All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  Silas turns to face the front. “So, are you going to text that girl or what?”

  Macy squeals. Her pitch makes me cringe. “What? A girl? What girl?”

  “No one.”

  “Your new neighbor,” Silas volunteers. “Your brother has to do an entire English project with her. Rewrite none other than Romeo and Juliet.”

  “So why does he need to text her?” Macy asks.

  “’Cause she’s hot,” Silas responds. “And he’s an idiot.”

  Right. Because that explains everything.

  “Aww, are you shy, big brother?”

  Silas smirks. “Or a reclusive asshole. Depends who’s asking.”

  “Neither, I work better solo. That’s all. I don’t do group projects. It’s not because she’s hot.”

  “So you admit she’s hot,” Macy says. “Text her.”

  “No.”

  “It’s just a text message.”

  “No.”

  “Kyler, do it you must.”

  “Settle down, Yoda. Not your call.”

  “But why?” she persists.

  “Mae, stop.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I mean, you have to have a—”

  I slam my fist on the steering wheel. “Drop it.”

  Macy slinks back in the seat, and Silas stares straight ahead, silent.

  We get home. Macy leaves the car but not before shooting me a nasty glare.

  * * *

  After a few hours, Silas leaves, so I shower, change into pajamas, and head to my room. I sit at my desk, intent to write. I put pen to paper until the words spill out in a ritualistic emptying of the overload of things inside my head. I grab my favorite pen and my notebook, and that’s when I see her.

  My desk provides a direct view into the room where the new girl has taken up residence. Figures. She’s sitting on her bed, showered, too, from the looks of her. A box is in one hand, its lid on the bed. Her eyes are down, her hands shaking as she sifts through the box, stopping every so often to hold a picture closer to examine it before setting it back inside the box. I can only see her profile, but I can still recognize her expression. She’s lost. I know, because I am, too.

  I put my pen down and pick up my phone.

  True or false, Lennon? Shakespeare invented the word “assassination.”

  I glance back up. Her focus has gone from the box to the phone on the bed beside her. She picks it up, tucks her hair behind her ear, and reads.

  FACT (MAYBE): ACCORDING TO THE INTERNET, IT WOULD

  TAKE APPROXIMATELY 18 HOURS AND 14 MINUTES

  TO GET FROM LOS ANGELES TO ANTARCTICA.

  I’D SEWN JACOB’S CAPE AFTER school, eaten dinner with everyone except Andrea, listened to Claire and my father speak about people I don’t know. I showered, even taking the time to deep-condition my hair. We watched an episode of a spy-based TV drama. It was mundane. It was so normal. Everything was going fine until I entered this room. I told my father it would do, but I hate it. Its walls are harsh, cold, and impersonal, yet somehow it ignites painful memories. It’s as dead as I feel inside.

  Tonight, after a particularly bad episode with my light switch, I tried to take the initiative, control my destiny. I even started small, with my best friend from Maine, Ashley. No pictures of my mother. Just Ashley. Who is alive and well and worried sick about how I’ll fare in LA.

  The box holds treasured photos of school dances, local fairs, going on the fishing boat with her dad, but it also holds concert tickets and friendship bracelets and things I’d always kept. I once thought they were treasures, but now I’m not so sure something that causes so much pain deserves the title.

  My phone vibrates, dancing across the duvet and shaking me from my memories. A blessing in disguise…unless it’s Ashley.

  The screen comes to life, and I see Kyler’s entered GOD_DAMNED_TRAGIC as a contact name.

  True or false, Lennon? Shakespeare invented the word “assassination.”

  I type back.

  Hang on. Let me GOOGLE it. Oh wait that’s right I have a brain. The answer is true. Don’t test me at trivia. Promise you’ll lose a solid 99.999% of the time.

  Whoa. Look out your window. I’m impressed.

  I stand and see the top of a desk against the window facing into my room.

  Great Kyler, thank you. I can sleep tonight now that I possess that information. It might make it a little less weird that you can see into my room.

