All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I reach two fingers into the pocket of my jeans, gathering the small sphere between my fingertips—the little magic pill that will help me survive this trip, or at the least, this hour.

  Ativan. Breakfast of champions. My hands shake as I pop it underneath my tongue, close my eyes, and wait for it to dissolve.

  My father reaches into the pocket of his worn jeans to retrieve the sheet of paper that’s been his bible for the last week. It’s a list, provided to him by the hospital when they released me, of my medications, what they do, when I should take them, and potential side effects. He doesn’t need the list—I’m a far more valuable resource than his sheet of paper—but I think he feels empowered by it, as if facts on paper wrap around him like a security blanket. “Lennon, didn’t you take a pill already, honey?”

  I keep my eyes closed and hold my pointer finger up. One minute. Give me one more minute.

  He speaks in hushed tones to the cabdriver as the two of them wrestle with my trunk and two suitcases. I’d tried convincing my dad to let me bring my mom’s greatest treasure—her record collection. He said there were too many. He’s right. There are hundreds of them, but now they aren’t within my reach, and I’m scared they won’t make the trip from Maine to Los Angeles unscathed. It’s entered my mind no less than fifteen times so far.

  I’d been trying to distract myself by reading from my own growing collection of trivia books, filled with the most useless information a person could hope to acquire. Unlike Mom’s records, but much like my trunk, I wouldn’t budge on the issue of my books remaining out of the truck. My life being uprooted was hard enough, but my life being uprooted without something to keep my shattered brain occupied is out of the question, and my father, it seems, was wise enough to pick and choose his battles about a small box of trivia books. Realistically, my nitpicking has been distracting me from the real situation I’m now faced with. A situation where, unfortunately, no amount of obscure knowledge or fact-recollection will help.

  When I feel like I can speak, I say, “I took an SSRI earlier. This is Ativan, so I can deal with what’s happening without a panic attack. Because my brain is telling me if I get into that car with you, you’ll die.”

  My dad’s face turns ashen. He’s been trying so hard, but he still has a lot to learn.

  The cabbie watches in silent fascination as my body slides across the worn leather seat. Beads of sweat collect on the base of my neck and my hand shakes as I swipe at it. Gross. I stick the tips of my fingers underneath my thighs, sitting on my hands. They twitch in protest. I press against them with the weight of my legs and force myself to focus on the discarded gum wrapper on the floor. It’s useless. My muscles tense. All 640 of them. I hate this.

  My mouth is parched and dry, and I free one hand long enough to roll down the window before hiding it again.

  Pinpricks on my skin go from bad to worse until pain explodes across my chest and tears at my insides because my dad’s about to die. It hurts to breathe. I’m supposed to be stronger than the thoughts, but no one can be strong all the time. I recognize the shift in my brain, and I realize it’s coming. The nerves on my fingers spark and spread like wildfire, licking at my veins, commanding me to move them, begging me to make it stop. By the time my dad flops in the seat beside me, I’ve already begun. A series of fast-paced, timed taps against my leg.

  I like the number five. Truth is, I favor all single-digit odd numbers, but five is my sweet spot, always has been.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  We merge onto the interstate, and my tapping takes on a greater sense of urgency, like I’m trying to send Morse code signals into the hemisphere. Help me. Emergency. The taxi surges ahead, going seventy miles an hour only to come to abrupt stops inches from surrounding bumpers. I squeeze my eyes shut and count and tap and count and tap until I lose track of time. I can only imagine what must be going through the driver’s mind. He probably thinks I’ve escaped from an asylum and he’s now aiding and abetting a criminal.

  By the time we arrive at my dad’s house, my fingers have bloomed pink with all the blood I’ve sent rushing into them. The car stops and finally, so can I.

  My lungs release the air I’ve been holding in as the knots in my muscles switch to a throbbing ache—just enough to remind me that I’m still alive.

  Dad opens the door. He says, “See, Bug. Everything’s okay.”

  Are any of us ever okay, really?

