Tears of the Broken

by A. M. Hudson

“Isn’t that why Dad bricked up your balcony door—and put a desk there?”

  “Yes. But probably also ‘cause it’s harder to sneak out a window than a door.”

  Sam smiled. He has a happy face—nothing much bothers him. He’s the only one around here that doesn’t take me so seriously all the time. I never thought that one day I might actually start to see him as my brother. “Do you smell that?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Vicki’s making casserole.” I breathed the scent of gravy and Italian herb.

  “I’ll race you?” Sam started running before his words registered in my ears.

  I darted after him and we both jumped the creaky bottom step of the porch and burst through the front door.

  “Sam? Ara-Rose, is that you?” Vicki called from the kitchen.

  Who else would it be? We dumped our schoolbags on the staircase and went into the dining area to the left, where the smell from outside blended warmly with garlic and onion, forcing a memory of roast dinners into my mind.

  “Did you shut the front door? You’re letting all the cool air out,” Vicki yapped from her position at the island bench.

  Sam shrugged. “Sorry—I got homework to do.”

  “What, and I don’t?”

  He shrugged again and headed into the forbidden formal rooms through an archway on the other side of kitchen. Fine, I’ll do it myself. I stomped back to the entranceway, slammed the door slightly as my temper boiled, then stomped back into the kitchen.

  “Tough day?” asked Vicki.

  “No. Why?” I slumped my elbows on the bench and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.

  “You just seem moodier than your usual self.”

  “Moody? I’m never moody.” I sauntered across the room to the square dining table by the window and plonked into the chair. Gross—chair’s still warm. Vicki must’ve been sitting here before we came home.

  I looked through the front window to the tree-stump across the road where I’d been sitting a few minutes ago. Oh, for God’s sake. Who is she kidding? She was sitting here and she would’ve been watching me, too—she must’ve jumped up real quick when she saw us coming.

  “So?” Vicki said; I turned around and leaned my arm over the back of the chair to face her. “How was school?”

  Oh, you’re just dying to know, aren’t you? My eyes narrowed. That wasn’t just a question formed out of a light attempt at decent conversation—it was a probe—and busying herself with sprigs of coriander or chopping up onions by the sink isn’t going to disguise that meddlesome undertone in her voice. She should know better. After all, it’s her profession. Okay, so she hasn’t worked as a psychiatrist since Sam was born, but it’s in her blood.

  “School was fine,” I muttered absently and spun back to the tablecloth of scattered photos and scrapbooking cut-outs.

  “Did you make any friends?”

  “No one makes friends on the first day, Vicki.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  No, you’re not. As if you really care. All you want to know is that your precious little family’s not going to get torn apart if I decide to become a troublesome teen—which I would never do.

  “Did you see any cute guys?” her tone became light, suggestive. I know she’s trying to place herself on my level, but it won’t make me open up to her. With a short sigh, I bit into my apple, licking the sweet juice as it spilled out onto my lip. I better play along with the ‘light-hearted’ conversation or she’ll tell my dad I’m not being sociable. It’s bad enough she’s already going to have a whinge to him about me calling her Vicki, again. But I can’t call her Mum. All she’ll ever be to me is Dad’s new wife—even though they just celebrated their thirteenth anniversary. “Ara?” Vicki probed.

  Oh, right, she asked me a question, didn’t she? “Um…yes.” I grinned widely, keeping my face down. “A guy that’s so cute he makes Stefan look like a dweeb.”

  “Who’s Stefan?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes; clearly she doesn’t read books. “Never mind. He’s cute—that’s all that matters.”

  “Do you…like him?” She stood beside me and her nostalgic gaze washed over the photos on the table.

  “Like him?”

  “Yeah, do you like him?” she repeated.

  Yes, I do. “No. I just met him. But he’s cute.”

