All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I arch a brow. “Doesn’t that have ten thousand calories?”

  She shrugs, gripping it between her teeth. “It’s sugar free.”

  I make a face. “That’s revolting, it’s like having Coke without the fizz.”

  “It’s like having a Diet Coke. What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m moving boxes.”

  “Why are you moving boxes?”

  “Band.”

  “You’re such a Neanderthal, Kyler. Speak in sentences, not just words.”

  “Fine.” I pick the box back up, but Macy stops me.

  “Sorry about yesterday.”

  “About sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  “Something like that. For what it’s worth, I like her.”

  “You met her for ten seconds in the hallway.”

  “I know,” Macy says, “but you’re happy lately.”

  “I’m a regular ray of sunshine all the time, Mae, what are you chattering about?”

  “You know what I mean,” she presses. “You like seeing her.”

  She’s right. I do. I exit the garage, two boxes in my arms, ignoring Macy’s comment. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I need a ride to dance rehearsal later.”

  I set the boxes down. “Is that why you apologized? Trying to make nice so I’ll taxi you around town?”

  “No,” she says. “I’m trying to make nice because you’re my brother and I love you.”

  I nod, considering what she’s said. “Fine. I’ll drive you, but you’re going to earn it. Pick up a box, Twinkletoes.”

  She stops twirling the lollipop and rolls her eyes. “This is a blue job.”

  “A what?”

  “Heavy lifting is for boys.”

  “Nice try, Macy. But apart from just having said one of the most dogmatic statements expressed in the history of ever, you’re forgetting I know you. You’re a ballerina with the discipline of a workhorse. If you actually set your mind to it, I’d bet you could bench-press your own weight, so quit bitching and pick up a box or start walking and howl all you want.”

  She places the lollipop down on a scrap of paper and marches to a box, making a tremendous to-do of the fact that I’ve ordered her to help me.

  * * *

  We finish, and I drop Macy off and pick Silas up on the way home. Austin and Emmett are supposed to meet us here. We pull into the drive, and I spot Lennon, sitting down on her front doorstep with her knees pulled up, fiddling with her phone.

  I park the car, get out, and look at Silas. “There’s root beer in the mini fridge. I’ll be right there.”

  His eyes flicker to Lennon. He nods in understanding and heads to the garage. I enter the gate on the side of the house and come out directly parallel to where she’s established herself on the porch.

  My shadow blocks the sun from her, alerting her to my arrival in seconds. She stares up from the phone and grins. I hope that smile is for me. Some tiny part of me thinks I should feel strange about yesterday, but I don’t. I can’t. Scars come out and links of understanding, of acceptance, are born. Besides, she’s just a girl, bro.

  “You doing anything, Lennon? Or did you just decide to chill on a doorstep on Saturday morning?”

  “Trixie, the interior designer, is coming,” she says. “Claire wants me to choose the stuff for my room, and Jacob had a nightmare last night and didn’t sleep, so he’s catching up now. I’m here to make sure she doesn’t ring the doorbell.”

  “Sounds captivating,” I say. “Do you want to work on the project later?”

  She peers down at her toes. “I’m not sure. Can I let you know?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” She points to the garage, where Silas has the door ajar and is hunched over changing the dials on his amp. “Band practice?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s cool.”

  I wait. I ready myself to hear her say something else. I wait to feel uncomfortable. I wait to feel rejected, but it doesn’t come. I jam my hands in my pockets. “Hey, Lennon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No listening to my lyrics.” I give her a half laugh, turn, and wander away.

  When I return to the garage, Emmett and Austin have joined Silas. Everything, with the notable exception of my guitar, is set up. Silas is to the right of my mic stand, guitar slung around him. His fingers sweep across the frets while the other hand strums in his very own interpretation of a classic Nirvana tune.

  Austin stares reverently at his phone, and Emmett is positioned behind the drums, chewing gum and looking bored to death.