  I smirk as the dots appear again, and I close the blinds, even though I hate to block out the stars.

  Ouch. She bites. Good night Lennon. Oh and tell Josh something in your electrical panel is shorting out. The light was flickering like crazy earlier. Better than fireworks.

  I crawl underneath the covers and text back.

  Good night Kyler. I’ll make sure to tell him.

  I set the phone on the nightstand. Oh my God. He saw. Unknowingly or not, Kyler witnessed my giving in to the pull of the compulsion. Flip the switch. Flip the switch. Flip the switch. I close my eyes and entertain the idea of telling my dad about the electrical short. Hey, Dad, I’m a few faulty wires away from total mechanical failure. My fuses are all shorting out. They’re frayed. On fire.

  * * *

  I get extra time the next morning due to a doctor’s appointment. This turns out to be a good thing, because I’d been interrupted by Jacob and skipped flossing, which only meant I needed to start my morning routine from scratch. I shower, wrap myself in a fuzzy bathrobe, brush my teeth, floss, towel-dry, then blow-dry my hair, and apply makeup, which happens almost never.

  Just like every other morning, I brush five times, floss once, and slip an Ativan under my tongue before I head out the door.

  My dad’s standing beside his vehicle, hands buried in his pockets. I grimace at the car as if it’s a person, but I can’t help it. It’s like seeing your future and knowing it’s about to suck. Then something catches my eye. I turn and see Kyler. He’s in a different hoodie today, gray with a blue triangle on the front. I love blue because it’s the color of the ocean and the sky. He’s walking across the yard to his own car, I’d assume. He looks my way, nods, and keeps walking.

  Thank God. Last thing I want is a witness to my potential meltdown.

  By the time we arrive at the office building, I’m convinced there are traffic gods. I’d even be so bold as to name them—Mitsubishi and Lotus—because it takes us six minutes and forty-six seconds to arrive at Dr. Linderman’s. Still, for six minutes and forty-six seconds, I tap like crazy and Dad drives with his shoulders tense and his mouth drawn in a line of painful silence.

  It’s not until I sit down and find myself relaxed that I realize I am in fact meeting my new shrink for the first time ever, while enjoying the calming effects of the Ativan. Perfect. Way to make a first impression, Lennon. If I’m being real, he’s a psychiatrist. Medications are their bread and butter.

  The receptionist types at the desk. The essence of furniture polish and leather lingers in the air. I’ve stacked the magazines and organized them alphabetically when the door swings open. A girl, somewhere near my age and with a shock of green hair, comes out. Her eyes dart to me before she turns all her focus to the ground.

  What’s your damage?

  I’m watching her walk away when I hear a throat clearing. My attention snaps back to the door where a man leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Dark green plastic glasses sit perched on his nose, but even so, he looks like someone who should star opposite Claire on Cascade, rather than sit behind a desk trying to shrink my broken brain.

  He uncrosses his arms and smiles. “Lennon, I presume?”

  I nod.

  He sidesteps and gestures for me to come in. “I’m Dr. Linderman. Come in and have a seat.”

  Yep. I know the drill, Chief. Not my first psychiatric rodeo. His office is like my dad’s house. Pristine. Reeking of money. I sit on the oversized black leather sofa, cr
oss my legs, and stare at my fingernails.

  “So, you’re from Maine.” He leans back in his chair, pen in hand.

  “Yeah.”

  “You liking Los Angeles so far?”

  He’s watching me, studying how I will react. I sit up straighter, clasp my hands together, and lean forward. “You know something, there’s this ridge in Antarctica where temperatures drop below minus one hundred thirty-three point six degrees Fahrenheit. It’s literally the coldest place on Earth. I’d rather live there.”

  He tries and fails to contain a laugh. It’s the last reaction I’d expect to see from a medical professional. “Such a scathing review,” he says. “I will go ahead with a no on your behalf.”

  “By all means.”

  “So I understand that you have OCD?”

  I nod.

  “What’s been done to date about that?”

