Before You Break

by Kyla Stone

  “Why are you acting like this? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I spit out. I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’ve had enough of his puppy dog eyes and his sad, confused face. “Please, do us both a favor and go away.”

  “We really cared about each other. I believe that. We had—”

  “I don’t know what delusions of grandeur you’re under,” I interrupt, “but you seem to be exaggerating your importance in my life. Frankly, you were boring. You’re the human equivalent of a sweater vest.”

  His eyes go dim. He steps back. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I 100% do.” The words are like a blade twisting in my belly.

  “Okay,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s deciding something. “Okay.”

  The look on his face deflates me. Hot energy drains out of my veins and suddenly all I can think about is how much I’ve missed him. How it felt when he touched me. The prickling heat of it. The fire.

  What it was like, the first time we went to the park that muggy July night. It was our eighth date, and I was falling hard, harder than I ever thought I would. We spread a blanket on the bed of his truck and looked up at the sky unfolded like a scroll. He asked me to show him the stars.

  He held my hand and I listened to him breathe. I told him the myths my mother had taught me during all those midnight picnics staring up into the dark. I didn’t know yet how much he would share my love of astronomy, of galaxies and stars and planets all spinning above us in space.

  I hadn’t retold the stories to anyone but Lena, and that was years ago. I loved Simone and Eden with all my heart, but they didn’t understand. They didn’t see the magic. I wanted him to see, to feel it in his bones like I did.

  “Tell me a story,” Felix whispered. He traced circles on my bare arm.

  I took a deep breath and gazed up at Leo the great and terrible lion, whose coat could not be pierced by sword or arrow. And Orion, the mighty hunter, whose boasting caused the gods to punish him for his vanity, sending the small Scorpius to sting him to death.

  “My favorite is Andromeda,” I said, trying to ignore the fireworks exploding inside my skin. “She was a princess, the beautiful daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia. The queen boasted throughout all the land that her daughter Andromeda was more beautiful even than the Nereids, the lovely companions of Poseidon, god of the sea. Infuriated by Cassiopeia’s hubris, Poseidon sent a sea monster to ravage their kingdom.

  The only thing that could stop the beast was to sacrifice Andromeda. Heartbroken, the king and queen did as they must, chaining their daughter to a rock in the middle of the sea.

  “Luckily, the hero Perseus was nearby and heard Andromeda’s cries. When the monster emerged from the sea, Perseus slew the beast and saved the princess. They were married and had many children. After her death, the goddess Athena placed her in the sky as a testament to love.”

  “I get why you like that one.” Felix told me the origin story of all his favorite comic characters, from Daredevil and Wolverine to Jessica Jones and Squirrel Girl. I tried to focus, but all I could concentrate on was how my skin was turning to liquid fire.

  Finally, finally, he bent and kissed me, his lips soft and warm. It was sweet and slow and dazzling. Insects buzzed in the grass. The trees rustled softly in the breeze. The stars above us flickered and winked like candles.

  My heart was a jar full of fireflies.

  But that was before.

  I watch him trudge back to his car, shoulders hunched against the wind. He’s abandoning me all over again.

  The dull gray light drains all the color out of the world.

  28

  Lena

  I spend hours every day in the darkroom while Dad rests. I’ve made several good prints from the negatives of Eli and Hadley. My favorite is one of Hadley cupping a wet stone in her outstretched hands, her face alight with the thrill of discovery.

  But it’s still not right. Technically, the print is perfect. The composition, the exposure, the clarity—everything is good. But I’m not satisfied. The picture is missing something, something I’m not giving it.

  I groan and lean back against the sink. My legs and back ache from hours spent standing and bending. The wooden table is scattered with dozens of technically perfect prints, but I’ve rejected all of them.

  The photographs for the competition must be better than perfect. They must be art. Anyone with a bit of skill could create these pictures. There’s nothing in them that speaks to me.

  Mom always said art was supposed to speak. Sometimes it was beautiful or ugly or painful, but it always said something. It always had a soul.