  I grab my guitar and step up to my pedal board and mic. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

  “How’s that working?” Emmett prods.

  “How’s what working?”

  “Your distraction.”

  “None of your business,” I say flatly and seek to change the topic. “I’m writing a couple of new songs. Should be good to learn by next week.”

  Emmett chuckles. “That couldn’t be more perfect. Tell him, Austin.”

  Austin clears his throat nervously. “Well, my buddy knows this guy at Shade, it’s, like, a minor club where people go to eat, listen to music and stuff.”

  I stop him from wasting any more of his breath. “I know what Shade is.”

  “They want us to play a gig at the summer solstice party.”

  “As in two months from now?”

  “Yeah. In front of people. Like a live gig. Not some high school dance or anything.” He’s smiling but struggling not to be excited. It’s not working.

  “Listen.” Silas steps in. “We can all appreciate that you don’t want to sub demos. But it’s a gig, a real one. Shade is gothic. Everything is pitch-black, no one will see you, it’ll be perfect.”

  He’s right. I’ve been there. Someone would literally need to be using night vision goggles to have a clear look at my face, and even then, I’d be a suspicious green blotch on a digital display.

  It’s quiet in here. Too peaceful. The movement of air, the art of breathing, seems conditional on my response. My decision. Every single one of my band mates looks positively hopeful, and as much as I want to refuse them for selfish reasons, I can’t. “I guess we’d better practice then.”

  FACT: MUSIC TRIGGERS THE RELEASE OF DOPAMINE

  IN THE BRAIN. LITERALLY A NATURAL HIGH.

  BONUS FACT: NONPERISHABLES CAN PERISH.

  KYLER WALKED AWAY, AND I stared after him, wishing he didn’t have to go. Logic says I should be mortified to look him in the eyes, but when I do, I feel nothing but comfortable. I love talking to him. Maybe working on our project again isn’t such a bad idea.

  I rise to my feet, about to head inside to check if Jacob has woken, when a silver convertible comes up the drive.

  The door behind me opens, and Claire’s standing there, beaming.

  The car parks and a woman exits. She has silver-platinum blond hair cropped closely to her scalp. She’s wearing a white suit and strappy white sandals, and she clutches a bulky portfolio in her hand.

  “Trixie!” Claire proclaims.

  Trixie wraps her arms around my stepmother. “Claire-bear.” Her voice is nasally and high-pitched. She releases Claire and grasps my hands. If I were a contaminator, I would be petrified.

  “And you must be Miss Lennon.” She drops my hands and clasps hers together underneath her chin. “You will have a splendid room by the time we’re done, Lennon. A dream come true.”

  I force a smile. “I can’t wait.”

  I start to head back inside a second time when, without warning, a wailing guitar riff sails through the air, accompanied in mere seconds by the steady pound of drums, and the deep notes of a bass.

  I stiffen.

  Fire to Dust.

  Kyler’s band.

  Jada’s words ricochet through the pathways of my brain: He may be an angel, what with that voice of his. Precisely in that mom
ent in time, it’s as if the Universe is in the habit of granting me what I ask for, because he sings.

  “Cage me up and kill me,

  Murder my affliction,

  This hollow is a death in me,

  The pain is my addiction.”

  I take pause. Both at the timbre of his voice, disciplined, dark, and raspy, and at the lyrics themselves.

  “Loneliness is creeping in,

  A poison in my veins,

  The monster in my mind, it grows,

  So meet me where I’m sane.”

  I remember Kyler’s words when he’d snatched that notebook away from me in the tree house. It’s like reading my diary, Lennon.

  No.

  It’s like reading mine.

  * * *

  Trixie’s portfolio is like a magic trunk, and, once inside the house, she unloads a shocking number of small square fabric samples and paint chip shards across the color spectrum. She shows me some illustrations of her vision, which are just rough, and she advises me to virtually ignore them for now. Then she obtains some measurements and vows she’ll return to select my paints, accent colors, and textiles. Most of my life is still stashed away in crates in our garage at the back of the house, waiting for my room to be finished, so I hope the process happens sooner rather than later.