  Since I’ve last visited, Dad and his new family have moved up in the world. Way up. There is no greater proof than the building in front of me, flanked by a forest full of palm trees and lush green hedges. The modest Craftsman I’d shared with my mom in Maine would fit inside this thing, three times or more.

  It reminds me of a Jenga tower, rectangle pods stacked upon one another; some architectural masterpiece most people can’t even fathom having enough money for. Part of the house is crafted from fine wood, other sections brick, and some from glass. There may be more windows than walls. It’s at least three stories and jutting out from every glass wall is a balcony that accompanies the room.

  I can’t help but stare. Gape. It’s so pretentious.

  “Nice, huh?” Dad says.

  Nice.

  Sure.

  I shake my head and move to take one suitcase, but Dad grabs it from me. “Go on. I’ll get these.”

  I manage a single step before the large front door swings open to reveal Claire, my stepmother, behind it. Her hair falls down her back like mine; it’s also blond, like mine. Only difference is my hair is part of my DNA. Homegrown. I’m certain Claire’s is courtesy of too much time and money spent in a salon plus a few packs of hair extensions. Doesn’t matter, the result is the same, and there is no denying that Claire is stunning. She should be, she plays none other than Katherine Gladstone on Cascade, one of the hottest, most popular soap operas on television.

  Yep, Dad is married to a celebrity. She’s not so bad. I’d love to have an evil stepmother story to spin, like poor sweet Cinderella, but Claire just doesn’t fit the bill. Held in the crook of her arm is a small dog that resembles a mop, with two little beady eyes peering up at me. Claire rushes over and wraps me in her arms, squishing my face into her double Ds. “Lennon, welcome, sweetpea. Your daddy treat you well on your way here?” Her Texan accent is still thick, despite having been a Los Angeles transplant for the last fifteen years.

  I nod as the dog squirms between us.

  She breaks the bear hug seconds before I wonder how long it would take to suffocate in those.

  OBITUARY

  Lennon Rae Davis, age 16, died of accidental asphyxiation by an enthusiastic hugger.

  Predeceased by her mother, Anne Desmond, and survived by her biological father, her step-slash-half-family, and one real friend.

  The demons won.

  “This little rug rat is Oscar,” she informs me. “He is a jealous thing sometimes, don’t mind him. You make yourself right at home.”

  “Thanks.” It’s the right thing to say, even though we both know I don’t want to be here. I reach my hand out to pet the top of Oscar’s head. He growls at me, proving he takes his job guarding Claire seriously.

  “Hush now, Oscar,” Claire says. “That’s enough from you.” She returns her attention to me. “Lennon, baby, you need anything at all, you go on and tell me or your daddy. Anything.”

  “Thanks,” I repeat.

  I spot my stepsister, Andrea, standing behind Claire. Her long, thin figure leans against the massive door frame, her arms crossed over her chest, a cell phone clutched in her hand. Her chestnut hair is straight and cropped to her shoulders in a blunt line. The haircut is as sharp as the features on her face.

  Andrea has never been my biggest fan. Not since we were kids, and I’d spend my summers here. Dad and Claire would make
my stay completely over the top, trying to cram a year’s worth of quality time into a couple of short months. My dad always said he needed to make up for lost time. It was impressive, really—that he and Claire could pull off birthday celebrations, Easter egg hunts, and Christmas in the middle of July. But rather than being excited to have double the holiday fun, Andrea always seemed resentful.

  When I was ten, I returned home to Maine and told my mom about it. Andrea’s dislike was clearer with each year that passed, and I just wanted to know why she hated me so much. Mom reasoned that she was probably a little jealous. I wondered what she’d had to be jealous of, but before I could ask, my mom was making me swear that I would be patient with my stepsister—a promise that to this day remains a hard one to keep. I force a tight smile. “Hey, Andrea.”

  She glances toward me, her nose wrinkling in disgust as if my greeting has offended her. “Hi.”

  Claire grimaces. “Andrea, maybe you could show Lennon around?”

  “Hell would have to freeze over first, Mother.”

  Dad stops wheeling my luggage and shoots her a deadly warning with his eyes. “Cool it.”

