Before You Break

by Kyla Stone

  “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

  He smirks. “You have plenty of time to think when you’re wandering the house at three a.m. trying to soothe a colicky baby.”

  “High, high,” Hadley squeals. Eli pushes her a little harder. She sticks her feet in the air, giggling hysterically.

  It’s getting too dark for pictures. The sky is slate. Sharp stars poke through the drifting canopy of clouds. The air is colder.

  I take my gloves out of my coat pocket and tug them on. I pack my camera in its leather bag, place it next to Hadley’s little red purse, and settle into the swing next to Hadley. “That’s a fancy purse your dad’s got there.”

  Hadley giggles. “Mine!” she shrieks.

  “She’s a collector of rocks, sticks, leaves, whatever she can find. It all goes in that purse and then ends up all over the house. It’s fantastic.”

  I laugh. “I’m so disappointed it’s not yours.”

  Eli rolls his eyes. “How’s college? It must be exciting, getting to follow your dream. I always thought you were so cool carrying your camera around all the time.”

  I snort. “Are you sure you’re remembering correctly? I was never cool.”

  “Sure you were. You don’t have to hang out with the popular kids or go to all the parties to be cool. You had a passion, a focus. You knew what you wanted. I always admired that. I felt the same way about football. Football was everything.” He doesn’t say the words we both hear: until it wasn’t.

  I glance at him. The lines around his mouth are taut. I’ve got no clue what to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, that part of it sucked.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter again. I’m an idiot. “You never regret it?”

  “Sometimes I wonder what things would have been like, if I was still at school, still playing ball. But I can’t have both, you know?”

  I understand that pull all too well, the battle in your head and heart between your dreams and your responsibilities, your future and your family. “I know.”

  His face smooths out. “If it’s football or Hadley, Hadley wins. Just don’t ask me that question in the middle of an epic tantrum. But still, I’d make the same decision again.”

  “High, Daddy! High!”

  “Okay, Chipmunk. Just a little higher.”

  I watch the white puffs of my breath in the gray light. “Do you like your job? You seem good at it.”

  “You know what? I actually do. I still want to go back to school, maybe study engineering and design cars instead of fix them. But for now? Like I said, I’m good with my hands. I like taking something broken and putting it back together. One of the assistant managers is leaving in a month, and I’m in line for the promotion. A fatter paycheck means we actually get to move out of my mom’s basement. Score one for self-sufficiency.”

  “That’s cool.” I clear my throat and kick at the mulch with the toe of my boot.

  “How’s your sister? She back home yet?”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a small town. Honestly, I get most of my news from

  Astrid. She still hangs with the high school crowd sometimes.”

  Astrid’s name in his mouth makes my stomach drop. My heart constricts treacherously, like I actually care. I try not to look at him. “So, um, is Astrid, like—” Ugh. I sound like a clueless fourteen-year-old.

  “My girlfriend? Freckles, why do you ask?” Amusement sparks in his eyes.

  My face flushes with heat. I’m sure I’m bright red from my chest to the tips of my ears. “No reason. Just making conversation.”

  “Well, since we’re making conversation, no, she’s not. She’s a great friend. She’s funny and smart and knows more about car engines than most guys I know. But to be honest with you, she parties a little too hard. She’s not really the type to settle down or get serious.”

  My capricious heart loosens in my chest. “Oh. Okay.”

  “Why? You jealous, Freckles?”

  “Nope,” I say, forcing my voice to sound normal. “Whatever gave you that idea? You just think everyone’s into you, don’t you?”

  He smirks. “They aren’t?”

  “Not those uber-moms, that’s for sure.”

  He laughs. “Touché, my lady. Touché.”

  “All done, Daddy!” Hadley announces.

  Eli stops the swing and helps Hadley get down. He presses the back of his hand against her red, chapped cheeks. “It’s getting pretty cold, huh? Put your hoodie on, baby. Five minutes and it’s time to go.”