  Inside, I spot Jacob in the living room, staring at the TV, which isn’t even on, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He brings his fingers up and rubs them. “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She’s just outside saying good-bye to her friend Trixie. Want a snack?”

  He nods.

  We walk into the kitchen, and Jacob points to a large pantry door. “I want pretzels, please. They’re in there.”

  I open the pantry and unleash my personal hell. I don’t know if Claire does the shopping, but the space looks as if she’s bought items in bulk, opened the door, and tossed said items inside with little regard for general order.

  I empty the entire thing out, piling the countertops with cans, boxes, bag of chips, and pasta.

  Jacob watches in horror. Only rather than shock directed at the disorder, it’s directed at me. “The pretzels are on the bottom shelf,” he remarks. “I coulda got ’em.”

  I pace and rummage through the items I’ve removed until I locate a half-full bag of pretzels and give them to Jacob.

  His eyes are wide and full of wonder. “Is it your brain cold again?”

  I stop, recognizing how nuts this must look, but if I’m anything, it’s honest. “Yeah,” I tell Jacob. “I like things neat and organized. They have to make sense.”

  He faces away. “Can you find peanut butter for me to dip my pretzels?”

  “Yeah, buddy, I can do that.” I locate the peanut butter and unscrew the top. As Jacob watches me intently, I ask him, “Did you know there’s about five hundred and forty peanuts used for twelve ounces of peanut butter?”

  He shakes his head. “No. That’s a lot of peanuts.”

  “It is.”

  “Lennon?”

  “Yeah, bud?”

  “Why do you know so many things?”

  “I like to read facts.”

  “I like to read about heroes.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “Mommy is teaching me how to read. She says it means I will be a well-spoken young man. I can read up to grade-two books.”

  “Wow, bud, that’s awesome!” I high-five Jacob and get him set up with his snack and a glass of milk in the living room, I return my attention to the pantry and place everything neatly back on the shelves. I use logic, ordering the less used items, flour, sugar, vegetable oil, all near the back. Near the front, within easy reach, I place cans and boxes of nonperishables. I arrange them in alphabetical order in their category and turn each one so the labels face out.

  When I first got diagnosed, they gave me infographics, lengthy articles, directed me to support groups, help lines, every conceivable resource they could find about obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  It was overwhelming and satisfying all at the same time.

  Overwhelming because duh, your brain is sick, so dreadfully sorry.…Satisfying because if they’d collected that much information about it, clearly I wasn’t the sole person struggling to drown the ever-present demons.

  I read them all. I went to the support groups and met countless other quirky individuals, people who, like me, had a penchant for numbers, or who carried the same terrifying burden of being convinced you’re going to kill someone. There were hand washers, existing in fear of microorganisms or contamination, but there is a modest side that exists to OCD. For every light-switch-turning, leg-tapping moment, there was a far subtler one, like spending three and a half hours organizing cans by their spelling and expiration dates.

  Andrea arrives, examines what I’ve been doing, jeers, and trudges upstairs. I wash my hands, pleased with the pantry, and head to my room. She squints as I pass by, seated on her bed, door wide open as she thumbs through a magazine.

  “Lennon.” She can’t even say my name without sounding like she’s going to choke on the syllables.

  I stop. “Yeah?”

  “Why would you even bother with the cupboard? It’ll be total chaos inside in a week, anyway. Guaranteed.”

  I feel like this is a test that I’m destined to fail because I have no idea what she wants me to say. “I did it because I have to.” Walking away from that pantry wasn’t an option. Not once I saw the disorder hidden behind its door.

  “Oh please,” she mutters. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “You don’t have to hate me, either, Andrea, but you do. You wouldn’t understand, anyway, so I’m not sure why you’re asking.”

