All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  My father grimaces at the suggestion.

  “Look, I’ll do the treatment or whatever, but don’t take away the only person who makes me feel right. Please.”

  My dad holds out his hands to stop me. “Lennon. This isn’t open for discussion.”

  “What if I go back to the stupid school? If I promise to do that, will you let me have my phone?”

  “Lennon,” he says, his voice firm. “Listen to yourself! This isn’t healthy. This has nothing to do with the school, and everything to do with the fact that you need to focus on yourself and getting well, not on some boy.”

  “I love him!” I blurt out. “I love him and you aren’t going to change that.”

  “You’re sixteen,” he says.

  “Two years younger than you when you met Mom! Don’t even try to tell me I don’t know what love is.” I start picking at my cuticles because I want to get up and flip the light switch or tap the door frame or do just about anything to stop this from happening.

  “It’s different,” he says.

  “Why? It’s different because you think I’m sick,” I accuse. “You think I’m so messed up that I couldn’t possibly know what being in love is like? You think I can’t make a grown-up decision about where I want to attend school? I’m not hopeless!”

  Shadows cross his face and paint a definite scowl there. “Then prove it,” he says. “Show me you’re adult enough to be in the situation that you’re in and face your struggles. We can talk about the school. You are not getting your cell phone. It’s not a debate. Listen, Bug, I’m doing my best, and in this particular circumstance I’m doing what I think is the best thing I can do for you. One day, maybe, you’ll have a child of your own. Maybe you can understand.”

  I’m not going to win. Frustrated, I rise to my feet to open the door, which swings open just as I say, “I want you to leave, please get out.”

  Jacob is standing there. His face falls. I feel terrible, but I can’t stand to look at my father for a second longer.

  “Fine,” Dad says, rising to his feet. “C’mon, Jacob. We’ll go to a movie.”

  Jacob’s face is solemn as he assesses the situation. My eyes are burning and blurry. Jacob runs over to me and throws his arms around my neck. “I hope this place makes your head cold go away,” he proclaims. “It’s not fun at home without you.” His arms unlatch themselves, and he races to where his paper airplane and mine are side by side. He grabs his and returns to Claire. Claire touches my arm to bid me good-bye while my dad positions himself in the door frame of my room, waiting for her to finish.

  I mutter the mandatory good-bye, and when they leave, the tears really start to fall.

  COULD BE A BAND NAME…THINK ABOUT IT

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  THE TREE HOUSE IS SO lonely without Lennon. I’m on my back on the mattress, staring up at the curtains, thinking of the night she ate pizza, wiped her greasy paws on her pants, and schooled me on OCD. It was then that I decided she would forever be the sort of girl you fight for.

  I resent that she’s not with me; I resent that I can’t talk to her. I debate texting the number she’d texted me from, but she expressly directed me not to.

  I still have no idea how I’m going to prove my innocence to her father, but I know somehow I’ll have to if I ever want the chance to love her. And I do, unequivocally, want the chance to love her.

  I’m so focused on this that when I hear the rope from the pulley system scratching across the wooden platform, it takes more than a minute to register what the sound means. I jump up and poke my head out of the doorway. Jacob stares up in awe. “I put something in the basket,” he declares, pointing.

  “Hey, Jake, wanna come up?”

  His eyes dart warily to the side. “I do, but I can’t. I’m ’posed to stay away from you, my dad said.”

  I nod.

  “But pull up the basket, okay?”

  I pull the rope. “Yeah, okay.” When the tray reaches the top, I see a paper airplane. I grab it. “Did you do this?”

  He shakes his head. “Lennon did. She made you a letter. I know ’cause I can read. I saw it on her table while Daddy and her were arguing and brought it to you.” Just then, the massive door to their house swings wide, and Jacob’s eyes grow large. “I gotta go,” he says. “See you later.” With that, he takes off running.

  Lennon.

  A paper airplane from Lennon. A letter in a paper airplane from Lennon.

  I reach into the basket and recover the plane, unfolding it, mindful not to rip any of the paper.