  Hadley nods, her eyes wide and white in the growing twilight. She grabs his leg in a fierce hug, then races off toward the slide as we follow behind her.

  “Astrid said she knows my sister.”

  “Yeah. Astrid parties with Lux sometimes. Lux is quite the wild child,

  I hear.”

  My jaw clenches. “You could say that.”

  “What’s she like?”

  I give him a sideways glance. He seems genuinely interested, like he really wants to know. “I think she’s on drugs. She took off for almost three weeks. Our father is lying in his bed, dying—and she disappeared. She’s out of control.”

  “That’s tough,” Eli says.

  “I can’t talk to her at all. She’s this stranger living in my house. All we do is fight. She doesn’t care about anybody but herself.”

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans against the slide. “Sometimes you have to let the ones you love go their own way and make their own mistakes. Maybe all we can do is love them and pray for them until they find their way back. That’s what my mom did for me. It worked.”

  “Are you a Christian, then? That’s totally not how I remember you.”

  “My mom’s devout. Like, church every weekend and Bible study every Wednesday night. I lapsed and now I’m … I don’t actually know. In between? I take Hadley to the church’s children’s program every week. It’s cute. What about you?”

  “No offense, but prayer and church never did anything for my family.”

  “Maybe you just can’t see it yet. God doesn’t just come in and fix all of our problems. It’s not like that. It’s not about that.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “Having faith in something bigger than yourself. Knowing you’re not alone.”

  “Well, that sounds great and all, but I don’t think—”

  “Just a sec.” Eli pushes himself off the slide. “Where’s Hadley? I don’t see her.”

  It’s nearly dark. Stars wink and glimmer in the dusky sky. The trees are black looming shapes along the outer rim of the playground. There’s no one else here. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  “Hadley!” Eli calls.

  Then I see her. By the river. Near the bridge, where the water’s the deepest. A small, pale shape. Teetering at the water’s edge.

  I suck in my breath. “Hadley!”

  21

  Lux

  Some people think origami isn’t art. After all, it’s just paper, right? But in some ways, folding is the most difficult art form of all. Carving in stone or wood or ice is subtractive—the artist removes material to reveal the final shape. Building sculptures from clay, metal, and glass is additive—the artist adds and brings together materials to create something.

  But folding is different. You start with a piece of paper. You end with a piece of paper. The form is still itself, and yet it’s transformed. Its beauty is in its expression, proportion, and detail.

  I sit cross-legged on my bed, Imagine Dragons piping in through my earbuds. I glance at the opened pages in my Advanced Origami Techniques book, sight reading the diagrams.

  I’ve been working on a squirrel for over two weeks. I’ve discarded a dozen rough drafts made with the cheap Kraft paper I use for my practice pieces. When I’m ready for the final draft, I use the handmade Japanese Washi Paper Dad gets me, a soft, fibrous paper perfect for my needs.

&nb
sp; I shape the squirrel beneath my fingers, focusing on creating smooth surfaces and flowing lines. I form each fold carefully, burnishing the creases with the back of my thumbnail. I trace an arch with my thumb and index finger in the paper, drawing the shape I need. I make the base folds and creases and inside-reverse-fold the large section of the tail, then crimp the belly.

  I’m thinking of Lena. I’m thinking of my father dying in his room. My mother dead and rotting beneath the earth. No longer my mother. No longer anything but shriveled flesh and white bone.

  I remember my childhood in fits and snatches, a handful of dream sequences. A sound here, an image there. My father’s sandpaper voice. My mother’s glossy smile. Mom so happy, so gloriously bright.

  When she turned her brightness on you, it was like staring straight into the sun. I remember Lena basking in that sunlight. I remember cowering in shadows.

  I remember Mom drifting out of her bedroom after hours, maybe days locked inside. She wandered the house in her nightgown, a confused look on her face. She didn’t even see me unless I was right in front of her. Once, she stumbled over me, then stared at me in bewilderment, as if I had sprung up overnight. As if she didn’t even remember I was there.

