All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  Dr. Linderman gestures to the pile of fabric on my legs. “Jacob was concerned that you might need to be a hero, so he sent his cape with you.”

  “With me where?”

  He points to the building we’re parked alongside. It’s a gigantic mansion, three or four stories tall, supported by huge white columns. For a structure that towers so high, it’s remarkably well hidden behind shrubs with incredible gardens that stretch out on either side. “Willow Recovery Center,” he says.

  “You brought me to a hospital?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not a hospital, Lennon, it’s a private residential treatment facility where you can focus on meeting your challenges head-on.”

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “He should be right behind us. He was waiting for Claire to arrive home so he wouldn’t have to bring your brother. We don’t want to scare young Jake.”

  “Where’s Kyler?” I want to stay angry about Kyler’s full disclosure to my dad, but I can’t. His face is the only one I want to see.

  “Who?”

  “Kyler? Where’s Kyler?” I feel panic grip me again, and I cannot breathe. “Please, Levi. Tell me.”

  “Isn’t he the reason you’re here?” he asks. “Your father showed me the Facebook post, Lennon.”

  I shake my head, tears filling my eyes. “He wouldn’t, he didn’t do that. There’s no way, please, you have to tell my dad—”

  “What I have to do, Lennon, is get you on the road to recovery. We need to tackle this issue with a vengeance, and this stay at Willow Recovery Center is the first step.”

  I inhale, slow and long through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, trying to find one ounce of resolve to avoid verbally tearing him to shreds. “You’re a shrink. Is it a fair statement to say that you get paid to listen to people’s concerns?”

  Dr. Linderman pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nods. “That is a fair statement, yes.”

  “Good,” I say, “then hear mine. I need to know he’s okay…that he’ll be okay. He was set up. He wouldn’t do this. Please, Levi, you have to trust me.”

  He looks momentarily sympathetic but seems to shake himself out of it. “You need to be concerned with you, Lennon.”

  I look at him and point to the building and make my voice firm. Begging and pleading didn’t work, so I’ll resort to threats. “I am concerned with me. The same me who is not going in there until I know he’s okay.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “I’ll kick and scream and make the next hour of your life a lot more trouble than it needs to be. How easily you forget. I spent three months in the psych ward, and I’ve seen meltdowns that could rival anything you can imagine.” I hold out my hand. “I know the drill. You have my phone, I’m sure of it. Let me call him.”

  He narrows his eyes in caution, so I try one more appeal. “Levi, please. He’ll be worried. Please. If you let me call him, I’ll get out of this car with you and walk through the front doors of that building as a willing participant.”

  He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out my iPhone. “Five minutes,” he says. He opens the door and steps out. “I’ll give you five minutes to say what you need to say.”

  I hit Kyler’s contact and pray that he answers. It takes two rings. “Lennon!”

  I almost cry at the sound of his voice. “Hi, I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Are any of us ever okay, really?”

  “We can be okay for moments, Lennon.” Silence, and then he whispers, “Please be okay in this moment.”

  “I feel so stupid,” I say quietly. “I had this idyllic wish. And when I met you, it kind of came true. Like suddenly it didn’t matter that I wasn’t normal, because neither are you and that was okay, and finally that feeling of constant trepidation might learn how to take a back seat to life, but it always seems to catch up with me.”

  “Idyllic Trepidations,” he whispers. “Could be a band name, Davis. Think about it. Our slogan could be ‘Make Peace with Your Fears.’”

  I half sob, half laugh in return.

  “That’s what you need to do,” he whispers. “Make peace with your fears. You know that, right? I get that it’s a big ask. Making peace with the enemy requires digging deep, but that’s something I guess both of us have in common, huh?”

  The glass of the passenger-side window presses against my temple. The salt of my own tears drips into my mouth, and I can taste them. “I know.”

  “You got this,” he says. “You can do it.”

  I don’t feel as confident as he seems to about that, so I change the subject. “My dad refuses to believe you didn’t do it.”

  “I know,” he says. “You believe me, right? That’s the only thing that matters.”

  “Yes,” I say. “He’s putting me in a recovery program.”

  “What?”

  “I’m at Willow Recovery Center.” My eyes flick toward the building beside me before settling back on Dr. Linderman, who is pacing next to the car, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “It’s some private treatment place.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  From the driver’s side Dr. Linderman’s body folds down, and he holds up three fingers. Three minutes.

  “Don’t forget about our project.” I shouldn’t be thinking about our project at a time like this, but I am.

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll try to get Jacob to get you the mask so you don’t miss the gig.”

  “Fuck the gig,” he says.

  “You want me to make peace with my fears, you should do the same, don’t you think?”

  “You won’t be there,” he says. “I can’t.”

  “You can,” I say, swallowing hard. “Once-in-a-lifetime things happen once in a lifetime and all that, right?”

  “Stop talking like that, Davis.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re leaving.” Three words that make his voice crack.

  I put my palm over my mouth to muffle the sob that tries to escape. Linderman’s finger gives me the one-minute warning from outside the window. “I have to go. They’ll take my phone. I’ll miss your texts. Kyler?”

  “What?”