  Vicki breathed out and her shoulders dropped. The movement was small, but so obvious to me, since I’m so used to the way she casually displays indifference in order to psychologically assess me. She counts on the fact that I’m a docile teen with no clue what’s going on around me. Clearly, she’s never been a teenager. I know all the tricks, and I am not giving anything away to Vicki about my psychological well-being. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  She walked off again and I shifted the photos away from me until the dark wood of the table bared itself from under them. Not one of those photos is of me. I spent every summer and at least six winters here since I was child, but the absence of my face in these scrapbooks is just one more indicator that I really am just a walk-in—a temporary fixture made permanent by circumstance. I’m like a painting that got hung on the wrong wall using your last nail.

  “Did you sit with anyone at lunch?” Vicki said.

  I spun around again and watched her fussing about near the stove. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s good. I knew you wouldn’t end up sitting alone—even though you were so sure you would.” She laughed lightly, and I huffed indignantly under my breath. The chopping board broke the flow of steam over the pot as Vicki scraped the vegetables in, spreading the homely smell of dinner through the kitchen. Mmm. One good thing about Vicki is that she can cook. “So, do you like any of your teachers?”

  “No.” But my friend likes your husband.

  “What about Dad? You’re in his class, right?”

  “Yeah, but he gives boring lectures.” I assume. Not that I was listening to it.

  “Well, don’t tell him that—you’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Feelings? Do Dads have feelings? Almost as if his past-self had heard me thinking, his smiling face appeared among the pile of photos. He was so much younger, then. His hair was darker, and his eyes, even though he still had those crinkle lines when he smiled, they weren’t as deep. Vicki was younger, too. Her hair was still the same straight blonde it is now, but her thin, white face had no smile lines. They’re deep now, running down from her nose to the outside corners of her mouth like a V… for Vicki.

  When I’m old, I hope I look like my mum. But right now, I’m more like Dad, except for my chocolate-coloured hair. My friends hated me, affectionately, for the way it was always kinda shiny and silky no matter what the weather. I’d trade it, though—my shiny hair and clear skin—to go home and be a normal teenager again.

  “What did you think of the canteen food?” Vicki asked, tasting her casserole.

  I spun my apple core around between my fingers and watched her rinse the spoon off under the tap. “It was okay. Pricey, though.”

  “Shall I give you some extra money tomorrow—did you have enough today?” She looked up with round eyes of concern.

  “Actually, I didn’t use my own money.”

  “Well, how—”

  “Someone offered to shout me lunch.” Well, forced me to let them.

  “Oh, that was nice. Who was it?”

  “A guy named David Knight.”

  She seemed to count something inside her own head. “Hm. David…David,” she muttered his name under breath. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  I shrugged.

  “Well,” she said, “it sounds like you’ve made an impression, Ara-Rose. I told you people would like you—you’re a very lovely girl.”

  I dropped the snotty teen facade and sat back against my chair. It’s hard to be hostile to someone who won’t take the confrontation bait. “Um, thanks, I mean, that’s great and all, but I don’t think being a lovely girl is an asset in high school these days, Vicki.
Also, I’m just gonna go by Ara now.”

  “Oh? Really? But you always loved your name? What does your dad think of that?”

  “Well, it’s my name? I’m sure he’s fine with it,” I said defensively, my brow folding over one eye.

  “Okay. Well, if you’re sure?” Vicki shook her head and turned back to the stove.

  She’s right. I’m selling out. No one’s ever been allowed to call me just Ara before—except my best friend, Mike. I guess I’m just so afraid of not fitting in that I’d change the one thing about me that’s truly unique.

  Everything to do with this place has changed who I am, why not take away the last thing that really belongs to me.

  The repressed tears of the day welled up, nudging their ugly, unwanted heads into my eyes. “I’ll be in my room. I have a lot of homework to do.” I stood up and walked back out to the staircase—teen facade suddenly in place again.

  “Okay, Ara dear,” Vicki called after me with a hint of detest behind my new name.

  She has no idea how much she irritates me. I mean, now I need my dad’s approval to change my own name? I feel like kicking something.

