Cracked Kingdom

by Erin Watt

  Sawyer’s hand falls to his lap. He leans forward, scrubbing his face with the heels of his palms. The kid looks exhausted. There are huge bags under his eyes. His skin has taken on a pale, ashy complexion. Even the muscles in his biceps look smaller than a week ago. I wasn’t kidding when I said that he looked like he needed to be in a hospital bed.

  “I went to confession,” he mumbles into his hands.

  “What?” I’m confused. “Why? We aren’t Catholic.” Mom used to attend the Bayview United Baptist church, but Dad hasn’t gone since her death. He still gives a lot of money because good businessmen do that sort of shit. People down here are big on church, as if showing up in a pew on Sunday can wash away all the bad deeds you did during the week.

  “I know but I thought it might help.”

  Sawyer’s at the end of his rope if he’s going down to the chapel to list out his sins in hopes that some greater being is going to bring Seb back to us. I crouch down and put an arm across the back of his chair. “So you went to confession, told the man wearing a paper collar that you were into kinky shit, and he told you that’s why Seb is laid out in the hospital bed.”

  Sawyer holds still and then nods slowly, his hands still covering his face.

  “I don’t think God works that way. There are plenty of churchgoing people who die all the time.”

  “I know.” He rubs his eyes with his palms, still shielding himself from my view. It’s obvious he’s upset about more than whatever that priest said to him.

  “Hey.” I touch his shoulder, but he still doesn’t look up. “What’s going on?”

  He mumbles something I can’t make out.

  I lean in closer. “What?”

  Sawyer finally raises his head. His eyes are flat, his tone even more so. “Lauren broke up with me—us,” he amends ruefully.

  “Fuck.” But I’m not surprised. She hasn’t been here at all as far as I’ve seen. “Did she call you?”

  He snorts. “Text. ‘I can’t see you anymore. This is too hard.’”

  Class act, that girl. I was never crazy about her, but always treated her with respect for the twins’ sakes. Out loud, I say, “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Yeah, well, at first, I was worried about how I was going to tell Seb, but now I don’t know if I’ll get a chance.”

  “He’s going to wake up,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “And then the two of you will find an even hotter chick to flaunt in Lauren’s face and she’ll kick herself for being stupid enough to dump you guys. And you know what else? You leaving for five minutes to shower and eat isn’t going to be the difference between Seb waking up now and Seb waking up in a half hour. Besides, you know if the places were switched, you wouldn’t want him sitting here all day either.”

  He searches my face as if I have some answer to the universe there. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he gives a small nod and stands. He sways a little—unsteady like Bambi. I have a sudden flashback to when the twins were five and running down the beach, tripping every other yard because their feet were too big for their bodies. And you couldn’t offer them a hand because, even then, these two only wanted to rely on each other.

  “Go on.” I give him a gentle but firm shove on the shoulder. “I got this. Let your older brother do something useful for once.”

  “If he wakes up—”

  “I’m going to smother him with the pillow. What the fuck? Of course I’m going to come get you.” I give him another push and then another until he’s moving of his own accord.

  I wait until he disappears into the bathroom before taking a seat. Then I get up immediately. Sawyer’s sat so long in this one chair that the cushion is permanently indented to the shape of my brother’s ass. Shaking my head, I grab another chair and drag it next to Seb’s bed.

  “You should wake up. You’re worrying your brother. He’s making himself sick sitting next to your bed all day.”

  Seb remains motionless.

  “Ah, hell, maybe it’s better where you are.” I run a hand through my hair and lean back. “You’re probably driving fast cars, sleeping with gorgeous girls, eating good food without anyone nagging you. Remember how we used to have fun as a family?”

  There used to be picnics on the beach, trips on a moment’s notice, Mom coming home from Paris with her hands full of orange and black boxes. We’d have movie night in the media room with popcorn and homemade milkshakes. Mom did a lot of the cooking, so Sandy, our housekeeper, wasn’t around as much. I strain to reach those memories, but I can’t pull up any solid images—only fleeting feelings. These days the only time I can recreate that atmosphere is after a drink or five.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I really need a drink. I glance at the clock. Sawyer’s been in the shower for five minutes. The water’s still running. Can I sneak out, find the gift shop, and get back before he notices?