  There’s no soul in these pictures.

  It’s the candid snapshots of my family I keep turning back to. My father, my mother, my sister. The negatives aren’t great. Most are over or underexposed or unfocused, the composition lopsided or cramped. And yet, they’re beautiful in their imperfection. They make my heart ache with a pain so savage I can barely breathe. They make my veins bleed, my bones splinter.

  It’s a risk, using these photographs instead of the safe landscapes, portraits, or even the abstract art other students will submit. The final prints I’ve managed to cobble together create a portrait of a fractured family, a cluster of damaged, wounded people lost in the orbits of their individual pain and heartbreak.

  It’s a dangerous thing to display loss so openly, without regard. It’s the only way I know how.

  I push aside the images of Eli and his daughter, the photographs of the river, the house, the ones I convinced Astrid to let me take at the mechanic’s shop. Instead, I spread out the photographs that make up my past.

  Beads of sweat gather at my hairline. I rub the moisture away with my forearm. I feel lighter than I have in days. Down here, in the quiet warmth and the red haze, I’m free to relive my memories, to relish some and discard others, to create my family anew, as we used to be, as we could have been.

  Who might my mother have been, without her illness? An artist, a mother, a wife. Who might we all have been, without that blot in her brain?

  I sift a picture out of the pile in front of me. In it, Mom looks happy. She’s seated at her easel in the living room, newspapers spread below her to catch any stray blobs of paint. Her gaze is directed at the painting, her delicate eyebrows scrunched together and her lower lip pinched between her small white teeth. Her long braid loops over the wing of her shoulder, and she grips a loaded brush in her right hand.

  Behind her, slightly unfocused, Dad sits on the edge of the couch. He’s much younger, and thinner. Grief hasn’t yet etched itself upon every cell of his body. He’s watching his wife, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His face fairly glows with devotion. He really loved her. We all did.

  I pick up another picture, one Dad or Lux must have taken for me. I’m in my pajamas, sitting next to Mom and gazing up at her with what can only be described as adoration. My face is blotchy with hundreds of freckles. Freckles down my arms, across my collarbone, my chest.

  A memory surges through me. My mother, curled next to me in bed, nested in a pile of blankets. I was in fifth grade. It was nearly Christmas, and Mom and I had strung white fairy lights across my window.

  Mom was telling me a bedtime story about the myth of Chiron the half-man, half-horse centaur. “He offered to take the place of Prometheus, who was doomed to an eternity chained to a rock while an eagle pecked out his liver,” she said. “Gross, right?”

  I usually loved Mom’s stories, but that night I couldn’t concentrate on the lilt of her voice. I lay stiffly, my arms at my sides, my eyes stinging with tears until the fairy lights above me blurred into pointy stars.

  “As his reward, the Greek god Jupiter placed Chiron in the sky as the constellation Sagittarius.” I didn’t say anything.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Mom said, stroking my arm.

  Bile roiled in my gut. “Jamal Harris said my freckles are ugly,” I choked out. “He
said I have some kind of skin disease.”

  Beside me, Mom’s body went still. Her nostrils flared. “That is completely unacceptable. What did your teacher say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t tell her? Lena, you must report bullying. I’ll call a meeting with the principal tomorrow.”

  “No!” Acid burned the back of my throat. I knew what would happen. The kids would get even meaner. I didn’t tell her it wasn’t just Jamal. Sammy Amlaner told me I had “gingervitis” in a voice dripping with disgust, and before that, LouAnn DeNido announced to the whole class that my freckles looked like bloody pimples. My freckles were ugly. I was ugly. “Please don’t, Mom.”

  “Why in the world not?”

  I rubbed my fists against my burning eyes. “It will just make it worse.”

  She stared at me, that blue vein in her forehead throbbing. “Lena—”

  “Please, Mom.” I tensed, waiting for her rage.

  “I just can’t believe a child could be so cruel! How could—?”

