All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I can’t argue that, but if they think I want to be famous, they can think again. Since I’m the singer, and one of two guitar players, my stubbornness is affecting them.

  “I get it. Just keep hoping you’ll change your mind is all.”

  I stick my tongue out and make the Let’s rock symbol with my hand. “Keep hope alive, bro.”

  Emmett downs the rest of his water. “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  I shake my head. “Think that all you want; it won’t change anything. I’m not trying to be a buzzkill,” I clarify. “It’s not something I can do, though.”

  “You should reconsider it, but I won’t try to change your mind again.”

  “If you could convince the other two to back off, I’d appreciate it.” I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I switch the topic to something that has piqued my interest. “Some new girl showed up at the neighbor’s house. Didn’t get a good look, but she’s superhot.”

  “How do you know if you didn’t get a good look?”

  “Just do.”

  “You didn’t see her face?”

  “Nope. Don’t need to.”

  “You can’t tell if a girl is hot without looking at her face.”

  “She’s hot,” I say again. “I know it.”

  Emmett is quiet for a few minutes, and I think I’ve won the hot-or-not debate until he says, “I guess you’ll find out for sure at school tomorrow. Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you haven’t seen her up close and you think she’s hot.” He looks at me, waiting for confirmation, so I nod. “Wouldn’t it kind of be the same thing with your face, if we were playing a show or something? Stage lights shining on you in a dark club would make it hard for anyone to get a good look at you.”

  “What? What does that have to do with anything we’re talking about?”

  “If you didn’t get a good look and you still think she’s hot, what are you really worried about then? People will never see your face.”

  “One, don’t care. Two, I didn’t say I wouldn’t play a gig in some dark, dingy club. I said I don’t want to sub demos to record producers. Big difference. Colossal sized. Three, I’m still right. She’s still superhot,” I say. “Four, you said you would drop it. I came here to escape harping, not to get back into it.”

  Emmett’s shoulders fall. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I stand up and turn the TV and the Xbox back on before picking up one controller and tossing it at Emmett. “Let’s blow things up.”

  Emmett accepts my peace offering, and without another word, we play.

  FACT: SOME BELIEVE THE PHOENIX

  SYMBOLIZES LIFE AFTER DEATH.

  QUESTION: WHAT IF THIS IS IT?

  THE OUTSIDE OF DAD’S NEW house is pretentious. The inside is plain overambitious. Not a hair on the spit-shined floors. They’re bamboo hardwood everywhere, including the massive entryway with an enormous staircase in the middle. One side leads into a living room, the other to a kitchen, bigger and whiter than any kitchen I’ve ever seen. The island in the middle is pure granite and stretches at least thirteen feet. Every cupboard is slick and shiny, made from reflective white glass rather than recycled wood, like the ones I’d spent the last sixteen years looking at.

  Dad nudges me in the shoulder blades. “Look around later, let me show you to your room.”

  He moves past me and heads up the stairs, luggage trailing behind him. My trunk rests on the floor. If I felt I could wrestle it up the stairs by myself, I would, but I’d never make it. Jacob appears out of nowhere and flies up the stairs ahead of our father. “You’re in the guest room,” he says over his shoulder.

  Dad turns his head and stops his ascent. “Claire is hiring a designer, Bug. You can decorate your room however you see fit.”

  “A designer?”

  “Yes, to create a space to call your own. This is your home now, Lennon. I want to make sure you’re comfortable here.”

  It will never be home. I don’t say that, though. I nod, to indicate he should keep moving. He heads for a hallway at the top of the stairs and pauses, waiting for me. We haven’t seen each other much over the past three years, but he’s done some research, and to be fair, he has spent the last week with me in Maine. His eyes dart from me to the doorknob. He’s waiting.

  “I don’t need to do it,” I tell him. “I don’t need to ritualize all the time.”

  Jacob’s eyebrows draw together. “What’s that mean?”

  Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, stressed. “Jake…”

  “It’s okay,” I say to Dad. “I can explain it to him.”

  “I tried,” he says. “Jacob, remember when Mommy and Daddy and you talked about Lennon coming to live with us?”

  Jacob nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “Remember we told you that Lennon might do some things that don’t make sense?”

  I’ve had to explain obsessive-compulsive disorder to little kids before, and it’s obvious my father has not. I crouch down so I’m eye level with my half brother. “Hey, Jacob, do you ever catch a cold? And it doesn’t matter what you do, you have that cold. And you know how sometimes you have to take medicine to feel normal and stuff?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have OCD. It’s like my brain has a terrible cold that tells me all kinds of silly things.”

  “What silly things?”

  “Well, things like, if I don’t turn a doorknob five times, something terrible will happen.”

  “Can’t you tell yourself nothing bad will happen?” He giggles. “Nothing bad will happen because you don’t turn a doorknob five times. That’s silly.”

  “I tell myself that, but it doesn’t matter.” I pause and tickle his back. “Have you ever had an itch, and the itch is so bad that you can’t be comfortable, you’re just going to go mad until you scratch it?”

  His nod is more animated this time. “Yeah, I have a back scratcher in my bathroom.”

  “That’s what it’s like. It’s like my brain has an itch. One that’s so awful, I’ll do anything to scratch it, including turning a doorknob five times even though I’m positive it’s a silly thing to do. It’s called ritualizing.”

  He looks at me and absorbs this information unfazed. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Yep.”

  “Cool.”

  I bite back a small smile when I catch the expression on Dad’s face.

  “Can I come in your room?” Jacob asks.

  The door swings open and I wave him inside. “Sure you can.”

  The room is basic. My guess is Claire didn’t want to go over the top with her own personal tastes in a guest room, so everything is neutral. Gray walls, gray throw rug, gray bedding. I think of the white kitchen. Perhaps this is Claire’s style.

  “Sorry it’s not bigger,” Dad is saying.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s great.”

  “Only temporary,” he reminds me. He points to a plain white table. “Claire bought you a cabinet for your sewing machine. She says she ordered a nicer one, but it’s out of stock and she wanted you to have something right away.” He looks at Jacob. “Lennon’s had a big day, Jake. Let her settle.”

  “She invited me in her room.” He holds up the camera, slung over his wrist by a strap. “I need a picture, too, it’s Lennon’s first day with us.”

  “You’re standing in her room,” Dad points out. “Take a picture and go brush your teeth. It’s almost bedtime.”

  The disappointment is written on his face. He’s looking at me, his eyes pleading with me to save him from my father’s unreasonable request. My chest tightens. “Hey, bud, if you listen to Dad now, tomorrow after school I can make your cape.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, for sure.”

  “Can I take a photo?”

  I stand up straight and smile for him. He snaps the image, says, “Thanks,” and turns to make a hasty retreat from the ro
om.

  My dad puts his hands in his pockets. “Do you need anything, Bug?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “If you do, you holler.”

  “Got it,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be back up with your trunk.” Before I can ask him if he needs help, he’s gone. He returns a few minutes later, looking both worn out from the luggage haul and aged with worry. He swipes the back of his hand across his brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I hoist the first of my suitcases on the bed. “Dad, relax. I won’t slit my wrists or anything.”

  This earns me the pointer finger and a stern expression. “Not funny, Lennon. Not even close.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re worried about something like that, aren’t you? With me, I mean. Suicide is the second most common cause of death for people my age. It’s a fact.” I face him. “Dad. Relax. I get that you’re worried, but I’m fine. You’re old now. All this stressing out isn’t good for you. I think you’re getting gray hairs.”

  “Hardly a fossil,” he says. “Get settled, call if you need anything. There’s a bathroom behind that door.” He points to a wooden door on the wall I missed because it, too, is gray. “Claire made sure there was toothpaste, a toothbrush, clean towels, and stuff for you to shower.”