  I’m halfway out of my seat when the shower turns off. Fuck. I sit back down.

  “Seb, as soon as Sawyer’s gone, I’m going to make a booze run. That way when you wake up, we’ll have something on hand to celebrate with.” I knock my fist against the bed, but Seb doesn’t move. I get up and grab my backpack. “I brought some porn for you today.” I pull out the flight catalog. “They put the AAV 510 into production. The twin engine goes a sweet 285 miles per hour and can travel 8500 nautical miles before refueling, which is enough to get from New York to Tokyo without the stop in Anchorage. The interior kits are Napa leather and mahogany—matte not gloss because that shit is out.”

  Sawyer strolls out of the bathroom wearing a set of hospital scrubs and toweling his hair. “What the hell are you reading to him?”

  “Plane porn.” I wave the spec sheets for the new small-engine luxury plane Atlantic Aviation is finally producing after ten years of design and testing. I wish I could get into the pilot’s seat of this baby. It’s the most powerful personal jet with the longest fuel range of any small plane out there. It’s going to revolutionize international travel for a certain segment of the population—the people who can’t afford the quarter of a million it costs to rent a private jet internationally yet who don’t want to fly commercial. The waiting list is already about five years long at this point. This is the deal that Dad’s in the process of closing now.

  “Borrrrrrring.” Sawyer wrinkles his nose in disgust. It’s the one interest Seb shared with me that he didn’t share with his twin.

  Doesn’t share, I quickly remind myself. He’s not dead, damn it. He still loves planes. Present fucking tense.

  “The hospital gear looks good on you.” I feel like I’m seeing future Sawyer here. A doctor in the Royal family? I could see it.

  “You should get him some real porn.”

  “I dunno. What if he gets a chub while I’m telling him about how Sarah and Sasha are getting it on? The guy can’t whack his own meat and I’m not going to do it for him.”

  Sawyer broods for a minute before saying, “What else are you going to read to him?”

  I give my younger brother a shove. “What are you? The hall monitor?”

  “He’s my brother,” Sawyer says, crossing his arms obstinately. The pose makes him look about ten years old, pouting lower lip and furrowed brows.

  “Mine, too,” I remind him.

  “He’s my twin.”

  “And you don’t ever let us forget it. Go and eat or I’ll sit on you until you cry for mercy.”

  “You can’t do that anymore.”

  “Wanna bet?” I arch an eyebrow. I spend more time lifting and fighting than any of my brothers these days. “You’ve been wasting away in here for more than a week. I could hold you down with one hand tied behind my back.”

  Sawyer must be feeling vulnerable because he doesn’t argue. Instead, he gives me the finger and then walks out.

  I take my seat again. “You need to wake up and save us all from Sawyer. He’s turning into an old man. Okay, where were we? Oh yeah. I’m going through the options. So this baby seats twe
nty peeps and has a full shower and lav setup. Where we’re really making the dough is in the finishes. Also, I heard Dad talking about a military stealth plane that they’re putting into testing. Goes Mach 6. Obviously not as fast as the North American X-15, but at least it doesn’t have to be carried like a baby plane and dropped like a bomb before it can actually fly.” I flip over the page.

  I don’t even get an eyelid flicker.

  “You’re as bad as Hartley. I’ve texted her a dozen times and she’s leaving me on read. You’re getting the latest news about the coolest toy dad has ever made and you’re pretty much ignoring me. Can you at least squeeze my finger?” I grab Seb’s hand. Can she at least read my damned texts?

  I drop my head into my free hand as a wave of helplessness washes over me. I could really use a drink. Really, really. This is all going to turn out okay, I tell myself. I suck in a deep breath, sit up, and start reading again.

  Chapter 13

  Hartley

  My second day back at school isn’t much better than the first.

  “Felicity says you can’t remember a thing,” one girl says to me as I’m washing my hands in the bathroom before lunch.

