Breathing by Cheryl Renee Herbsman

nonsense instead of painting, which he and I both know is what he is meant to do. At least painting houses is closer to his true calling than a body shop. Plus, when he was out by us, he had time to paint pictures, too.
    Dr. Arletta Jones keeps on picking at me to make a list of what kicks off my asthma. It’s simple, really. There’s dust and pollen and mold and fertilizer. There’s feeling mad and stressed and overexcited. But here’s what it comes down to: My daddy left and my breathing quit on me. Jackson came into my life and it eased up. He left and I quit breathing again. The solution sure seems clear to me. Jackson’s just going to have to move back out our way.
    Only problem is, don’t nobody believe me. When I tried to explain it to Dr. Jones, Mama laughed out loud, saying she just said that when I was little ’cause she was pissed at my daddy. Maybe, but that don’t mean it ain’t true. She doesn’t believe I remember him leaving, but I do, and just thinking about it gets my chest all choked up.
     
     
    I wake up early, the light coming in through the blinds dim enough to be dawn. Jackson’s face is just inches from my own. He’s standing over me.
    “You ’wake?” he asks.
    “What’s wrong?” I answer, sitting up quietly so as not to disturb Mama.
    “I got to go. My ma called again. Tyler done run off. She needs me.”
    “ I need you,” I say, knowing I’m pouting, but unable to help myself.
    “Come on, now. It won’t be forever.”
    “You’re supposed to find that sign. I just know you are,” I tell him.
    “I ain’t got time to be chasing some dream sign.” He can see I’m hurt by that one. “You know I trust your special feelings. They done saved my life.”
    I don’t tell him that ain’t technically true. I saved him from the train ’cause I was out there spying, but it sounds good, so I let it lie.
    “I ain’t got a choice here. I got to go.” And I can tell he’s all tore up about it, so I let him off the hook. But I can’t help my tears spilling out. “Be strong, Savannah. For me?” Then he presses his lips to mine. I grab on to hug him and don’t want to let go.
    Mama stirs. “What’s going on?” she asks, all confused.
    “I’m leaving, ma’am. Mama needs me back home.”
    She looks over to me, sees I’m a wreck, and sighs. “All right, baby, come on,” she says.
    I hug him real hard and let go as tears flush out of my eyes as if pumped from a well. I bite my lip so’s I don’t make no sound.
    Jackson hangs his head and walks to the door real slow.
    “At least give me your cell phone number so I can call you on it,” I say.
    “It was my dad’s. I gotta give it back to my ma soon as I get home.”
    He gives me a sad smile, then he’s gone and I just bawl my head off. All that crying gets my lungs worked up. That’s one of the things I hate about this here asthma. Every time I get to feeling something, just wanting to be left alone with my pain, all them dag bronchiolies in my lungs decide to get tight and then Mama makes a federal case of it, calling in the nurses and the doctor, and I can’t even have just a minute to myself to grieve.

13
    B ack home, I crawl out of bed at ten one morning to stop the dang phone from ringing. “Hello,” I say, all irritated.
    “It’s me, grouchy!” Stef laughs.
    “Dag, I missed you. Seems like you been gone a lifetime. July is nearly half over!” I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
    “Seriously,” Stef agrees. “I got so much to tell you.”
    “Me, too,” I say. “You won’t believe it. I met this guy named Jackson. He’s sweet as can be. He’s kin to the Channings, eighteen years old. And things were going so good between us and then . . .”
    “I’ve been with someone, too,” she interrupts. “At camp. His name’s Jimmy. He’s our age, and girl, I think I may be in love. It was killing me that phone calls weren’t allowed there. I was dying to tell you about him.”
    “I know what you