Nature of Jade Read Online Free PDF Page A

curtain a plastic ocean behind him. "You're going to have to do some groaning, look bad," I say as I unscrew the cap.
    "Okay."
    I squirt a blob of the dressing down the front of the football uniform. Smear it around. Perfect.
    "Oh, gross, it looks like I threw up."
    "That's the idea, Tiger."
    "It looks so real," Oliver says.
    "Smush your bangs up with some hot water. But get a move on. He's coming. Call out for Mom.
    You're so sick, remember? Bleh." I hurry. Screw the cap back on. Hide the dressing bottle in a towel.
    "You're a genius, Jade," he says.
    I smile. Feel a rush of sisterly competence and good will. It makes me happy to help him. He's my brother, after all, and I love the little guy. It's important I stick by him. Your sibling, after all, is the only other person in the world who understands how fucked up your parents made you.
    Dad is ticked off that night, you can tell, probably because he got off work early for football practice for nothing. His dark eyes look as flat and hard as asphalt, his jaw line stone. Even his black hair looks angry, if that's possible. It's like he knows he can't get mad at a sick child, so the anger just simmers
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    around in there and presses from the inside out, making his face tight and his footsteps heavy on the stairs after dinner. He stays in the basement all evening, working on his train set, something he's been building for a couple of years now, since we moved to Seattle. He's got a mountain with a tunnel and the start of a town, and a place for a river sketched out on the big board that's the base. His own world. He can move mountains, and no one complains. If he goes downstairs, you don't bother him, or rather, it's just pointless to try. The conversation goes something like this:
    Me: Hi, Dad.
    Dad: Hi.
    Me: How's it going? Dad: Good.
    Me: I got a ninety-six on my calculus test. Dad: Oh, mmhmm. Great. Can you hand me that glue bottle over there?
    Me: I also built a bomb in a Coke can and set it off in the cafeteria during lunch. Dad: Oh, super.
    So we leave him alone there, and it's my personal opinion that he's immersed in the project just to get away from us anyway. I love my dad. And he's not always a father stereotype--sports fanatic, go-to-work-then-come-home-and-disappear. Sometimes he just cracks me up when he's really relaxed and he is laughing so hard at his own jokes. He's a lot of fun when he goes off his healthy eating regimen and buys a big bag of Doritos that we munch happily, our fingers orange and salty. He's an incredible basketball player, even if he's just average height, and makes the best fried chicken I've ever eaten, even if it's the only thing he 29
    cooks. And I really like it when he watches dog shows on TV and talks to our dog, Milo. Milo's a beagle and is a bit on the insecure side. He always walks around with his blankie in his mouth.
    It's like he's perpetually lovelorn, without the love part. Cover boy for Dogs Who Love Too Much. But Dad tries to boost his self-esteem. He'll watch the parading boxers and terriers combed to perfection and he'll scruff Milo under his chin and around his floppy ears and tell him what a good-looking dog he is, even if he's a bit overweight. How he is the best dog, and if there were ever a dog show around here, there wouldn't even be a contest. All the other dogs would just have to go home.
    And Dad wasn't always . . . missing in action. He used to come home when we were little and we'd all ride bikes together or he'd play board games or we'd roughhouse. Lately, though, I have the feeling he's been taking single pieces of himself out of the house, one at a time. One, and then another, and another, until all of a sudden, you notice he's not there anymore. Sure, he's busy--he gets up in the morning, goes to the gym or for a run before he heads off to work, and then after work, he plays basketball a few evenings or stays late at his office or goes downstairs to do some more building on the train. But he's most missing