  “Come on, Bridgette. You know it’s an act,” another girl retorts. She puckers her lips and dabs on a red gloss. “I’d want to pretend nothing happened, too, if I nearly killed Sebastian Royal.”

  “Did you hear that Lauren didn’t visit once?”

  “I heard they broke up. I stopped by the hospital after school yesterday and Sawyer looked so down.” Another girl, this one with dark hair and perfect skin, joins us at the sink. “I hope the Royals show up at the party because I know exactly how to cheer him up.”

  “With your tongue?” laughs the lipstick girl.

  “You know it.”

  The two exchange high-fives.

  I feel crowded between the four girls—all so pretty in their modified uniforms. Their skirts are shorter than mine. Two of them have black shirts that are hanging open with graphic tees underneath, while the dark-haired girl wears a white one, untucked and unbuttoned to reveal a stunning lace tank beneath.

  I look at my own plain white shirt and long plaid skirt and wonder how I can feel so dowdy when I’m wearing practically the same thing.

  “Don’t bother coming, Wright. No one wants you there,” says the one who wants Sawyer.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I mumble.

  “Why? You think you’re above it all because Easton Royal fucked you?” She places her hands on her hips. “Please. You’re nothing but a cheap slut. Your daddy bought your way into school and now you’re trying to sleep your way into our group, but that’s not how it works with us. We want nothing to do with you.”

  For all I know, Bridgette is right—that I used Easton to be part of the “in” crowd here at Astor. That act seems consistent with a girl who cheats, blackmails, and is banished from her home for three years, so while I want to argue, I don’t know if I have the right to do so. One thing I’m certain of is that post-accident Hartley does not want to hang around with toxic people.

  “I’m not interested in being part of your group.” I tug a paper towel out of the holder and dry my hands as Bridgette and her crew stare in disbelief.

  Out in the hall, I find that my hands are shaking. I ball them into fists and stuff them into my blazer pockets. Before I can push away from the wall, three guys stroll past. One stops and backs up until he’s standing in front of me.

  “Hartley, isn’t it?” The boy’s taller than me by a couple of inches and broad in the shoulders, with a thick neck and big lips.

  “Yes.” I search his face for a sign of recognition, but my mind is blank.

  He reaches down and lifts the hem of my skirt with his phone. “What you got under there?”

  I slap my skirt down and jerk out of reach. “None of your damn business.”

  “Oh, do I have to pay before I look?” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder to his waiting crew, who appear highly amused at this dildo’s antics. “What’s the going rate for a peek at the puss? Fifty? A hundie? Don’t worry. I’m good for it, aren’t I, guys?”

  It’s impossible for me not to turn red, but I’m only one part embarrassed to about three parts enraged.

  “If you’re so good, then you wouldn’t have to fork out any cash to get in a girl’s pants, would you?” I sweep past him, my heart pounding so hard that it’s going to break through my ribcage at any moment.

  I tense, ready for the moment he grabs my wrist, but he only mutters that he’s “better than anyone you’ve had.”

  My tolerance for abuse and bullshit has reached its max meter, so I avoid the lunchroom, opting for a health bar from a vending machine near the library. This day has sucked and it’s only half over. My head’s pounding, my ribs hurt, and my hands are still shaking from my encounter with the boy in the hallway. I wonder what I have to do to get expelled from Astor Park. Cheating only gets you a suspension. I would know, right?

  I let myself wallow in self-pity until the health bar is gone. I toss the wrapper in the trash and push open the library door. What I need is answers.

  I find an unoccupied computer and open a Word doc. On the blank page, I start listing all the “facts” that I’ve picked up, assigning each a number based on a scale of believability. Five means I’m convinced it actually happened. One means hell frickin’ no.

  Dated Kyle – 1: I only have his word for it.

  Slept around – 2: More than one person has mentioned that I’m kind of, well, free with my charms.

  Hooked up with Easton – 5: Okay, maybe not hooked up, but there’s something there. A guy doesn’t show up at a pastry shop at ten at night, give you his jacket, and drive you home without having some connection.