  “You’re the weirdest person I know.”

  “You don’t get to do that,” he declares. “You don’t get to make me fall in love with the wonder of you and walk away. You can’t expect me to give up that easily.”

  “I have to go,” I say again.

  His voice is desperate. “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “I love you. I’m not giving up on us, Lennon. I fucking love you and I don’t care who is trying to keep us apart, I won’t let it happen. I promise.”

  “I love you, too,” I say and before he hears the sob that escapes, I hang up the phone.

  MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR FEARS.

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  MY CELL PHONE HITS THE space of drywall between two of my guitars, denting the plaster before it rebounds and slams to the floor face-first. I broke the screen, guaranteed. The solid wood flooring is hard as rock, plus, I chucked the phone like I was pitching in the major leagues.

  She’s in recovery. They took her away from me.

  Andrea took her away from me.

  I press my fingers to my temples to try to make my brain stop throbbing. I need to expose her. But I’m the only person who saw her with the folder. Andrea may be a grade A bitch, but she’s involved in several school clubs, eager to maintain a persona of do-gooder among those she deems important enough to know her.

  Me, I’m the so-called troublemaker at school. The kid who pushes boundaries, questions authority, and is considered a thorn in everybody’s side. And now it’s my word against hers, so my situation is definitely desperate, bordering on hopeless.

  I’m haunted by the image of
Lennon’s face when her deepest secret was exposed. I let her wounds seep underneath my skin until they’re my own. They join the burden of the stares, the speculation that I’m capable of something so deplorable.

  I pick up my phone from the ground, seeing that I did shatter the screen, but I text her anyway. It’s her favorite part of the day, and it makes her smile and that’s all I want to do: Erase the image branded into my mind of her undoing and replace it with my memory of her smile.

  I’ll make things right with Josh, I promise. I told him I loved you. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention the inception of Make-Out Junkies: LustRUs. ☺ XOXO Kyler

  I don’t sleep at all. The nightmare of my reality keeps my brain firing at überspeeds. Life without Lennon is not something I’d prepared for.

  * * *

  The next day, school is unbearable. I’ve been here for half an hour, each second under careful scrutiny of the student body. I can tell some of them have already decided I’m guilty. I’m in a foul mood, and I want to run my fist through something, but instead I’m determined to find Andrea and tell her I know she’s the one responsible. I’m headed toward the hallway where Andrea’s locker is when Jada steps in my path, a near miss to being bowled over. “Watch where you’re going,” I grumble.

  She ignores my comment, her eyes drifting to meet mine. “Is Lennon okay?”

  I don’t focus on Jada, instead surveying the hallway for spectators. “You sure you want to be seen with the big bad wolf, Jada? Might tarnish your reputation.”

  “Oh please, Kyler, we both know you pretend to be bad. You’re not.”

  I’m too tired to argue.

  “Lennon. Is she okay? I tried calling, but it goes to voice mail.”

  “She’s fine,” I say, unsure of how much information I’m supposed to volunteer.

  “I had no idea she had OCD, I hope she’s okay. I’m worried about her.”

  “I’m worried about her, too.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  I’ll be honest. It’s nice to know Jada at least assumes that I’d never do such a thing. Nicer to know she’s more concerned about Lennon’s well-being than the actual fact that she has OCD. As for everyone else, I try to ignore them and focus on clearing my name.

  “Andrea did it,” I say. “I saw her.”

  Jada looks shocked, although I have no idea why. “What?”

  “I saw her taking pictures of a folder at Lennon’s place,” I say. “Somehow she hacked into my Facebook account. It’s shut down pending further investigation from their security team.”

  “When is Lennon coming back?” Jada asks, hiking her backpack up her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. Listen, I have to go. I’m going to interrogate Andrea.”

  Jada’s gaze drifts to the side. “Where’s Lennon?”

  “Not here,” I say, because her whereabouts aren’t my business to share. “Listen, she won’t get your texts, but I’ll tell her you’re worried about her.”

  This appeases her. “If you hear anything, please let me know.”

  “I will. Later, Jada.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I leave her behind and travel south down the corridor. They stare, they murmur, they gossip. I find Andrea standing at her locker, talking to her friend Liam. “We need to talk.”

  Liam glances at me for a moment before turning to Andrea. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “See you.” She smiles at Liam and turns, rolling her eyes at me before she faces away and slams her locker shut. As she spins back around, she probably thinks I’m going to let her pass me, because she takes a step forward. I don’t touch her, but I stand directly in front of her so when she moves, she hits me like a brick wall. She stumbles, her back hitting the locker.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” I tell her.

  Her eyes are disgusted, dragging from my head to my feet and back again in a slow dance. Reminds me of the night we first met. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. “We both know you did it.”

  “You know something, Andrea, I’m not a big believer in redemption, but maybe you are. You have a chance to do the right thing, to tell the truth.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and arches an eyebrow. “My my,” she says, “how valiant are you? I’d say Lennon is lucky to have you, but she isn’t and she doesn’t.”

  “You’re fucking psycho.”

  She shrugs and continues, “You’re guilty. May as well stop denying it, Kyler.”

