Cruise Control Read Online Free Page B

start talking trash: “You can’t stop me … you know you can’t …”
    â€œJust play!” Tim snaps. He’s breathing pretty hard.
    â€œYou tired? You feeling tired, Tim-bo? You need to go take a little nappy-poo?”
    Tim really hates trash talk, so that’s how I usually mess with him, but today he doesn’t bite, he concentrates on the ball, and in spite of being tired, he’s moving well. I try to go inside, but he blocks me off great. I fake going in again, get a little separation, and take my jumper.
    For some reason, Tim just stops. He doesn’t even try to block my shot. From the corner of my eye I see him standing flat-footed, staring over at the front porch of the house.
    When I let my shot go, it feels a little off so I follow it, and sure enough it rims out. I grab the board easy, too easy, because Tim doesn’t even follow me to the hoop.
    â€œIs Shawn okay?” I hear Tim ask. He’s still not looking at me as I put back my rebound for an easy layin.
    â€œWhat?” I holler.
    â€œYour brother—is he supposed to be like that?”
    I look over at the porch and see that Shawn is in the middle of a monster seizure. It’s a huge, bad one, saliva pouring out of his mouth, his body shaking all over; he looks terrible. In fact, he’s slipped down in his wheelchair, and I can’t tell if the purple color of his face is the seizure or his chest strap, which is not around his chest anymore, but around his neck.
    He’s going to choke to death!

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I run over and lift Shawn up in his wheelchair so that the strap isn’t around his throat. His color doesn’t change, so maybe it’s his seizure that’s making his face so purple. Whatever it is, he looks awful. Even though Shawn is super skinny and real light, when he’s in a seizure like now, it’s hard to get control of him. He gets totally stiff and jerks around a lot. But this seizure is even worse than normal. The drool on the front of his shirt is much more than usual, disgusting, slimy, and smelly.
    Tim, standing a little behind me asks, “Can I help?”
    I yell, “Get Mom!”
    Tim hurries through the front door, and I hear him call out, “Lindy!”
    Two seconds later she comes running out to the porch, followed by Tim and Cindy.
    I keep holding Shawn up so the strap won’t get around his neck again. Mom rolls the wheelchair back into the house.
    I say, “I guess he slipped down in his chair when his seizure hit, and his strap slipped under his chin.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, the strap ‘slipped’?” Mom snaps at me, like I’m to blame.
    â€œJust what I said!” I yell.
    Mom always gets like this when Shawn has a seizure, crazy from worry. But I’m mad; I’m still holding Shawn up, and his disgusting drool is all over my neck and shoulder.
    Mom raises her voice. “Calm down....”
    â€œYOU calm down!” I yell back.
    Cindy bursts into tears. Big deal—she bawls at the drop of a hat.
    Mom asks, “Can you tell if he was choking before you got to him?”
    I think, That’d be a real tragedy, old Shawn getting brain damaged, but the second I think this, I feel guilty and even madder.
    I answer Mom. “I don’t know.”
    Finally, Shawn takes a deep breath. He collapses in my arms; all the rigidity and stiffness disappear, like one of those bounce-back inflatable toys when all the air leaks out. Shawn melts into his wheelchair and passes out or goes to sleep—I’m never sure exactly what happens to him after a seizure, but he always gets real quiet.
    â€œIs he all right?” Cindy asks.
    Mom checks Shawn’s pulse by feeling his neck and looking closely at his face.
    â€œIs he okay?” Cindy asks again, scared. She leans against Tim and buries her face against his chest. He puts his arms around her.
    Mom says, “I think he’s all