  “Fine.” Andrea looks at Claire. “Liam and Jess are waiting for me.”

  As she turns to leave, headed to her much more important place to be, my five-year-old half brother, Jacob, almost barrels her over as he comes racing out of the house.

  “Watch it, minion,” Andrea says sharply.

  Jacob is wearing a white dress shirt with a black tie and a pair of 3-D movie glasses with the lenses cut out. He’s in jeans and rubber boots. A camera is clutched in his grasp, and it swings upward to capture Andrea just in time for her to snap, “Get your camera out of my face, Jake!”

  The camera pivots around and lands on me, but only for a moment—he squints because of the sun, and it drops to dangle from his wrist. He shields his eyes with his hand and declares, “Mommy said you’re living with us now.”

  “Yep. She’s right.”

  “She said your mommy—”

  “Jacob Davis.” Claire issues a stern warning. “Mind yourself.”

  His gaze sweeps to the ground and settles on his glorious rubber boots before he nods and kicks at nothing with the tip of his toes.

  “It’s okay, Jacob, we’re cool.”

  His green eyes swing upward and he grins, revealing two missing front teeth. “I told Mommy that I was happy you were moving in because you’re nicer than Andi.”

  I want to tell him that a burlap sack is nicer than Andi. That the microbe stuck to the gum affixed to the dirty sole of my shoe is nicer than Andi.

  “That’s enough, Jacob,” Dad says. “Let’s get Lennon settled in, yes?”

  Jacob ignores our father and aims his camera at my luggage, zooming in on my large trunk. “What’s that?”

  “It has my costume design stuff.” The records I parted with, but the trunk was equal to, if not more important than, my books. It holds my one true passion inside. Silly, but when I’m designing stuff, often it’s the only time I feel normal. My attention to detail is meticulous.

  “What’s costume design?”

  “You know how sometimes in TV shows like your mom works at or in movies people dress up as knights or princesses?”

  “Yep.”

  “The outfits they wear are created and put together by people called costume designers.”

  “You wanna be one when you grow up?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jacob holds up his camera. “I’m going to be a newspaper reporter.”

  I arch an eyebrow, impressed. “A newspaper reporter?”

  He nods. “It’s for cover, though.”

  “Cover?”

  “Yeah, ’cause I’m going to be a superhero.”

  “Right,” I say. “I should have known.”

  Dad drops the luggage at the doorstep before hoisting the trunk up. Since his hands are full, I grab the first piece of my luggage and wheel it in behind him. Jacob is at my heels, my little shadow.

  “Lennon?”

  I turn my head to see him. “Yeah, bud?”

  “Can you make a cape? Like the ones superheroes wear?”

  “Yeah, I think I could do that.”

  “I told Mommy you were nicer than Andi. Way nicer.”

  CHOKING ON SILVER-

  SPOON SECRETS…

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  I HEAD STRAIGHT TO EMMETT’S, the closest place for refuge. At the end of the block, I’m putting in my earbuds when I spot Claire walking her mutt, Oscar. Yappy little dog that looks more like it belongs on the end of a scouring pad than in Bel Air. For an inexplicable, crazy second, I debate asking her who the new girl is, but I don’t. Why should I care? Oscar’s leash wraps around one of Claire’s hands and the other presses her cell phone to her ear while the dog sniffs at a shrub.

  That’s what Bel Air is. Obscene mansions obscured by shrubs. A place where people and their material things shout Listen to me, see my vapid display of money, yet those same people remain unseen, free to give birth to skeleton after skeleton in closets, until those same closets are graveyards built on secrets. I pretend music is playing, keep my eyes fixed on my Vans, and listen to the one-sided conversation. Maybe I care a little.

  “Yeah, Josh is helping her get settled now.”

  The new girl.

  “Yes, that’s so unfortunate.”

  A chill tickles my spine and makes me shudder at the word unfortunate. When I had my accident, people used that word so much, so often, that even the sound of it makes me want to vomit.

  He was such a handsome boy, so unfortunate.

  Dreadful. Such an unfortunate day for that family.