  For the finishing touches, I mountain and valley-fold to form the nose and crimp the triangle face to suggest eyes and cheeks. The little squirrel stands on its own on my bedspread, balanced by the large tail arcing over his head.

  Phoenix instantly starts stalking it, her little butt in the air, the fur along her spine sticking straight up. I reach out to her. She hisses at me and backs away.

  “I’ll get you to love me,” I whisper. “Just you wait.”

  There was never enough sun. There was never enough love. It felt like starving, reaching and scrabbling for something only to have it knocked out of the way, handed to someone else. Lena was bigger, stronger. She had the gifts. I didn’t.

  She was my best friend. And she was my mortal enemy. She stole my mother’s affection, my father’s attention. I survived on the scraps. Sloppy seconds. I had to claw and fight for what I got. I didn’t play fair. I couldn’t.

  A memory tugs at my mind. I must have been only seven, Lena ten. Dad was gone. It was just the three of us. Outside, the rain washed the whole world in sheets of gray. It pounded against the roof, slashed at the windows. The trees slumped against the onslaught, their leaves torn off and slapped to the ground.

  Mom and Lena were in the living room. Mom sitting cross-legged on the carpet, building one of her canvases out of wood and a loose canvas sheet. Lena on the couch, hunched over her photography books. They were talking about art stuff, the rule of thirds and composition and shadow versus light.

  I was supposed to practice piano, but instead I curled into a ball on the floor. Mom didn’t even realize I wasn’t playing. The carpet was rough and nubby against my cheek. I listened to the groaning of the wind, the hiss of the rain, the soft lilting voices of my family.

  They created their own little world, the two of them. It was Mom and Lena. Or it was Dad and Lena. Always Lena.

  I didn’t want to hear them anymore. I got up and stalked down the hallway. They didn’t even notice. I went into Lena’s room. Before I could let myself think about it, I pocketed one of her pearl earrings she’d gotten for Christmas. I felt a twinge of guilt, but the thrill that thrummed through me was stronger, more powerful. Intoxicating.

  I wandered into my parents’ room. Mom kept the jewelry she never wore in a glazed ceramic box. I opened the lid, let her necklaces spill through my fingers. There were several prescription pill bottles on the dresser next to the box.

  I picked one up and rattled it. The lid popped off, all on its own. I pocketed a handful of round yellow pills. They were colorful. I wanted them. I wanted to take something away from her.

  I wanted to hurt both of them. So I did. I remember this so clearly, remember that first exhilarating thrill of stealing, taking, hurting.

  I felt a presence behind me. Mom, hovering in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I turned around fast, shoving the pills and the pearl earring deep into my back pocket.

  She looked at me, her head slightly cocked. “I have an idea. Let’s go dancing!”

  Lena came up behind her. “But it’s raining.”

  “Don’t be a party pooper,” Mom said, winking at me. “My element is water. Getting wet never hurt anybody, besides the Wicked Witch of the West, anyway.” She tugged on my hand.

  I followed her down the hall to the front door. “What about my rain coat?”

  She made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “You have to feel it, every drop. That’s the whole point.” She threw open the door and ran outside. I ran after her.

  The rain was cold and sharp on my skin. I stopped on the gravel sidewalk, watched Mom twirling in the grass. She spread her arms and tilted her head back toward the sky. Her avocado-colored dress clung to her hips, her stomach, her breasts. Tendrils of red hair stuck to her neck and cheeks. She opened her mouth and drank the rain.

  “Come on!” she called to us.

  Lena stood in the opened doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

  She slanted her eyes at me. “There’s lightning. You’re crazy.”

  But I followed my mother. I would’ve followed her anywhere. The thrill of hurting her faded into the thrill of being with her, the sole spotlight of her attention, swept up in her giddy joy. Instantly, I forgot everything but my overwhelming, aching love for her.