  My teeth clench so hard, pressure grips my skull. “What does this accomplish for you, Andrea? What do you get out of ruining someone’s life? You’re so messed up.”

  “Me? You and Looney Tunes there are like the epitome of messed up. How unfortunate it is that you’ll never see Lennon again, the two of you were perfect for each other.”

  Never see Lennon again. That thought never crossed my mind, and it feels like a blow to the gut, but it doesn’t last long. Anyone who tries to keep her from me permanently will have to kill me first. My heart wallops inside my ears, blood coursing through my veins, making them burn and pulse. My vision clouds and I lurch forward and slam my fist into the metal locker beside her head.

  Andrea’s eyes go wide. She’s scared.

  “You know what? We are perfect for each other. And your sorry ass is going to die alone.”

  I remove my fist from the locker, turn, and stalk away, knowing I’m going to regret that move later.

  * * *

  Later comes in ten minutes when I’m beckoned to the principal’s office. It’s a new record. My dad is standing outside already. Also a record. His fingers are at his throat, loosening his overpriced silk tie. Truth is, I think the veins in his neck get bigger when he’s pissed with me.

  Andrea sits on one of the chairs inside the office, eyes cast down to her phone texting frantically. She’s telling everyone she knows she was right—I’m a monster.

  My dad’s face is red. “What the hell is wrong with you, Kyler? You punched a girl?”

  “What? No! I didn’t punch a girl.”

  “I heard you punched a girl.”

  I stare at him blankly, dumbfounded. “And you actually believed that? I punched a locker. Near a girl.”

  My dad throws his hands up in the air in frustration. “Right, because that’s much better than actually punching a girl.”

  “It’s significantly better than punching a girl. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, you’re a damned lawyer. Destroying public property is a far lesser crime than assault. I won’t even try and explain to you the other reason I’d never hit a girl, since I’m pretty sure human decency is beyond your scope of understanding.”

  He points his finger at me. Looks like he’s going to have a coronary. “Human decency, Kyler? Really? Cut the bullshit. Punching a locker isn’t civil. It’s barbaric much in the same sense as a caveman would clobber his woman over the head and toss her over his shoulder.”

  “Wow, Greg, that’s an impressive comparison. Angsty teen turned stunted homo sapien on the evolutionary scale.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re an imbecile. How about uttering threats? Did you ever think of that?”

  “Nope. Didn’t have to. I didn’t threaten her.”

  His shoulders slump with short-lived relief until Josh comes strolling through the front door, shoving his keys in his pocket.

  My dad accosts him. Wastes no time. “Josh, I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  I look at Josh. “With all due respect, your stepdaughter is a liar. She sabotaged Lennon. She planted evidence to implicate me. I think if you just ask Lennon, I mean, I would never do that to her. I swear it.”

  Josh completely ignores me and looks at my dad. “Sure can tell he’s the child of a lawyer.”

  He walks through the door of the office and Andrea stands. She begins to speak animatedly to her stepfather, pointing the odd finger through the window in my direct
ion. My dad joins them, then Principal Walsh comes out, Andrea sits, and the three men disappear behind a closed door.

  I lean against the wall outside the office door, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes. I try to decide if I’m remorseful or not. Not—at least not yet. Fifteen minutes must pass before Josh and my dad emerge.

  “You’re out for the rest of the day.” As I follow my dad to the car, he speaks. “You’re lucky, Kyler. I was able to talk to Principal Walsh. You aren’t suspended. You can return to school tomorrow.”

  “But?”

  “But you’re doing community service at the school for a month and you are positively prohibited from seeing Lennon.”

  Yeah, we’ll see about that.

  FACT: 20% OF YOUTH BETWEEN THE AGES OF

  13 AND 18 LIVE WITH MENTAL ILLNESS.

  WILLOW RECOVERY CENTER. Psychiatric luxury at its finest. Rich people converge on this place in pursuit of exorcising their mental demons, all the while never straying too far from the perks to which they are accustomed. Every comfort conceivable is offered to anyone with adequate money, sufficient courage, and the fierce resolution to step into the ring and conquer the beasts inside their heads.

  Sterile white corridors and cold tile floors won’t be found here. No imposing steel tables supplied with restraints for patients who’ve had psychotic breaks. No padded rooms and straitjackets. I’m not sure those things would even have a place here.

  A sign near the front shows that Willow Recovery Center is home to several wings, named after flowers: Wild Rose, Morning Lily, Country Orchid. They sound more like essential oils than they do psychiatric wings. I assume they keep the anxiety disorders in one wing, psychotic disorders in another, and so on.

  Maine was different. The hospital there was short on funding; it was a mishmash of people filling overcrowded spaces. A human chain of lost souls struggling to stay alive by attending group therapy sessions and sipping on cocktails of Zoloft, Prozac, chlorpromazine, and my personal preference, my dear friend, clozapine.

  The Wild Rose wing is one opulent private room after the next. They line long hallways that span massive distances, seemingly too large for a house. The dining room resembles a five-star restaurant; I count three separate lounges equipped with televisions, a game room, even a bowling alley for guests who are rewarded for good behavior.