  “Noted.”

  He drops an awkward kiss on my forehead. “Sorry, kid, I wish you weren’t going through this.”

  My eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over. “That makes two of us.”

  He leaves and I place my trivia books sideways, in five separate piles of even height on three of the built-in shelves so they’re more like decor than a bunch of books. I analyze the top book on each pile to confirm they’re lined up before I unpack my clothes. As with everything, unpacking my clothes involves uncompromising order. The darker items are first, followed by bright vibrant colors before pastels and whites. I sort first by color, then by season. It makes no sense to have cable-knit sweaters next to tank tops. I fold each item and place them in the drawers.

  I move on to the trunk. Everything inside is meticulous, the fabric folded in small, perfect squares, army style. Spools of thread and ribbon sit in Tupperware containers while jars of beads stack together on the left side of the trunk. I lift the fabric, careful not to rustle it too much, but enough to retrieve the box hidden underneath it for weeks. It’s covered in gift wrap, white, with huge blue stripes.

  I love blue.

  There’s a card stuck to the front, my mom’s elegant handwriting scrolling across it, wishing me the happiest of birthdays.

  A knot lodges in my throat, and I head toward the bed to sit down. But before I do, the corner of my eye catches a shadow moving stealthily across the yard. As if the Universe has offered me a small escape from the heartbreak I’m about to inflict on myself. My pulse races, but only until the shadow pivots and heads toward the house next door. The person is male. No question. Tall and lean, he’s in jeans and a black hoodie with a white phoenix stretched across the back. I’m not sure how anyone could wear a color that absorbs heat, let alone a hoodie, here.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a knock. Jacob lets himself in. “I came to say good night.”

  “Night, buddy.”

  He walks over to the window, curious about what’s captured my interest. “That’s Kyler. He’s scary.”

  “He doesn’t look too scary. A little silly for wearing a black fleece in this heat, but not scary.”

  Jacob shakes his head in disagreement. “No. Andi told me he’s a monster. He even looks like one.” He looks down. “Is that a present?”

  I nod, my focus still fixed on the hoodie-wearer-slash-monster. “It was from my mom.”

  Jacob’s hand touches my upper arm. “It’s okay to miss your mommy.”

  I cast a glance his way and see that his eyes are filled with sympathy. The pure, nonjudgmental kind only a child can deliver.

  My gaze continues to follow the neighbor, who has retrieved something from inside the house and has turned, headed in this direction. My eyes are full of tears, though, courtesy of Jacob, and I can’t see him. I swipe at them with the sleeves of my top, rubbing, trying to get a good glimpse.

  Jacob’s fingertips fall from my arm to my wrist, which he grasps with a shudder. “See. He is scary.”

  My vision is blurry but even so, I can tell something is different about his face. A reason that has Jacob convinced he’s scary. The left side shows mild discoloration, red. “She’s trying to mess with you. He has a birthmark.”

  Jacob crosses his arms. “I’ve lived here a long time. He’s mean.”

  It sounds as if he’s repeating Andrea-level wisdom, word for word. “Jacob, don’t worry, he’s just a kid. Andi doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should go to bed.”

  “Night, Lennon. I’m glad you’re here.”

  I wish I could say the same.

  Jacob leaves, and I’m exhausted and in desperate need of a shower. I stand under a steady stream of hot water until my skin feels clean, blow-dry my hair, brush my teeth, and put my pj’s on.

  I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. My chest is tight, and a sour taste lingers in the back of my mouth. It sinks in. This is my new reality. My ever-evolving portal into hell. What if no one likes me? What if they’re Andrea versions 2 and 2.0 and so on? What if something bad happens? The sour taste becomes a thing that morphs and twists, lodging itself somewhere along the pulse in my throat while hot tears still linger and the air in here becomes stagnant. I walk across the room and open the window before heading back to the light switch on the wall. With trembling fingers, I turn the light on, then off. On. Off. On. Off. Five times. Then five more. I can’t stop until I perform the ritual fifty-five times.

