“I haven’t seen you this happy in a long while.”
I return the items to the fridge, grab my sandwich, and plant a kiss on her head. “It’s solid, Mom, you should try it sometime. Being happy is all right, but don’t get any wild ideas—I’m still your angst-ridden, brooding teenage boy.”
She smiles, placing her hand on top of mine. “I can’t imagine you any other way.”
Somehow, my mother is the only person who can say this and have me believe it. “Good night,” I tell her.
“Good night, darling.”
As I head upstairs, my feet are bricks, heavy and cumbersome. Macy stands in her doorway wearing a face mask that looks like green puke. I cringe at her as I pass. “Looks like algae vomited onto your face.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I would suggest you try it. It’s supposed to minimize redness.”
“Negative. I’m exhausted.”
She spins around to head into her room. “Your loss.”
I think about my bed. No. Not a loss.
I wolf down my sandwich, have a five-minute shower, put on pajama pants, and slide under the covers. I point the remote at the TV, and no sooner do I click the button than I’m on my feet.
A dim yellow glow comes from the room where I saw Lennon last night, but it comes fast, in spurts. Handmade lightning strikes, but far less ominous because they are soundless. I stalk over to the window, irritated at being torn from my comfort. The lights continue to flicker, so quickly that I need to rub my eyes to get the blur out. When I do this, I notice. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Pause. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Pause. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I pick up my phone.
Lennon. Tell Josh about the lights. It’s like living next door to a disco.
I wait. The light show continues, and when it stops, my phone buzzes.
I forgot. I’ll let him know. Sorry.
She didn’t forget. Question is, why is she orchestrating a one-woman symphony with the light switch? I type it into my phone without thinking. If I were thinking, I’d ask myself why I keep texting this girl. She’ll assume I want to get to know her. Zero chance I want that. Girls are a distraction. I’ve seen it firsthand. I attempt to salvage myself. I’ll make it work related. How should we tackle the project?
With relentless vigor.
You’re a smart-ass, Lennon. A musically adept smart-ass. Congratulations! A rare find.
Thanks.
Hey Lennon?
What?
Can I ask you something?
It’s my experience that people ask even if you say no so go ahead.
Is it hard to be named after a musical legend so profoundly impactful? Must be a lot of pressure.
I try to reason with myself. I must at least attempt to get along with her if I’m forced to work with her for a term. I’ve grown up with my mother and Macy and know when to surrender. Maybe that’s why I’m texting her like this, but why do I like it so much? Three dots appear. And they stay on the screen forever.
I don’t know Kyler. Is it hard to be an asshole of monumental proportions?
I smirk. She thinks I’m an asshole. It was a simple question. What’s in a name Lennon?
It’s just a name.
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. It’s not just a name though. That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Did you just pull some ridiculous Romeo and Juliet reference via text message?
In fact I did.
Good night Kyler.
Hold tight young grasshopper and listen. Reread what you just wrote. Romeo and Juliet told in text messages. Boom. That’s how we ace English. Romeo and Juliet for the modern times. The world’s love affair with technology. Lowry will eat it up. Trust me.
KYLER, THAT’S BRILLIANT UNLIKE MY HORRIBLE DATING APP IDEA WHICH HAS PRECISELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE WORLD’S LOVE AFFAIR WITH TECHNOLOGY.
She’s right.
Stop yelling at me. I’m sorry I said it was a bad idea. I don’t like Andrea. She got under my skin and it made me hostile. We’re stuck working together so let’s not make it suck.
Fine. Apology accepted.
Great. Back to my awesome idea…
I see you have no problem patting yourself on the back.
Someone has to. Good night Lennon.
Good night Kyler.
I put my phone on the floor beside my bed and plug it into the charger. I want to sleep, but now I won’t be able to. I bring my hands to my temples and squeeze, trying to find any trace of common sense. I wish she wasn’t on my mind so much and reason that it must be a strange fascination with the first new arrival in a long time. It needs to end there.
There’s a knock on my door. Macy pokes her now-clean face in. “Are you decent? Can I come in?”
“Yep.”
She steps inside the room and instantly I’m assaulted by the scent of berries. She sits down on my bed, forcing me to slide over. “I heard Silas and Emmett talking at lunch today.”
“’Bout what?” In this moment, I couldn’t care less what it was about. For some stupid reason, I’m wondering if Lennon overdoses on perfume like my sister does.
“About the record demo.”
“Out.”
“Kyler,” she protests.
“Not open for discussion.”
“Just let me say one thing,” she pleads.
I turn my head and look at her. “What, Mae?”
“When I look at you, I never see your scar. I know you’re really messed up about it, but, Kyler, I swear, you’re a beautiful person, inside and out. I wish you’d realize that.”
I look at her for a minute. “You drunk or something? Was your puke face mask infused with vodka?”
“No.”
“Then why the deep, introspective thoughts?”
“Because,” Macy says, “I know you love music, more than you like to let on. You should do something you love.”
I pull the blind back from the window and point to the lawn. “I was considering taking up gardening. Landscaping, if you will.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m being serious.”