  I read it a hundred times, fold it, and put it in my pocket.

  Later, in my room, I get out a piece of paper and grab my pen.

  Dear Lennon,

  Jacob delivered your letter. He tells me he can read already and saw it on your table. Crafty little guy for sure. As for being a girl dying to live, live, Lennon, live. Live for me. Live for you, because you, Juliet, are brighter than the stars! Pat yourself on the back, Lennon. We aced it. #EnglishWhut

  Making peace with your fears is no simple task. I’m glad you’re doing it, even if it’s slow. It seems like you’ve been gone for a year, but I’d wait a lifetime only to see you again, so please take your time.

  You’ll find me here, trying to do the same. Stay tuned for an epic video link to Fire to Dust’s debut performance at Shade, where I’ll attempt to practice all the bullshit I preach. Photographic evidence of colossal failure is possible but not guaranteed, and hey, if you can find the strength to go head to head with the demons in your mind, who is to say I can’t do the same?

  As for the limitless band names that exist within the walls of the unparalleled luxury of the Willow Recovery Center, yours is my favorite. Hands down the best choice. Fuck with Fear is a perfect band name, Davis. Your game is strong. A slogan for that needs thought behind it, but I’ll let you know soon, I promise.

  My favorite part of your correspondence, apart from the correspondence itself, was the tongue-in-throat reference regarding your sailor mouth. Poetically worded, if I may say so. I too wish my tongue was taking its rightful place down your throat, because when I kiss you, it takes me away somewhere else. A place where nothing but you, me, and that kiss even matters.

  So hurry and take your time, Lennon, and get better so you can take me someplace else.

  XOXO,

  Kyler

  I fold it up into a perfect airplane and wait for the moment to give it to Jacob, an opportunity that arrives faster than I’d anticipated. After my letter writing, I go into the kitchen to get an iced tea and spot a flash of blue in the darkness. A figure in a cape. Jacob sneaks into the backyard and tiptoes across the patio as I rush to slide the door open. There’s something clutched in his hands. When he puts it down I see it’s the mask. The one Lennon made. “Lennon wants you to have this,” he says. “Mama said I could bring it over.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and take his offering. “Hey, if I give you a paper airplane, can you bring it back to Lennon?”

  He nods. “Yes. Mommy promised we can visit Lennon again, for longer next time.”

  I hold up a pointer finger. “Wait right here.” Understanding the kid is on a time crunch, I race up the stairs and hurdle over my bed to grab the plane. I return to Jacob in a minute, out of breath, but holding the plane. “Thanks, Jacob. You’re a good wingman.”

  “I don’t have wings,” he says pointedly.

  I chuckle. “A wingman is someone who is always there for his friends, kind of like the superhero of friendship.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m a great wingman,” he agrees.

  Jacob leaves, and I pick up the mask from the counter, tracing my fingers across its surface. The textured scales, individually painted by Lennon’s hand, bump along my skin. It’s a muted shade of royal blue, with traces of forest green and narrow, even strokes of gold. The eye socket comes up like a dragon’s, and there’s a small horn that’s painted gold on the side. She made me a dragon. Exceptionally b
adass.

  I stare at the mask for a while longer, unable to comprehend how she saw this in her mind and then created it. Maybe that’s how she feels about my song lyrics.

  Of one thing I’m certain. Her hands made this. Her mind saw it. And it’s now the most meaningful thing I own.

  * * *

  A week later, the most meaningful thing I own is serving as a headband, keeping my hair out of my face while I pace backstage at Shade. It was a unanimous decision as our own ode to Lennon that I would be the only one in a mask. Her mask for our first legitimate job. The band is doing me a solid, but I still feel guilty for taking that from Emmett, who worships Slipknot and aspired to wear a mask, too. But I owed this to her.

  Emmett’s neck cracks audibly as he rolls it. Tension oozes from even his bones. Austin knocks back his second bottle of water as Silas approaches me.

  “You okay?”