  Yeah, we’re all just living in one great big misfortune. A bona fide tragedy.

  “Right. We’ve explained it to Jacob, had a chat with Andrea and told her she’d have to be welcoming.”

  I almost choke on my own spit. The idea of Andrea welcoming anybody is outrageous. The broomstick she rides is so well used, she could hold a title in the Quidditch championship. My feet drag against the pavement in protest. I feel sorry for the mystery girl. She’s sharing space with Andrea. That’s got to be rough. I tune in for a little too long because Claire’s gaze settles on mine for a heartbeat. No need to get busted for listening to her phone call, so I continue walking, head down. But the new girl becomes more interesting.

  Emmett’s flopped in the living room when I arrive. The blinds cast eerie shadows that black out the already dark-colored room. He’s sprawled out on a large black beanbag chair with an Xbox controller in his hand. His hair is long, but he’s sporting a man bun, and if not for the mass of facial hair along his jaw, I’d tell him he has a reasonable chance against Macy for the lead of Swan Lake. Girls seem to enjoy this stupid trend, and who am I to say anything? Man bun and all, Emmett has me beat for looking good.

  His gaze hits me for an eighth of a second before he focuses again on the screen in front of him. His fingers work the buttons and from the looks of things he’s playing a war game.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  He shrugs. “Not much. Killing stuff. Blowing stuff up. What’s up with you?”

  I pick at my cuticle. “Not much. Needed to get out of there.”

  He nods. Emmett’s our drummer. His brother, Austin, is our bassist. I’ve known him since we were four, in the years before the tree house, so we have a pretty good history. He doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Doesn’t need to.

  I walk over to where Austin’s bass is discarded. It’s vintage. Mint condition. Classic. If he had half a brain, he’d keep it in a case whenever he wasn’t using it, but he’s just another spoiled rich kid who believes treasures like these are replaceable.

  I turn on a lamp, flop on the couch, and check the strings. At least he keeps it tuned—most of the time. Emmett mutes the video game so I can hear myself play. He doesn’t need to do that for me—I hear myself play all the time—but I guess he feels he’s being c
ourteous.

  “Your dad?”

  I stop strumming the strings, swing my gaze up, and grin. “Great guess, bro. You move on to the next round!”

  Emmett shrugs.

  I don’t want to talk about it. So I play a melody, deep and moody on the bass, and sing, exaggerating each word so Emmett doesn’t get the wrong impression. I will not discuss my father.

  He dies in the video game, swears, and stands up to power down the Xbox. “You want a drink?”

  “Water,” I say, in between lyrics.

  Emmett grabs two bottles of H2O out of the fridge and tosses mine over so it lands on the cushion beside me. I’m still playing, singing, strumming, when he asks, “Have you considered the demo?”

  “Nope. Don’t need to.”

  He sits on the couch opposite me, cracks open his water, and takes a big swig. “Look, man, believe me when I say everyone is painfully aware of what your face looks like, but it’s not as bad as you think.”

  That’s because he doesn’t live with it. I shoot him a glance that says he’s senseless before resuming the song.

  He shakes his head. “Kyler, it’s not that bad.”

  My jaw tenses. Not a single thing irritates me more than people telling me it’s not that bad. I motion to the mottled pink skin that flares across the left side of my cheek. “Really, Emmett? ’Cause this sure as shit looks bad. It doesn’t look bad to you because you’re not the one with alien skin.”

  He shakes his head again. I’m frustrating him. Good. It’s mutual. “I appreciate you guys want to make something of yourselves with it, but if that’s the case, count me out. Find another front man.”

  “You know that’s off the table. We’re in it together.”

  “Then understand that I can’t sub a demo to a producer.” We’ve had this same conversation endlessly, like some stupid cat video that keeps looping around. The band wants to send demos to anyone and everyone in the industry. I want to play music in a garage to relax. The problem, I guess, is we’re pretty good. When we started, it was for fun. A way to keep us out of trouble, but now we have local fans at school who have convinced Emmett, Austin, and Silas that we’re good enough to score a record deal.