  In the front entranceway, Sam zipped up his schoolbag then wandered back into the TV room to the right of the front door. I wonder if he came out this way to avoid interrupting the ‘light hearted’ discussion between Vicki and I, or to escape being caught up in one.

  “Don’t tell Mum I’m in here, okay?” he said as he set himself down in front of the TV.

  I half smiled, then threw my bag over my shoulder and thudded up the stairs to my room. The door hit the wall as it swung open, but my heated temper dropped to a smile with the sight of the dancing rainbows my crystal-garnished windows cast over the lemon walls.

  Back home, my old room faced west, and the setting sun used to cast golden rays of blinding light through my window, igniting the whole room ablaze with a warm, orange glow.

  Here, my window faces east, so my dad bought me these “Plane Mirrors” to reflect the afternoon sun into my room. He even let me climb out my window—after I threw a tantrum about independence—and position them carefully so they’d catch the light of the retiring sun. Now I can still lie on my bed, like I used to every evening, and watch the prancing spectrums on my walls as the light reaches through my crystals.

  It’s just a little piece of magic from a childhood passed.

  But, one thing that doesn’t pass with childhood is homework.

  I slumped backward on my bed in the middle of the room and kicked off my Skechers; one hit my dressing table across the room and the other landed by my door, then, I dug my toes into the squishy carpet and let out a long sigh. It’s over. The torturous first day is over.

  “See?” I called across to the girl in the mirror. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Mu-um!” Sam yelled obnoxiously from outside my door. “Ara-Rose is talking to herself again.”

  “Shut up, Sam!” I sat up and ditched my pillow at the back of my door. Er! He’s so irritating. If I wanna talk to myself, I should damn well be allowed to. It doesn’t mean I’m crazy…waiting for myself to talk back does, but let’s not go there.

  As his boisterous giggle faded down the hall, I huffed out the frustration of the pest and looked across at my dresser, sitting against the angled wall of my wardrobe. The girl isn’t there right now—the only thing looking back at me is the reflection of the oak tree out the back and the swaying, white rope swing that hangs from it.

  That’s where I should be—out there, on the swing where I spent every day this summer since I came here, just rocking back and forth, watching the kids across the road during football practice—wishing my life were as easy as theirs. But it’s not, and we mustn’t feel sorry for ourselves. At least, that’s what they keep telling me, anyway. Doesn’t mean I don’t.

  But, at least today is finally over. All I wanted, all day, was to get home so I could process this David thing; process how he said he likes me. But I have to be careful not to read too far into that. His version of like might be entirely different to mine.

  And what’s his deal, anyway? How is he possibly so unreal and so damn smart, too? I didn’t realise he was intelligent until Society and Environment class, when he corrected the teacher on the Emancipation Proclamation. It wasn’t even on topic, but it took one simple comment from a kid up the back, and our discussion on North America turned into a full-blown slavery debate. David, rather heatedly, put everyone in their place.

  He makes me want to pick up a book and read it. I can’t even begin to be in his league if I’m a dumb spud, and let’s face it…aside from English and Music studies…I’m a dumb spud.

  With a loud sigh, I picked up my bag and dropped it onto the desk under the window, then pulled out my cold, wooden chair and sat down—trying hard to ignore the waving leaves of the oak tree, summoning me to their company.

  Focus on homework, Ara, focus. David will like you if he thinks you’re smart.

  Wait! What am I saying? I slapped the back of my own wrist. My God, I’ve gone mad with lust. I’ve actually gone stark-raving mad. Since when do you base your worth on intelligence, Ara-Rose? This boy has warped your sense of self-respect.

  And what would Mike say if he heard you talk this way? I tell you what he’d say. He’d say you’re a damn fool. He’d slap you and tell you that you’re a smart, funny girl, and any guy who doesn’t like you for who you are isn’t worth the dirt he walks on.

  God, I so badly wanna call Mike. Dad even installed a phone in here for me so I could talk to my friends back home, but I haven’t used it yet.