  She took hold of my wrists and spun me. Our skin was slick. It was hard to hold on. Rain splattered my face and drenched my clothes and hair. Above us, a crash of thunder shook the sky.

  She gazed at me, into me, her eyes so bright, her whole face laughing. We whirled and whirled around the front yard, our bare feet slipping and sliding in the wet grass.

  When we finally stumbled back inside, Mom told Lena to get us towels. She wrapped me up and hugged me so tight, I didn’t dare breathe.

  Lena watched us, glowering, her blue eyes a darkening storm.

  I felt victorious, like I’d won something precious. And Lena hadn’t.

  It’s one of the few things I remember clearly, like a shiny stone I can rub and rub until I can see my own glimmering reflection. But so much else is still fuzzy. There is so much missing, so many gaping holes.

  Sometimes, my own past feels like a half-formed thing. Some spots are blank or vague—like a work of origami completely unfolded. When you fold a piece of paper, you change its memory. I can still see the creases, can feel the places where life imprinted itself on the paper—but I can’t make out the form of it. I try to hold it in my hands, examine the dim shape from every angle. But mostly it remains as it is, a ghost of itself.

  I need to get out of here. I can’t think these thoughts. I can’t.

  I pick up the origami squirrel, feel the soft folds between my fingers. I crush it into a ball and hurl it into the trash.

  22

  Lena

  I see the small shape of Hadley right at the water’s edge, leaning over a rocky drop-off beneath the bridge.

  “Over there!” I reach for Eli’s arm, but he’s already gone.

  He sprints toward her. “Hadley! No!”

  I run after him. Hadley looks like she’s turning, stepping back. She slips on a rock. In one swift movement, she goes down, her little body pitching into the black water.

  My heart leaps into my throat. My legs are too slow and heavy, like I’m barely moving even though I’m running full-tilt.

  Eli reaches the bank first. He plunges into the icy river and dives under the water. For a long, torturous moment, I can’t see either of them.

  The water closes over their heads with barely a ripple, as if they never existed.

  In the sudden silence, I hear only the rapid thud of my own heart over the breeze soughing through the leafless trees. How many seconds since Hadley went in? Thirty seconds? Forty-five? Come on.
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br />   Come on.

  Eli surfaces, gasping, chest heaving.

  He climbs up the bank, cradling Hadley in his arms.

  I grip his arm, jerking the sleeve of his jacket, helping him stay upright when his foot snags on a tree root. It’s so dark, for a second I can’t see whether she’s moving.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Hadley!” Eli yells into her face.

  She chokes and sputters. “Daddy!”

  I put my hand on her leg. She’s soaked to the bone. And freezing cold.

  “What do we do?” Water drips down Eli’s face. His hair is matted against his scalp. His eyes are wide, frantic. “Do we take her to the hospital?”

  I shake my head. “The hospital’s fifteen miles away. She needs to get out of those clothes and get warm. My house is less than a mile from here. Come on.”

  He follows me without a word. We take my car, Eli in the back seat, cradling Hadley, me driving. For once, I’m grateful for country roads. I speed home in less than three minutes.

  We carry her inside and bring her to the living room. Her whole body’s shivering uncontrollably.

  “Take off all her clothes,” I tell Eli. I run to the upstairs bathroom and fill up the tub with lukewarm water.

  For half a second, I freeze. I hardly use this bathroom. And I’ve never used the tub, not in eight years. Blood-soaked images flash behind my eyes. I push them away. This is not the time.

  I go back to the living room and help Eli peel off Hadley’s drenched clothes. We carry her into the bathroom and lower her into the tub. I kneel next to the tub, holding her head up.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, honey. You’re okay. You can relax now.”

  She’s still and quiet, staring at me with her enormous golden eyes.

  Eli paces behind me, wringing his hands. “Is she going to be okay? You sure we shouldn’t just go to the hospital?”

  “She’ll be fine.” I can already feel the warmth seeping back into her limbs. “She was in the water for less than a minute. You saved her.” “No. I let it happen,” he says savagely.