  By the time I’m finished, my head is going to explode from exhaustion. I ritualized more than normal today, even for me, so I flop onto the oversized bed. The linens are ultrathick and heavy, probably cost more than the bed itself, and in a strange place, surrounded by strange sounds and even stranger things, I try to fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake the next morning with heavy eyes and a foggy mind. My sleep was both awful and broken, because truth be told, it doesn’t matter how sorry my dad is, or how kind Claire is, or how sweet Jacob is, this isn’t home. It doesn’t smell like coffee and bacon in the morning. There aren’t mismatched teacups hanging from hooks in the kitchen and knitted blankets thrown over the couches. It isn’t filled with the things my mother loved, the things that I love.

  I remember something Mom told me once, when I was first diagnosed with OCD: The hardest things fall on the shoulders of the toughest people, Lennon. It will get better. I promise. It always does.

  It doesn’t feel that way. I blink and tears fall, so I wipe them away with my sleeve, take a shaky breath, and head down the hallway toward the master bedroom. I pass one of the four bathrooms, the sound of a shower almost drowned out by my dad’s terrible singing.

  The door to Jacob’s room is open with a lamp illuminating a small lump under a coverlet that is peppered with cartoon dinosaurs. I turn right and proceed down another hallway where Claire and Dad’s room is located, but when I reach the door I stop.

  Andrea stands in front of a frosted-glass shelf beneath a mirror. There’s a curling iron in her grasp, and she’s wrapping strands of her dark hair around its barrel, then releasing them in quick succession. Claire sits in an armchair, practically across the room, cell phone in her hand, her eyes fixed on its screen.

  “Did you call your daddy about summer break?” she asks without looking up.

  “Called him,” Andrea replies flatly. “He says he’ll have to check his schedule. He’s not sure a visit with me is, and I quote, ‘the best idea at this time.’”

  I wince. Brutal.

  “Maybe he’s just busy.” There’s a desperation in Claire’s voice. She’s trying to give Andrea a reason. Some valid excuse as to why anyone would
n’t want to see his kid.

  “Really, Mom? For sixteen years he’s been busy. He’s as good as dead to me, anyway.”

  Claire gasps. “Andrea, sweetpea, don’t speak that way about your father. He’s your family.”

  Andrea sets the curling iron down and turns to her mom. Scared of being discovered, I take a step back.

  “Does he know that, Mother? Josh would never say that to Jake. Or his princess, Lennon.”

  “That’s not fair, Andi. You know Josh loves you like you’re his.”

  “But I’m not his,” she says. “I’m not, and now that Lennon is here, it’s really obvious.”

  “Mind your mouth, Andrea Lynn. You know full well that’s simply not true,” Claire says. “You’re feeling overwhelmed right now. I know when something big happens, it takes some getting used to. I understand that Lennon living with us may require some adjusting—”

  Andrea cuts her off. “I’m not adjusting, Mom. I’m tolerating it. Mostly because there is no other option. I can’t go live with Dad, not that he’d want me, anyway, and I’m not old enough to move out, so there’s not really a choice.”

  “Sure there is, but you’re too hardheaded to hear it. You have the choice to make the best of the situation,” Claire says. “The choice to be kind.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to school.”

  I hear Claire let out a frustrated sigh and the sound of the curling iron being set back onto the shelf. Crap! My heart hammers as I turn and sprint on the tips of my toes to the start of the hallway so when Andrea leaves Claire’s room, she doesn’t see me standing by the door listening in.

  As we pass each other, I say nothing, holding my breath so she doesn’t hear how hard I’m working to catch it. She doesn’t speak, either, but she does roll her eyes at me.

  I approach the bedroom a second time and tap lightly on the door frame.