  I echo Lennon’s words. “Are any of us ever okay, really?” When Silas glares at me, I glare back and slip my fingers between my neck and the collar of my T-shirt to swipe at the sweat there. The thing is, I’m not confident I’m fine. It’s stuffy and hard to breathe.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” he asks again. “I know this is a big deal to you, and I’m happy you agreed to do it, because I can appreciate it’s not at the top of your bucket list, but if you’re legit not okay, speak up.” He gestures to Austin and Emmett. “We’ll understand.”

  “It’s not at the top of my bucket list, but it’s at the top of all three of yours, so quit worrying. It’s not like I’ve never performed before. I’ll be fine. How many times are we going to have the chance to play our first real gig?”

  Silas jabs me in the arm. “Lennon has a good effect on you.”

  Before I can issue a retort or Silas can interrogate me further on my current psychological state, a guy with a clipboard and a headset approaches. “You’re up.”

  Silas, Emmett, and Austin all smile.

  I don’t. I slip the mask over my face, and the three of them form a line behind me. As we walk up the stairs, I hear the voice of a man introducing us. Half of Bel Air Learning Academy is here to watch us. To judge me. I pull in a long, deep breath.

  “Please put your hands together and welcome Fire to Dust.”

  There’s a round of cheering and applause and a skin-crawling, sharp whistle, which I can almost guarantee is coming straight from Macy, who somehow convinced my mother to let her come and watch the show. It’s a good thing she did, though. I promised Lennon a video, and I’m a man of my word.

  Silas, Emmett, and Austin take the stage first, and the shrieking gets louder. Emmett starts with a heavy, deep drumbeat. His twin joins in with the bass, then Silas with a few guitar riffs. I close my eyes and count it out before I move.

  The second I’m in front of the mic stand and pedal board, I look out at the crowd. The place is packed and I have no idea why. I freeze for a moment, gripped by a horrible tight feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think of Lennon and how brave she is. I think about how she makes me want to be a better, stronger person.

  My eyes dart to my sister, who is front and center, her entire body looking like it’s about to burst with pride. She’s angling her camera, Violet is at her side, and they’re both screaming like lunatics.

  I open my mouth and pray the words come out.

  They do, but halfway through our set, my face, the covered side, is drenched in sweat. The mask is incredible, but underneath the lights of the stage, I’m an ant under a magnifying glass, being seared underneath the surface of the mask.

  I clear my mind and try to focus. I stop for a minute and turn to find water. Silas plays a blues song on the guitar to give me some time. When I return to the mic, the crowd goes crazy again. Last thing I expected.

  I decide to give them what they came for and step up as the front man.

  “Thanks for coming to Shade to watch us play,” I say. “Awesome crowd for our first gig.”

  A distant shout of “I love you” comes from the back and I try not to laugh. “Silas,” I say, “they’re talking to you.”

  “I’m talking to you,” the voice says. “In the trippy mask.”

  The laugh escapes, because seriously, how else can I respond?

  “I appreciate that,” I say into the mic, “but I’m kind of in love with this girl—”

  The crowd awwwws.

  “Yeah,” I continue. “Her name is Lennon. Named after a legend. She’s a little weird.” I pause and smile wide. “Actually, no, she’s a lot weird. And I love every quirky, strange, weird, flummoxing, inexplicable thing she does.”

  Things get quieter.

  “I wrote this song for her. This is its second incarnation because I played it for her once, and she said it was tragic and that she didn’t want us to be a tragedy, but, uh, yeah, I guess you’ll hear the new and improved version of Lennon’s song.”

  My fingers slide along the guitar to play the opening riffs of the song. I’ve attempted to rewrite it since she said it was sad, because she’s right. We aren’t too late. No tragedies here. Silas, Austin, and Emmett don’t miss a beat. We play four more songs after that before thanking the crowd and walking offstage.

  The moment we’re behind the curtain, I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe away the sweat on my face. The applause from the crowd is constant, without a break. I strain to hear, but it sounds like they’re chanting, “Fire to Dust.”