  “Is that why you hang out with Kyler? You think he understands you?”

  This is a trap. I’m sure of it. “Kind of, I guess. At least he makes the effort. Why do you care so much?”

  “As someone who is forcibly related to you, what you do reflects on me. People talk, Lennon, and I don’t know if you understand this yet or not, but you’re not in Maine anymore. Word travels fast.”

  “Maybe you should be more concerned with grades and personal relationships than you are with what people think of you.”

  “My grades are fine, thanks,” she says. “I’m looking out for you. It’s bad enough that you’re crazy, but no one likes Kyler. No one. It’s like you’re walking around school with a target painted on your forehead.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I tell her, “but I think I’ll take my chances.”

  I head to the guest room feeling as if I’ve rolled in conversational dirt and text Kyler.

  Want to work on the project?

  His reply is prompt.

  Nope.

  Ouch.

  Oh. Okay…

  I want to eat.

  Eat?

  Yes as in consume food to sustain life.

  Right. I got it.

  Wanna come?

  To eat?

  You’re pretty sharp there Davis. Yes, I am inviting you to eat. ☺

  First of all shut up and second anywhere we can walk to?

  Depends. Do you wanna eat before breakfast tomorrow?

  I’m not up to going out. It’s been a long week, and I already went to the doctor’s this morning and spent my entire afternoon cleaning.

  I wait for him to tell me it’s my loss, or how much it sucks to be me, but he doesn’t.

  The three small circles that tell me he’s typing appear.

  What do you like on your pizza?

  Hawaiian?

  Fruit on pizza. There’s a name for people who like fruit on pizza.

  Oh yeah? What’s that?

  Demented. Lucky for you I’m tolerant of dementia. Tree house. 1 hour.

  “YOU CAME RIGHT OUT OF NOWHERE, A COMET RACING

  ACROSS THE SKY, WITH JUST ONE VIEW I SAW RIGHT

  THROUGH, THOSE SECRETS THAT YOU HIDE.”

  Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, “My Silence”

  I
ORDER THE PIZZA, HAM and pineapple for her and a meat supreme for myself because try as I might, I can’t be excited about her choice. A real pizza—a man’s pizza, if you ask my dad—now that’s something to be enthusiastic about.

  When the delivery kid shows up, I take the food, give him a decent tip because I’m in a great mood, and head to the tree house. It’s been about fifty-eight minutes since I ordered, and if I recognize anything about Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken, it’s that she’s punctual.

  She proves me right when she wanders out the door exactly one hour after I sent her the text. She strides across the grass, shoos the dog, Oscar, from her feet, and makes her way to the gate. I hold it open, extending my pizza-free arm across to let her by.

  She pauses beside me and takes in an enormous breath of air. “Oh my God, smells amazing.”

  I smirk. “I assume you must be speaking about the pizza and not me.”

  “Won’t you always wonder,” she mutters as she squeezes past. I laugh as we stroll to the tree house and stop short at the base. I turn and hand her the boxes. “Hold these for a second. Okay?”

  She nods.

  I’m not ashamed to confess that I can scale the tree like a chimpanzee. If you ask my sister, she’d probably say it’s because I’m so intimately related to primates. If you ask me, it’s because I’ve had eleven years of practice.

  I make it up in record time and slide the tray anchored by a cable down to where she’s standing, transfixed.

  “I’ve only ever seen those on TV.”

  “Well, now you can cross it off your bucket list,” I tell her. “Put the pizza down, set your notebooks on top, and come on up.”

  She climbs up. I pull the rope until the basket with the goods reaches the top and retrieve her notebook and the pizzas.

  “One Inedible and one Meat Lovers,” I say, handing them to her.

  The corner of her lip pulls up. “Inedible?”

  “Listen, Davis, the truth hurts sometimes, and let’s be real, you’re the one with a pineapple on your pizza. It registers as something that’s pretty Inedible.”