Kele Moon - Crossing the line

“Henry!” Jules’s voice echoed off the tile in the bathroom.

“Don’t!” Wyatt growled, hugging the toilet because just talking was making him worse, and the throbbing in his head made him feel like he was going to pass out right there on the tile. “He’ll call Dad, and then he’ll stop looking for Clay.”

“But—”

“Stomach flu don’t kill people,” Wyatt reminded her and then promptly threw up again.

“Jules?” Henry came bursting into Wyatt’s room.

In his life, he’d never seen someone move or think as fast as Jules. She managed to run out of his bathroom, shutting the door behind, and then say in a falsely bright voice, “Can you show me how to heat up some leftovers for Wyatt? Daddy told me to look after him.”

“That’s what you were screeching over?” Henry asked in disbelief. “I thought someone was dying up here.”

“Nope,” Jules said without missing a beat.

“Where’s Wyatt?” he asked, sounding suspicious.

“Brushing his teeth.”

“He’s gonna eat dinner after he brushes his teeth?”

“Boys are gross,” Jules said with such confidence even Wyatt was inclined to believe her.

“Okay, come on, missy. I reckon you ought to learn how to heat up leftovers, ’cause the sheriff surely ain’t gonna teach ya. Has he thought of putting you in a home economics class since he can’t cook to save his life?”

“You’re saying I’m supposed to learn ’cause I’m a girl?” Jules’s voice was shrill with insult.

“Now I ain’t saying that.”

“You didn’t ask Wyatt to take a home economics class.” Jules’s voice drifted out of the room and down the hallway. “You know Miss Katling says…”

Wyatt was on the floor when Jules showed back up. The cool tile was a nice distraction from the downward spiral his reality had taken in the past twelve hours. It seemed a mighty feat to ruin his life before middle school. The room was spinning, and he wished he had the energy to get up and flip off the bathroom light. It was making his headache so much worse.

“I brought you food.”

“Thanks, Ju Ju Bean,” he mumbled despite both of them knowing he wasn’t going to eat it.

“Your face looks pretty bad.”

“I reckon so,” Wyatt agreed.

“Did you fight with him ’cause of Tabitha?”

Wyatt grunted in agreement because the sound of his own voice made everything so much more painful.

“That was pretty dumb.”

He did a thumbs-up because he could always count on Jules to state the obvious.

“What’s so special ’bout her anyway? At least ten other girls have asked you to go steady. Prettier girls.”

“Shut up,” he couldn’t help but growl. “She’s pretty.”

“I guess, but she’s got like a million freckles.”

He actually managed to smile, which nearly killed his split lip. “I like freckles.”

“You are so weird.”

“And you ain’t?” he mumbled and managed to roll on his side to look at his sister, who was sitting cross-legged in her nightgown on the floor next to him. “I am so green.”

Jules pulled back. “Don’t breathe on me.”

Wyatt made a point of blowing in her direction just because. When Jules screeched, he groaned and put his hand to his head once more. “Your voice, Ju Ju. Didn’t ya hear me say I’m dying?”

“Why’s my voice make your head hurt?”

“’Cause it’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” Jules shot back quickly before her voice softened. “But really, are you sure you got a stomach bug?”

“Why else would I be puking?”

Jules leaned over to feel his forehead, and Wyatt blew on her again. He didn’t count on her shoving his head when he did it, and he had to choke back a shout from the white-hot pulse of pain.

He covered his head protectively and let out a half sob. “I hate you.”

Jules touched his head again, as if testing to see if she got the same response. He let out a low growl and shoved her in retaliation. The movement made his stomach lurch, and he had to jump to knees and throw up again. It was only as he was hovering over the toilet that he realized he should’ve puked on Jules instead—just because.

“Wy Wy,” Jules whispered. “I think there’s something really wrong with you.”

It wasn’t one of Jules’s more brilliant observations.

“Your daddy’s home.” Henry’s voice carried up from downstairs because all cops seemed to have those loud, booming voices. “He’s got the Powers boy with him.”

Wyatt wiped his mouth and collapsed against the tile, knowing he should be relieved they’d found Clay, but he was too sick to manage it. He’d been competing in sports since he was old enough to walk. He’d broken his arm once in judo. He’d cracked a rib in football. He and Jules had shared a million illnesses, and none of that had him feeling worse than he did at that moment. The guilt sure didn’t help his problem.