  “Mom!”

  She took several deep breaths and closed her eyes. She pressed her hands over her chest, like she was physically forcing down her anger. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure, Mom. Please. Don’t make it a big deal.” She traced her finger along my jawline, my nose.

  I flinched, turning my head toward the wall.

  “Oh, Lena,” she breathed. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

  “I’m not lucky.”

  “You have the stars etched on your skin. Here’s the bull’s horns of Taurus on your arm and Sagittarius with his bow and arrow beneath your collar bone. And look, there’s Leo, his lion’s head and body right here above your elbow. You don’t have to look to the sky to chart your future. It’s mapped right here, on your own body. This is a gift, Lena. People like us, we determine our own destiny.”

  I breathed in the scent of her jasmine shampoo. Her green eyes were so big, so bright, so close. I wanted so badly to believe her. Anything she said, she believed in that moment with her whole self, and she could inject that belief right into the center of your beating heart. “Really, truly?”

  “Really, truly,” she said, stroking my hair. “You are so, so special.”

  The door banged open. Lux stood in the doorway, little fists on her hips, eyes blazing. “I wanna be special, too!”

  Mom sat up quickly. She sucked in her cheeks, her half-smile frozen on her face. “You are, Shortcake. Of course you are. Just in a different way.”

  Lux didn’t buy it. Her lower lip jutted out, tears springing into her eyes. Her skin deepened to a mottled shade of crimson. “You love her more!”

  “That’s not true.” Mom’s voice hardened. “Stop it.”

  “I hate you!” Lux shrieked. She whirled and ran down the hall.

  Mom’s mouth contorted, dark emotions flitting across her face. She leaped off the bed and ran after Lux. “What did you just say to me?”

  I shoved back the covers and followed her into the hallway, dread curdling my stomach.

  Mom caught Lux by the arms. “Take it back! You know how hard I try for you? How much I’ve sacrificed for you? Take it back right now!”

  But Lux’s face was frozen in shock, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide and terrified.

  Mom shook her. “You don’t love me? That’s what you’re telling me?”

  I shrank against the wall. Lux’s terrified gaze flickered toward me. I tried to say something, but no sounds came out. My mind was spinning. Everything changed so fast, I couldn’t think straight.

  I felt like I’d been dumped from the warm safety of a lifeboat straight into a cold, surging sea. I was flailing, swimming down into darkness instead of up, into the light.

  “Tell me you love me, you ungrateful little brat!” “You’re hurting me!” Lux wailed.

  “Say it to my face! Say it!”

  “I love you!” I yelled it as loud as I could. “I do! I love you!”

  She didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care. She shook Lux hard, digging her nails into her upper arms.

  Dad’s footsteps pounded down the stairs. “Hey guys,” he said in a bright, forced voice. “Who wants my special homemade hot chocolate?” “Daddy!” Lux cried.

  “Take it back,” Mom said, grimacing. She was shaking. Her eyes were huge, rimmed with red. “Just take it back.”

  Dad put his hand on her shoulder. “Eve, how about you help me in the kitchen?”

  “Please!” Her voice changed, taking on an edge of panic, despair. “Tell me you love me.”

  “Eve.”

  She stood up, slowly releasing her grip on Lux’s arms.

  Lux sagged to the floor, sobbing. Even from several feet away, I could see the dark red divots in her skin, the red blooming in the cracks.

  “She hates me, Jacob. My daughter hates me.”

  “No one hates you,” Dad said. “We all love you, Eve. Don’t we girls?”

  I nodded fiercely. “I love you, Mom. I love you.”

  Mom stared down at her hands. She opened and closed her fingers, like she was supposed to be holding something, but had forgotten how. “I try so hard, Jacob. I’m trying.”

  Dad put his arm around her. “I know. We know. Why don’t you head upstairs? We’ll get that hot chocolate started right away.”

  He gently pushed her until she moved on her own. She shuffled up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing.

  “Dad,” I said.