  Bran drove you home, my little voice reminds me. He said we were friends, didn’t know if I dated Kyle, but confirmed I had been suspended.

  Cheated – 5.

  I look at the bare list. I know four things about myself? What about the food I like to eat? Or the music I like to listen to? Why don’t I have any friends? I stare at the cursor, blinking blinking blinking...

  The light bulb turns on. This is the twenty-first century. There’s no one alive that doesn’t have a digital history. I must’ve taken pictures of myself. I must’ve have memorialized what I ate and the cute outfits I wore and the fun places I hung out at. Once I find my accounts, I can piece together my memories—no matter how shitty they are.

  I start opening browser windows, typing in the addresses for every social media site that I can recall. I run search after search, using my name, my birthday, my address.

  There are many Hartley Wrights on the Internet but none of them are me. There’s a Hartley Wright in Oregon who is a nurse, and another one in Georgia who knits. There’s a Hartley Wright three years older who attends UCLA and looks like she’s living the best life, what with her squad of friends, extensive closet, and super-hot boyfriend (although not remotely as hot as Easton Royal). But there are no accounts for me.

  How in the world is this possible? It’s like someone deleted everything associated with me.

  I’m able to locate my cousin, Jeanette, but her profile is private. Quickly, I make an email account and sign up for Facebook so I can send her a friend request. She doesn’t immediately reply. I slump in my chair. Like me, she’s in school. Unlike me, she’s not skipping classes.

  I drum my fingers on the desk. The lack of information seems so odd. Maybe I just don’t know how to do an online search. It’s not like I’ve ever looked myself up before, and I can’t remember searching others, either. I think…I think I’ve always been a head-down, keep-to-myself person. It’s possible that there aren’t any pictures out there because I didn’t have a lot of friends in that school up north. I sense that I’m not someone who takes many selfies, probably because I’m not in love with my chubby face.

  Maybe I didn’t hang out and party, but instead stayed in and read books. That would exp
lain why I’m in some advanced classes here at Astor even though I don’t feel particularly smart.

  Sighing, I close all the browser windows and think of my next course of action. I still need a phone. I’m going to have to ask my parents for one. I wonder if I had a job at the boarding school. Do I have any money? There wasn’t a wallet in my desk and my purse is missing.

  Since the Internet is giving me nothing, I guess my clues are in my house and with my family. I spend the rest of the afternoon creating new social media accounts in case anyone from my past wants to contact me.

  Against my better judgment, I look up Easton Royal. He has an Instagram account that has about fifteen pictures—mostly of planes, his truck and his brothers. While he’s not much of a selfie taker, there are plenty of pictures of Easton out there. In them, he’s almost always smiling, looking impossibly gorgeous and almost always with his arm around a girl. There’s several of him kissing different girls. I find a couple of him with Felicity. She looks at him as if she’s already booked their wedding venue.

  He doesn’t take a bad picture. Not when he’s sweaty and disheveled after football practice, not when he’s arriving to school half asleep, not when he’s standing at the pier in front of the Ferris wheel—wait a second.

  That’s the picture Felicity shoved in my face at the hospital. I didn’t get a close look at it before. The picture on the screen is so pretty it looks fake. The lights of the pier are like brush strokes against a black canvas. There’s an ethereal glow in the center, highlighting a tall boy bent over a shorter girl. His hand is in her hair. She’s clutching his waist. Her cute cropped hoodie is riding up, exposing a sliver of skin. Their lips are fused together. My heart rate picks up and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I trace the outline of his back and then press my thumb against my lips.

  What had it felt like to have been kissed by him like that?

  I scroll through the Easton Royal hashtag (because, of course, he has his own hashtag). I pause on one that was taken a year ago. It’s dark, but I can make out the two individuals in the picture. It’s Easton and his stepsister/foster sister/whatever, Ella. She looks hot in a black bandage dress with cutouts. His hands are plastered to the places where her bare skin is exposed. Her arms are wrapped around his neck. Their lips are fused together. His eyes are closed. It’s an intimate, tender moment beautifully captured and it makes me want to vomit.