I sit up and grab my notebook, my pen, and a candle before returning to my bed. I set the candle on the bedside table and strike a match. The fire sparks, then settles into a slow burn down the stick. “Life’s too short, Macy.” I light the candle and blow out the match. “One day everything is fine, and the next your whole world is engulfed in flames.”
Macy feigns shock before rolling her eyes a second time. “Enough with the drama. We get it. You’re brooding and mysterious, but you’re also talented, Kyler.”
“Noted,” I say. “Thanks.”
“What about covering your face? Wearing a mask? Like that old band Mom and Dad used to listen to—the guy with the tongue.”
I rub my face. “KISS, Macy. That’s KISS. They’re epic. Untouchable.”
“Well, Fire to Dust should do that. Keeps everybody happy and lets you do what you love.”
“It’s not the worst idea you ever had, but I’m not sold on it.”
She smiles, clasping her hands under her chin. “But it isn’t a solid no?”
“Not solid. But it might still be a no. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She stands. “Good night, big brother.”
“Good night. Oh, and, Mae?”
“What?”
“Silas didn’t put you up to this, did he?”
She looks me dead in the eye. “No,” she says, “I swear it.”
FACT (DEFINITELY): KYLER BENTON’S HANDS ARE SOFT, SLIGHTLY
CALLUSED, AND WARM. I KNOW BECAUSE I TOUCHED THEM.
DISCLAIMER: I LIKED IT.
JACOB SITS AT THE KITCHEN table the next morning, arms crossed over his chest with an undeniable scowl on his face. He’s wearing black shorts, a T-shirt, his rubber boots, and his cape. His camera is placed in front of him while Claire stands behind the counter with her hand on her hip. She’s flustered.
“I don’t care,” he says. “I want to wear it.”
Claire’s eyes dart to me and issue a silent plea. Help. It’s funny how beneath all the looks, fame, and good fortune, Claire is like any other mom.
Clearing my throat, I slide into the seat across from Jacob. His arms drape themselves protectively over his chest while he observes his bowl of cereal getting soggy in front of him. “Hey, bud, maybe you can let your mom wash your cape.”
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t take it off.”
“Why not?”
“What if someone is in trouble and needs a hero? Then what?” His face is deadpan. He’s convinced this is in fact a problem he may have to deal with.
“You know what makes someone a true hero?”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him to tell me the first letter of the alphabet. “A cape, for one.”
I shake my head and point to the left side of my chest. “A true hero comes from here.”
“Your heart?”
“A true hero doesn’t need a cape. Just a big heart and a little courage.”
Jacob considers what I’ve said but still doesn’t budge.
Time for bribery. “Listen, if you take off your cape and let your mom wash it, I think I have enough stuff here to make you another one.”
He uncrosses his arms. “Two capes? I’d have two?”
I nod. “Sure. But you have to stop complaining, let your mom wash it, and listen to her all day. No matter what.”
He looks at his mom, then me, before extending his hand in offering. “Sold.” He unties the cape and hands it to Claire before running back to the table and throwing his arms around my neck. “Thank you, Lennon!”
Claire smiles. “Run along, Jacob, Lennon has to get to school.”
Jacob releases his grip. “Bye. Have a good day, okay?”
“You too, buddy.”
He races from the room, and Claire looks at me. “I didn’t think he’d ever take this off,” she says, holding it up. “He cherishes it.
“You’re a wonderful person, Lennon,” she continues. “A great sister to Jacob. I know you comin’ here isn’t what you’d planned, and I know losing your mama must be the fiercest pain you’ve ever felt in all of your life, but for what it’s worth, you’re a blessing to me, darlin’. You always have been such a sweet girl, and Andi, well, she’s—” Claire stops, choosing not to finish her thought. “Never mind,” she says, “you go on and have a good day. Oh, and before I forget, the moving company should have your stuff delivered this weekend.”
“Okay.” I stand and grab my backpack. “And, Claire?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“Thanks. I mean, for saying that stuff.”
Claire smiles, walks over to me, and throws her arms around me. “Every word is true. I forgot to tell you, I’ve called my friend Trixie, she’s itchin’ to get started.”
I pull away. “Started?”
“On your room.” Claire’s hand flutters to her chest. “She’s the designer friend I mentioned and my goodness, she is talented. All the celebrities use her, she’s so in demand, girl’s got a wait list as long as a football field. I wish she were available when we bought this place, it sure would look a whole lot different, but she was in Morocco finding herself. Andi was so disappointed.” She shakes her head and looks around her gorgeous home. “But I told her you’re going through a bit of a rough patch, and she was happy to make an exception.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very nice of you.”
“Leave it to me,” Claire says, “you’ll feel at home in no time.”
She’s kind, but honestly, this will never be home. I don’t tell her that. “I should go or I’ll miss the bus.”
“You go on and have a good day, sugar.”
* * *
Claire’s words ricochet in my brain like a pinball as I walk to the bus stop. I slip my earbuds in, select my rainy-day playlist, and take in my surroundings. The leaves of the palms, the sun shining in a bright blue sky dotted with marshmallow clouds above me. Could this place ever feel like home?