  He crouched down in front of Lux. He touched her arm and gazed at the red on his finger like he’d never seen blood before. His jaw clenched, his face hardening into an emotion I didn’t recognize. It looked a lot like fear. “You’re all right, Shortcake.”

  But she didn’t respond. She rocked back and forth, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Hey, hey.” He patted her shoulders gently.

  Still nothing.

  “It’s okay, Lux,” I said.

  “Come on, Shortcake,” Dad said, a hint of alarm entering his voice. “I love you to the moon.”

  She took a ragged breath, finally looking up at us. Her lower lip trembled.

  “You can say it, sweetie. Come on. Do it for me.”

  “I love you all the way back.”

  “That’s my girl. Good girl. Let’s go get a treat, okay?”

  She nodded through the tears leaking down her cheeks. Dad hefted her into his arms, and we went upstairs.

  Mom sat at the kitchen table, pale and shaking. Her hands were clenched in her lap, the vein throbbing in her neck. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to. I just—I’m a terrible mother. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I ran to her immediately and threw my arms around her.

  Dad put Lux down. She stood there for a moment, hesitant.

  “I’m so, so sorry, baby. I don’t know what came over me.” “I’m sure it was an accident,” Dad said.

  “It was an accident,” I echoed, squeezing my mother’s bony shoulders.

  “Come here, baby.”

  Lux went to her, the tide-pull of our mother too much for her to resist. Mom hugged her fiercely. “Please forgive me,” she whispered into her hair. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.”

  We forgave her instantly, every one of us.

  That’s what it was like, all the time. Good bled into the bad. Things could change on a dime, one second happy and content, the next a black storm of misery or rage.

  I rub my eyes and blow out a mouthful of air. The memories are like tacks hammered into the tender flesh of my brain. I force myself to keep working.

  I take a pair of scissors and cut the photos at different angles, until each picture is separated into four or five triangular shapes. I carefully glue each photo onto black mounting board with spray adhesive, recreating the photo like a puzzle with slight spaces between the pieces.

  The result is a slightly disjointed image—you know what it is, but you also see the fracture. I stan
d back and look. My breath snags in my throat.

  I see now what I couldn’t see before.

  There is so much pain here.

  But there is a kind of beauty, stark and brave amidst the ugliness.

  Sometimes, it’s the ugly things that make us feel the most.

  This is it.

  This is what I need.

  There’s a sudden banging sound at the front door. I leave the darkroom and head for the stairs.

  Lux stands in the foyer, balancing a khaki messenger bag on her hip as she tries to finagle her key into the deadbolt to unlock the front door. It’s one of those double-key deadbolts, the same one we’ve had ever since I can remember. You need to unlock the door from the inside.

  I rest one foot on the bottom stair. “What are you doing?”

  Lux’s shoulders flinch and hunch inward. She half-turns to look down at me. Her skin is blotchy, her eyes jittery, her gaze flitting from me to the door to the floor. “Nothing.”

  “Look, this isn’t a good time to leave. Dad needs us here.”

  Lux jiggles her keys in her fist. Her pupils are pinpricks in her watery green eyes. “You’re not my keeper. I can go wherever I want.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself?” I pause, staring up at her. “Are you high?”

  Her gaze flies to me and flaps away. She shifts her weight and again tries to jam her key into the lock. The key clicks against the metal, nowhere near the hole.

  I stomp up the stairs and stand in the foyer, only a few feet from Lux.

  My jaw clenches. “Dad keeps asking for you.”

  Lux stiffens. She says nothing for a long moment. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “Look, I’m telling you. There’s not much time. Whatever it is you’re doing—it can wait.”

  “You don’t know anything. You think you do, but you don’t.”

  I put up both hands. “Okay, fine.”

  “Besides, he’s got you, doesn’t he?” Lux says in a gritty, strangled voice. This time she hooks the key in the lock and swings open the door. “That’s all he really wanted, anyway.”

  I blink against the daylight flooding the foyer. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”