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police report. Someone must have administered a Breathalyzer…. I’ll put in a call to Frank at the station. Just because Jarrod was released from the hospital doesn’t mean—”
    “Jeff.” My mother stared at my father. “You’re not seriously proposing we sue this boy.”
    “Yes, he is,” Ruthie piped in. “That’s exactly what he’s proposing.”
    “Ruth, please .” My father was agitated now. In full public-defender mode, he fired up his lecture on the distinction between criminal and civil litigation, until my mother finally cut him off.
    “Think of Alexa,” she said. “This is Taylor’s brother we’re talking about. Her best friend.”
    Well, I thought, not anymore.
    My father sighed and then said, “I am thinking of Alexa. That’s exactly who I’m thinking of. The whole point of civil litigation is to ensure—”
    “Hello…” I cut in weakly. “I’m right here. You can stop talking about me like I’m in a coma.”
    “Sorry,” my dad said, cringing. Then, “It’s your call, Lex. Do you want to bring legal action against this kid? Just say the word.”
    I closed my eyes, trying to will away the nausea that had suddenly engulfed my body. Taylor and Ryan. The crash. Everything about that night felt like a dream. A sick, twisted dream.
    Only it wasn’t.
    It really happened.
    I was actually lying here in a hospital bed, with half my face bandaged and the other half not—like one those half-moon cookies Taylor and I used to bake by the dozens during our fifth-grade baking phase. Vanilla frosting on one side, chocolate on the other. Whenever I ate one, I would start with the vanilla. I’d take my sweet time. Bite after tiny bite, saving the chocolate—the best part—for last. But Taylor? Well, Taylor ate hers straight up the middle, plowing through both flavors at once, with no regard—
    “Beans,” my father said softly.
    No regard whatsoever —
    I could feel his hand on my foot, squeezing. “Beany?”
    NO REGARD.
    “Jeff, I think she’s asleep.”
    “No, she’s not, Mom.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “I shared a room with her for three years, remember? She snores like a truck driver.”
    I opened my one good eye and tried to glare at Ruthie, but it didn’t really work. My face was too sore and swollen to move. Which sucked. Everything sucked.
    “You suck,” I muttered, just loud enough for my sister to hear.
    “See?” Ruthie patted my arm. “She’s awake.”
    “Lex,” my father said. “Do you want me to start making phone calls? Because I will.”
    “It’s your decision, baby,” my mother said to me. “Either way, everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”
    After a long silence, during which I was thinking, I will never eat another half-moon cookie again as long as I live, my dad tried once more. “What do you want to do, Beans? Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
    “Nothing,” I said finally. “I want you to do nothing.”
    Because I knew, even then, that the damage had been done. And there wasn’t a thing my father could do to fix it.

 

How Do You Make a
Venetian Blind?
     
    EVERY MORNING WAS the same. The nurse on duty would walk into my room with a bag of ice chips, which got Ace-bandaged to my head for twenty minutes. Then I had to rate my pain. Mostly they used a number scale, 0 to 10, with 0 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain imaginable, but one nurse, Janelle, always brought in this stupid laminated chart of facial expressions. “Are we a smiley face or a boo-hoo face today, Alexa?” Like I was three years old or brain damaged, which made me want to yank her perky little ponytail right off her head. But I didn’t. I never even said a word. I just pointed to the face that looked the way I felt: horrible.
    Depending on my pain level, I got either codeine or morphine, pills or shots. Then the gauze came off, my face got doused with antiseptic, and new gauze went on. If I got pills, they didn’t kick in right away, and