  I shrug. “Given that I spend at least three hours a day performing some kind of compulsion, I’m going to say not much has been done, Dr. Linderman. I did, however, just spend a solid three months at Riverview Psychiatric Center, where my meds have been adjusted and readjusted so I can function, or at least have a chance at pretending to.”

  “Just meds?” He arches an eyebrow.

  “Basic behavioral therapy, too,” I say. “I came to this melting pot of suck before they could do any real die-hard exposure therapy to combat the effects of…” I trail off. “Check the file.”

  He’s checked the file. He knows about my mother. I’m also sure he doesn’t want to pull the pin on my biggest trigger. We just met.

  “Well, Lennon, here’s what I hope will happen once we get to know each other. I like to think I have a pretty unique approach to treating patients, and I’ve had success with people who are dealing with some of the things you are.”

  He pauses, but I stay silent, waiting to hear about his vision.

  “Medicine is great when it’s used effectively,” he says, “but just like a Band-Aid, in your case, it’s a temporary measure. The root of the problem isn’t currently addressed, so once we get to know each other, we’ll aggressively address the root of the problem.”

  “Sounds like a blast.”

  He smiles again. “Are you aware of what category of OCD you have?”

  “You wanna know if I’m a clean freak, a checker, a hoarder?”

  “Yes. I’d be interested to know.”

  “Well, for one, I don’t have hand sanitizer in my backpack, so strike the contaminator off your list. Germs exist. I exist. We coexist together.”

  “Are you a checker?”

  “Who doesn’t double-check things? Anyone who has common sense checks things.”

  “That’s fair. So, what about intrusive thoughts?”

  I shrug.

  “Order,” he says, flipping through notes.

  I tap my toes on the ground. 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.

  “I like order, and yeah, I check things, and sometimes I worry about what people think of me, or hurting someone’s feelings or hurting them by accident or that some horrible fate is about to come crashing down on someone I know.”

  “What happens when you can’t control those things?”

  I narrow my eyes. “C’mon. You’re the shrink, you tell me. What happens? I have a panic attack that grips my throat and squeezes until I can’t breathe. Every nerve ending catches fire and scorches me from the inside out while my skin tries to crawl off my body. My heart bursts with the power of a herd of wild animals while my ears ring. And the only thing, Dr. Linderman, that makes that agonizing sensation go away is to give in to the compulsion because at least I control something.”

  “What’s your favorite compulsion?”

  “Five,” I say. “The number five. I love the sound of its name, how it rolls off of my tongue. Or at least…I used to.”

  A knot lodges itself in my throat.

  Dr. Linderman glances at the clock. “You all right?”

  “Debatable. Is anyone all right, really?”

  “That’s a reasonable question. What do you think, Lennon? Is anyone all right?”

  I shake my head. “No. People pretend they are, but they’re not. My friend Ashley, back home in Maine? Total control freak, type A personality. She’s in every club at school, she never has so much as a hair out of place on her head. Everyone thinks she has it together, but she cuts herself sometimes. So, no, Dr. Linderman, I don’t think anyone is all right.”

  “Interesting and rather unfortunate. Do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Cut yourself.”

  I don’t hide my offense. “Hell no. I think it’s fair to say I have enough problems without having to deal with something like that.”

  “A smart and accurate statement.”

  Dr. Linderman spends the next forty-seven minutes grilling me about Maine, about my grades, about Dad and Claire and Jacob and Andrea, about my future hopes and dreams. I answer his questions as generically as possible because I haven’t decided if I like him or not.

  * * *

  “Well, Lennon, it’s been nice to talk with you, but I’m afraid our hour is up. I can’t wait to see you next week, though, and talk more about this.”

  I stand and brush my hands off on my knees. “Nice to meet you.” As I leave, I still don’t know how I feel about Linderman. On the one hand, he seems laid-back, but I sense that he doesn’t enable. My last doctor fed me meds like they were candy and left well enough alone. I’m almost at the door when his voice stops me.

  “Hey, Lennon.”

  I stop.

  “One more question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “First instinct to answer. What happens to you when you perform the compulsion?”