The trees in Maine were lush, thick foliage. In the fall, they would change colors and paint the landscape shades of red, auburns, and orange. The ocean was dark and mysterious, hiding secrets beneath its surface. It was beautiful. It was where I belonged.
Los Angeles holds a different beauty. A surreal concrete jungle melted into a real one. Everything is larger than life here. A metropolis sprawling far and wide, its edges clutched by the sea, hedged by tall, towering palm trees. Pillars of strength. Of power.
My head is tilted skyward with a certain awe when the toe of my sneaker catches on an uneven sidewalk paver. I snap to attention seconds before I fall, thank God, but it doesn’t come without its share of dire humiliation. My arms flail to the sides and I stumble awkwardly before I catch my balance. To my absolute horror, all of this happens at the exact moment Kyler Benton’s car dips into view and rumbles down the street.
My heart falls.
Maybe he saw nothing.
His car slows.
He saw everything.
The passenger window rolls down.
“Lennon from Maine, first day on your new feet or what?”
My cheeks bloom with color. “Something like that.”
“Want a ride?”
“What?”
“Do you want a ride?” He stresses the word ride, as if I’m slow to catch on. “To school?”
I blink, unable to conjure up a scenario that could be worse. Getting into the douche-slash-death-mobile is the last thing I want to do. “Um, no.”
Kyler’s one visible eyebrow darts upward in surprise. “No?”
“I’m good,” I manage. “Thanks.”
He’s still shocked. “You’re good?”
“Yep.” I hold my hands out to the sides. “As in marvelously okay with taking the bus.”
He smirks. “Suit yourself.” I keep walking, putting him and his car behind me, but he’s not done. “Hey, Lennon?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
And there it is. The jab at my withering pride. My reaction is instinctive. I hold up my hand and extend my middle finger. Then I smile. Kyler laughs, turns his attention back to the road, and all I see are taillights.
By the time I make it to school, the hallways are buzzing with noise. In a place this size, considering I’m the new kid, no one seems to notice me. Perfect. I don’t want to get close to anyone. Not Jada or Kyler—especially not him. At present a difficult task because no sooner do I think about him than he materializes. I’m at my locker, having opened and closed my lock four times, but when I reach the fifth rotation and open the door, there he is, hands jammed in his pockets. “You survived the mean streets of Bel Air unscathed,” he says, grinning. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans against the locker next to mine.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not even a little bit, Davis. I’m just wondering about your ability to survive the jungle that is Hell Air Learning Academy.”
He’s wearing a blue hoodie today. He’s so close, I can detect mint, I can almost taste it. I thought the gray brought out the icy color in his eyes, but the blue, God help me, makes his eyes liquid and fire all at the same time. It’s unnerving. I shrug my backpack off my shoulder. “Good question, I guess we’re about to find out.”
He ignores the last part. “The weekend is coming. We need to work on the project.”
I grab my books and shove them inside my backpack, quick to realize there are two coiled notebooks plus two textbooks. Four. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, so I grab a third coiled book and shove it beside the other ones. Five.
I turn my attention to Kyler but only hold his gaze for a moment because his eyes remind me of the business end of a hot poker. “Friday, after school?”
“Friday works,” he says.
Jada’s voice breaks through our conversation. “Are you guys talking about Abigail Belcourt’s party?”
Kyler straightens. “What party?”
“I don’t know,” Jada says. “She’s having some party this weekend while her parents are in Munich. The whole school is invited.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket, his eyes cast to the screen. “That explains the random text I got last night.”
“So, are you guys going?”
I take a moment to acknowledge how strange it is for Jada to use that term. You guys. It’s like Kyler and I are a pair. Some dynamic duo. Sidekicks. Comrades. We are none of those things. One look at him tells me he didn’t notice you guys the same way I did.
Jada waits for one of us to reply.
“I’m not really into parties,” I say. It’s a lie. Truth is, I’ve never been invited to one.
“I’m not really into people,” Kyler adds.
To my surprise, she accepts this answer with no argument. “Well, you’re both missing out.” She turns. “There’s an assembly this morning. I’m helping with the audio stuff, so you’re on your own until lunch.” The weight of her stare is heavy. She’s trying to gauge how her absence will affect me.
“I guess I’ll meet you in the cafeteria at lunch, then?”
“Sure.” She faces Kyler. “Make sure she doesn’t get lost.”
He doesn’t answer her with anything more than a cool nod. As she heads down the hallway, he looks at me, hitching his backpack up his shoulder. “Trust me,” he says. “Solid decision not to go. Those parties are nothing but a bunch of rich kids with too much money and not enough basic regard for their livers.”
I try not to show him how shocked I am. If we were sitting in the gymnasium packed to capacity, I’d have pinpointed him as the rebel, the badass partier, the kid out back behind the parking lot smoking cigarettes. So far, he’s proving to be none of those things. I’m so lost in thought I don’t notice how far ahead he’s gotten until he turns. “Pick up the pace, Davis, the bleachers at the back fill up fast.”
All Our Broken Pieces Page 7