  “Dude,” Austin says, “I think they want an encore.”

  And just like that, a major, big, huge, life-defining moment arrives. I look at my bandmates, take the mask off my face, and set it on one of the large pieces of audio equipment before I adjust my guitar. “Then let’s give them one.”

  I don’t know what I expect when I step back onstage, but this isn’t it. It’s roasting up here. Somehow, I can feel beads of sweat collecting at my temples and dripping down the ridges of my face. The crowd—who moments ago screamed at the top of their lungs—all roll together into a solid mass of questioning faces. They see me. It’s registered. There’s a monster in their village. A few of them blink, but most of them stare as silence fills every void in this room.

  My heart wallops inside of my ribs, and suddenly it skips to a dead stop right before a redheaded girl with braids in her hair breaks the awful silence. She begins to jump up and down with her arms stretched toward the sky, yelling, “You’re so hot!” And then—she screams. They all scream.

  Those screams turn to chants of “Fire to Dust” over and over again like we’re something to be celebrated. Something special. Their voices nail my feet to the ground. The air in here is electric. I can breathe it in. Inhale it. Absorb it. Ignite in it. I will never feel this way again for the rest of my existence, so I take a moment to relish in it, to cherish it, even for one infinitesimal speck of time.

  After the performance, Macy is waiting. When I come around from backstage, she stands on the tips of her toes and throws her arms around my neck. “I’m so proud of you, big brother. You were amazing. Wait until you see yourself.”

  I squeeze her, careful not to break her. “Thanks, Mae.”

  She flattens her feet to the floor. Austin is out next and she hugs him, congratulating him. When she hugs Austin, he tells her how smart her idea about the mask was.

  Silas is next, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck because Macy approaches him slower, her smile wider. She slips her arms around his neck, but if she thinks I didn’t notice her fingers sliding up his arms first, well, I did.

  Silas’s head tilts to the left; his hand is like a giant paw at the base of Macy’s spine. My teeth grind together and my jaw tics, but I’m too horrified to move. This is an undeniable stroke of luck for Silas, because if I could, I might just break his fingers.

  FACT: BABIES CRY, ON AVERAGE, 1–3 HOURS

  PER DAY. HEARTBROKEN TEENAGE GIRLS CRY,

  ON AVERAGE, 8–10 HOURS PER DAY.

  MY TEARS ARE ENDLESS. A spring of pent-up sadnes
s where a small leak turned into a raging river of salt and is now running down my cheeks, frantically trying to escape the loneliness in my brain. Worse, I’m not sure what the tears are for, because it’s as if each tear falls for a different reason. Feelings of loss, despair, those of love, of hope, self-pity for what feels like a life sentence of war with my own mind.

  I let myself cry until tears refuse to fall any longer and I’ve run dry as bone.

  The world took my mother away, and then it gave me Kyler. Then my father took Kyler away, and I’m left with nobody but myself, and sometimes that’s the scariest company of all.

  I return to my desk and grab a paper and a pen, prepared to write another letter to Kyler, when I notice something. The edges of the wings on the paper airplane are double folded, with a strange tail on the back. I swipe at my eyes with my sleeves, because they’re still blurry from my tears, but the moment I pick it up and bring it to my face, I know it’s not mine…which means Jacob has my airplane.

  THOU SHALL NOT MESS WITH MY SISTER.

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  MACY LEAVES WITH VIOLET, and we’re loading our equipment up when I mention it. “Let me ask you something.”

  Silas lets out a deep sigh. “Go ahead, bro.”

  “Do you have feelings for Macy?” Saying the words makes me want to spit. I can’t help it.

  “I care about her,” he says, “of course I care about her.”

  “I’m not talking the ‘I care about this person’ kind of bullshit. Do you want to be with Macy?”

  Silas shoves one of the amps into the back of the truck. “I have no idea, to be honest, because every time I try and talk to her, her overprotective older brother cockblocks me.”

  “Don’t ever use the word ‘cockblock’ in a sentence referring to my sister.”

  “Fair,” Silas says. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”