  “Little drops of relief, so I make more, until the drops ripple and spread and then I can breathe.”

  “Good answer,” he says. “You have a way with words. You should be a writer.”

  * * *

  Dad is waiting outside the front door, hands in his pockets. He waves when he sees me. “How was it?”

  “Five out of five stars,” I say sarcastically. “He thinks I should be a writer.” I search for the car and step to head toward it, but Dad stops me.

  “A writer, huh?”

  I nod.

  Dad cracks a smile, and I find myself doing the same when he says, “We can walk to the school from here if you’d like. I took the morning off so I can leave my car here and walk back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Dad smiles again, but the expression on his face is heavy, shadowed in pity. “Yeah. I know this is rough, Bug, I do. I want to help you as much as I can.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  I say good-bye a block from school, where my dad assures me there is a late slip waiting at the office and I should have no problems. In theory that’s true, but by the time I gather the slip and get to the classroom, I’m thirty minutes late for English. The tables branch into pairs, and I spot Kyler, his hoodie-veiled head down, scrawling something in his notebook.

  I drag the chair and fight my gag reflex as the chair legs mimic nails on a chalkboard. I stop where he’s seated, but before I sit down, his eyes settle on mine. “Nice of you to show, Lennon from Maine.”

  Whoa. I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. I swipe my hair behind my ear, and vibrations from my racing pulse tickle all the way in my throat. Kyler looks back down as I mutter, “I was at the doctor’s.”

  His eyes seem bluer next to today’s gray hood. They make me uneasy as he directs his attention to me a second time. “Anything broken?”

  Yes. My mind. My fingers stiffen. One hand wraps around my wrist, like instinct, and my fingers ignite. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  His focus drops to my hand for a millisecond before he’s staring at me again. “Chill with the drum solo, Bonham. Sit down.”

 
Every muscle freezes. How did he notice? I take a second to pull in a long breath and force a tight smile. Keeping my fingers wrapped around my opposite wrist, I slide into the chair. I search for something to prick a pin into the tension. “What did I miss? Fact: It wasn’t your reference to Led Zeppelin’s drummer.”

  Kyler’s mouth drops in legitimate shock. That I’m the cause makes me smirk. He nods in appreciation. “Impressive, Davis.” He slides his notebook across the table. There, on the lined paper, scribbled in heavy ink, are the words Passion and Death. From these words, inky branches stretch and reach, weaved intricately into each other on the page.

  “That’s super emo, Kyler. What did I miss in school?”

  He laughs. His shoulders shake underneath the hoodie. “As much as I appreciate the incredible display of stereotyping you’ve just subjected me to, I’m not emo. Passion, not love, is the main theme of Romeo and Juliet. Meanwhile”—he points to the word death—“death is also a theme we may find in Romeo and Juliet. Look at the whiteboard.” I turn my attention to Mr. Lowry’s scrawl: Name two themes we may find in Romeo and Juliet.

  Oh. Color blooms, igniting my face in a rush of heat, and if I’m not mistaken, Kyler Benton is smiling at me.

  THINK DIFFERENTLY. NORMAL IS

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  PRACTICE LASTS LONGER THAN IT should. I’d written some new songs, and when we’re all learning something for the first time, the hours slip away because everyone is stoked for bright and shiny ideas. When I get home, I want to crawl into bed, watch a crappy TV show, and go to sleep.

  My stomach grumbles as I let myself in. My mom sits at the kitchen island, its surface littered with candles. She’s in her pajamas drinking a glass of water and reading a book. She looks up, smiles when she sees me, and sets the book down. “Hi, sweetie. You’re getting home late.”

  I open the fridge and get the items I need to make a sandwich. Sliding one of her candles over, I set out a plate and get to work. “Band practice,” I say.

  My mom nods. “Kyler, can I say something?”

  I add mustard and mayo to the pile of lunch meat and tomatoes on bread and finish the top with another slice before I look at my mom, picking up my sandwich. “You can say whatever you want.”