  I sighed heavily and lifted my head off my hands. It won’t be easy to talk to my best friend again. So much has happened these past months and I’ve not spoken to him more than twice in that time—and that was only because I happened to answer the house phone. It’s my own fault, though. I refused his calls—one after the other, every day, and it was only about a week ago that he stopped calling altogether. Now, I want to talk to him, but I don’t know if I have the right.

  The muggy feel of the summer enveloped my face and arms, making it hard to breathe, even though Vicki had the air-conditioner on ‘North Pole’. I ripped off the white cardigan I put over my dress at morning tea and smiled when I saw a spot of chocolate milk on the sleeve as I hung it over my chair. It must’ve splattered on there when David unintentionally rescued me from having to talk about my family. I’d like to thank him for that, but I think if I just walk up and say, “Hey, David, thanks for knocking my milk over for me,” he’ll think I’m weird, and then he’ll just walk away from me really slowly, without turning his back.

  The phone kept looking at me; I stuffed my nails between my teeth and chomped—trying to distract myself from picking it up. The truth is, I have no right to call my best friend because I don’t want to call him to see how he’s doing, I only want to call so he can make me feel better about this David situation.

  But I need someone to talk to. I mean, I’ve heard of love at first sight before, but this is ridiculous. I’m not like this. I don’t go head over heels like this, and I don’t ever rate myself based on a guy’s opinion.

  Well, that’s not entirely true, since it only takes a group of guys to laugh when I’m standing near them and I suddenly feel the urge to check if I have something on the back of my dress.

  But I’d like to think I have more self-worth than I actually do. All those great women in history that Dad’s always talking about are who I’m supposed to model myself on. But internally, I feel small when a guy snickers at me or calls me a dork. Granted, I feel just as bad when a girl does, too, but, all things aside, I want David to like me—like, my version of like—and I’m scaring myself with the thoughts I’m having. I feel unstable. I need a friend to tell me I’m not going crazy—or maybe that I am.

  With a sigh, I looked at my last connection to my old life. “Go on,” the phone teased.

  “Oh, fine,” I huffed, grabbed the handset and dialle
d a familiar number. It only rang twice before it picked up.

  “Hello?” The husky, yet smooth voice on the other end made my heart jump a little.

  “Hey, Mike.”

  “Ara?”

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Hey, kid. How you doin’?” His voice pitched high on the end.

  “Um—” I traced my fingertip over the grains of wood on my desk, “I’m good.”

  “How’d your first day go?” The soprano singer fled his throat and left a blasé tone behind. He’s trying to sound unconcerned, but he can’t hide his desperation to know how I ‘coped’ at school behind forced disinterest.

  “How did you know I was starting school?”

  “I spoke to your dad on Saturday.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “So…” he said leadingly, “How was it?”

  “Um, well, it was good, actually.”

  “Really?” He breathed out. “That’s great. I’ve been worried about you all night. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh yeah, I keep forgetting about the time difference thing.” I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand—trying to log the info in there permanently.

  “So, did you make any friends?” Mike asked gently.

  “I did.” I grinned, then Mike got the run down on all the happenings of the day; Emily, Alana, how cool Ryan is—a tiny bit about David—and a massively overdramatised recap on music class with Mr. Grant.

  “No joke? What an ass.” Mike laughed. “I wish I’d been there. I would’ve played chopsticks and deliberately done a bad job of it.”

  “I know you would. I was thinking about that while I was playing.” I chuckled. “I really missed you today.”

  Mike went quiet. “I miss you all the time.”

  I wish he wouldn’t say that. It makes this all so much harder. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to the last few months. We haven’t really talked much about, you know, normal stuff.”

  He sighed heavily, probably running a hand through his sandy blonde hair and rolling his head back. “Nothing’s really normal now, Ara.”

  “Come on, Mike?”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’ta said that. Okay, well, I’m still working on my entrance into the Tactical Response Group. I’ve got one more interview to go and I’m pretty much in.”