“I’m telling.” Jules hopped to her feet. “I think you need Dr. Philips.”

Jules ran down the stairs, having the fleeting thought that she probably ought to put a robe on before Clay Powers walked into the house. Her Daddy got funny about things like that lately, but it seemed like too much to be fussed with. She stopped when she saw her father helping Clay through the door.

As amazing as it was, he looked worse than her brother. Clay was doubled over. His face was bruised twice as badly as Wyatt’s, and he sort of looked like he was going to…

“Oh shit!” Her father growled when Clay puked on his shoes in the entryway.

Jules thought he was angry about the mess but instead he just picked up Clay like he weighed nothing even though he was the tallest kid in the sixth grade.

“Forget it, Henry. I got to drive this boy up to Mercy. I thought I could get away with calling Doc Philips, but Wyatt’s given him a concussion for sure. I’ll pay ya extra to stay with the twins till morning.”

“Shoot, Sheriff, you ain’t gotta pay me.”

“Wyatt’s throwing up too!” Jules shouted when her father turned on his heel and was already out the door.

He swung around, staring at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“You never told me that!” Henry gave her a horrified look before he turned back to her father defensively. “I swear, Sheriff, they never—”

“Take Powers.” Her father walked back to Henry and handed over Clay, who looked so sick he didn’t even care that he was in a house full of cops and piglets.

Her father took the stairs two at a time, and Jules ran to keep up with his long, powerful stride.

“Why the heck didn’t you tell Henry he was ill?”

“He didn’t want you to stop looking for Clay.”

Her father burst into Wyatt’s room. His eyes were so wide and terrified it scared Jules too. When he found Wyatt on the floor, he let out a low, primal sound of horror. “Oh God, Wy!”

Jules was already in tears. Her hands were shaking, and for one horrifying moment she had the thought of living the rest of her life without her twin. Her voice was a high-pitched screech of fear because she didn’t for one moment doubt the cruelty of fate that could yank the people she loved away from her.

“Shut her up.” Wyatt pressed both his hands to his head. “I’d rather be in a jail cell.”

“Jules, hush.” Her father leaned down and scooped up Wyatt, which made her brother groan in pain. “Just take a deep breath. We’re gonna take him up to Mercy. They’ll fix him.”

He didn’t sound very sure about it, because his voice was shaking, and Jules wasn’t inclined to believe him under the circumstances, because her father was always unbendingly confident.

“I’m coming,” she said quickly, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Wyatt was going to the hospital, she was too. “Is he dying? Please don’t let him die, Daddy.”

“Will you stop talk talking ’bout him dying? No one’s dying.” Her father sounded like an angry bear as he turned to walk out of the bedroom with Wyatt.

“Grandpa died! And our mama died, and if Wyatt dies, I’ll die ’cause—”

“Juliet!”

She let out a sob of horror as she followed him down the hallway. “I need to go with you. I can’t let him go to the hospital without me ’cause—”

“Then get dressed!”

Jules had never gotten dressed so fast in her entire life.

Henry offered to come with them, but there was no room in the sheriff’s jeep. So they made a very odd crew as Jules sat in the front set with her daddy, who was driving at least fifty miles over the speed limit to Mercy General with his sirens blazing. It seemed the noise wasn’t helping either Clay or Wyatt, who were both in the backseat with buckets in their laps and a green look on both their faces. Every once in a while, one or the other of them would lean over and throw up, and every time they did, her father would stomp on the gas harder.

The nerves had Jules talking a mile a minute. She was worse than Wyatt at the moment.

“What does a concussion mean? Does it mean he’s broken his head? I know something’s wrong with his head. I can feel it.”

“Something like that.”

Jules let out another screech of horror.

“Dang it, Jules, it’s not that bad. I’ve had a concussion before. Do I look dead?”

Something about that scared Jules even more, and she let out another sob.

“Jules,” Wyatt groaned from the backseat. “If I promise not to die, will you stop howling?”

Jules sniffed and turned to look at him. “Maybe.”

“I’m not gonna die,” Wyatt assured her. “I promise.”