Dad will be calling my name in just a few hours to get me up for school. Closing my eyes, I hope for quick sleep.
