Unbroken: 13 Stories Starring Disabled Teens

by Anthology

“Leave,” Mother Nature ordered.

  Without any more protests, the three siblings stood up and walked to their rooms. Millie’s eyes remained on her shoes, counting the hearts she had drawn on them earlier that day.

  Fourteen … fifteen … sixteen …

  “Millicent Grace, look at me,” Mother Nature said after her other children shut their doors. “I would’ve been proud of you coming into your element two years early if you weren’t putting us at risk. Your dad would’ve probably high-fived you behind my back…” Mother Nature trailed off, thinking of her late husband. He’d tell her to go easy on his Millie Belle. Mother Nature smiled to herself at the thought.

  “Ma?” Millie watched from the chair as her mother turned slightly away from her and toward the past.

  “Do you want us to get caught?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean for it to get that big. I was just playing around,” Millie said. She pressed her toe into the floor. She had reached the end of her rope, like Carrie, but without all the blood and death. There was only so much one person could take.

  Seventeen … eighteen … nineteen …

  Millie wished her mom understood that not everyone had good in them. She wished that her mother could spend a day in her shoes. Maybe then she would be congratulating her instead of punishing her.

  “I know those kids are cruel, but every inch of you is beautiful. They will never take that away from you if you don’t let them,” Mother Nature said.

  “You think it’s that easy? If you heard the things they said to me, you wouldn’t even be upset about the snow. You would be patting me on the back,” Millie said.

  “Sweetie, I just don’t want to see you lose your sense of self because of these kids at school. I don’t want you to forget how wonderful you are,” Mother Nature said.

  “I don’t hate myself or anything. I believe it when you say I’m pretty. But when you hear the same insults and jokes and slurs for so long, despite knowing they’re not true, a small part of you starts to wonder,” Millie shot back, crossing her arms in protest.

  “You are angry, sweetie, and rightfully so, but the moment anyone figures out who I am, who we are, any chance we have at a ‘normal’ life will cease to exist. Do you want that?” Mother Nature asked.

  “No, but Kacey is Satan’s spawn. She breathes fire, and she deserved worse,” Millie said, uncrossing her arms and pressing her hands together between her legs. Millie and Mother Nature sighed in unison.

  “I wish I didn’t have to do this, Mill, but you’re grounded for a week. There will be no cell phone and no TV. Go to your room and get washed up before dinner.” Well, there went her plan to call Whitney.

  When Millie got to her room, Mary created sympathy rain for Millie. She knew how much Millie loved the rain and hoped it might make her feel a little better. Millie closed her door and sat on her bed. She couldn’t stomach the look of disappointment on her mother’s face. Millie had gone in too confidently. Sure, her punishment could have been worse, but nothing was worse than the defeated look in her mother’s eyes. She could have gotten them caught, and who knows what would’ve happened. Her sisters and brother had told her horror stories of the families that had had their job before them—before it was decided that her family would only be responsible for the United States, so as to take some of the pressure off. Millie’s siblings said each of the families’ demises were at the hand of the youngest child. She wasn’t sure she believed them. Millie also wasn’t that keen on learning the truth.

  When dinner was over and everyone returned to their rooms, Millie was still racked with guilt over the fact that she had done something bad but didn’t feel bad about it. The only reason she felt guilty was because her mother was right: In the moment, she hadn’t thought about her family, just her anger and exhaustion. Just herself. Millie was tired of going to school every day, having to reconcile the fact that her disability, which she liked well enough, was being used as a reason to make fun of her.

  “I didn’t like her older sister, either,” Mariah said, standing in Millie’s doorway with a sympathetic smile on her lips.

  “Was she a bully, too?” Millie asked as Mariah sat down.

  “The biggest. She made me miserable. Deena Donovan was the worst. You know I don’t hate many people, but she thrived on the energy she harnessed by being evil. She was jealous because people liked me without me having to bribe them.” Mariah paused, rolling her eyes at the memory before continuing. “After Daddy died, Deena pretended to be considerate and left me alone for a week. I thought she was turning a corner, away from her evil, but she spent the next week spreading rumors that I slept with the entire football team. The teachers did nothing, and I resented them for it, too. I got tired of my complaints going unanswered; and the rumor, on top of the name-calling and pushing me into lockers, was the last straw. I got my revenge on Deena eventually.”

  “What did you do?” Millie asked.

  “I made rain follow her and her friends all throughout spring break on their trip to Hawaii. I don’t know how Mom found out, but I was grounded for three months.” Mariah laughed.

  “I bet it was worth it,” Millie whispered. She longed for her sister’s confidence, her grace. Millie was witty, sure, but she didn’t want that to be the only thing she offered the world.

  “You have no idea, Mill. I had lots of friends in high school, but I wasn’t truly sure of myself until the day I decided to do something about the bullying. Deena left me alone after that. I think she thought it was me but didn’t know how to prove it,” Mariah said.

  “I didn’t mean to disappoint Mom, but I’m sick of being bullied.” Millie found herself looking down at her elephant-covered socks as she spoke, embarrassed by the fact that she let Kacey and the Miserables get to her, even more so that Mariah was seeing her this way.

  “You kicked ass today.” Mariah winked at her sister. “Now don’t move. I’m going to go grab the keys. I want to show you something,” she whispered conspiratorially.

  “Okay.” Millie bent down to put her shoes back on. She could still see the horrified look on Kacey’s face; it was definitely worth it. Millie let out a huff and smiled to herself. Maybe she would be fine; maybe she would be as good as Mariah someday. If everyone was being honest with themselves, they knew it was up to Mary, Mariah, or herself to keep the family business going. There was a clear line of succession from her mother to her daughters, and Millie was glad to be last.

  * * *

  Mariah drove Millie to an abandoned warehouse just outside of town and began her lesson. Millie watched in awe as Mariah made it rain with a simple twirl of her finger. Another swift twirl split the rain in half and brought snow with it. Millie closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the rain and snow had stopped altogether. Millie’s favorite flowers, gardenias, danced around her as the wind picked up, and she smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time.

  “You brought me here to show off.” Millie laughed, spinning in the same direction as her flowers. She spun and spun until she lost her breath and lay down beside Mariah, who was smiling so hard her teeth should’ve hurt.

  “This is where Mom and Dad first taught me how to make it rain.” Mariah let the flowers fall into a crown above Millie’s head.

  “And Mom brought Mary and Finn here, too?” Millie asked, certain that it was another thing she was being left out of.

  “Nope. Just me,” Mariah said confidently.

  “Then why bring me here?” Millie asked, opening her eyes for the first time in minutes and turning to face her sister.

  “You and I are more alike than you think, Mill. I brought you here to see you smile. I love you, kid.”

  “I love you too,” Millie said, reaching out to clasp her sister’s hand.

  A Curse, A Kindness

  CORINNE DUYVIS

  MIA

  The collision happens in the space of a second.

  Mia—a paper bag in each arm—steps out of the corner
store. She’s got her head turned toward her grandmother, ready to point out the avocado that’s about to roll from a third paper bag in the rollator’s basket.

  Then there’s the other girl, her face a storm, her shoulders hunched.

  They crash into each other right in the entrance.

  Bam—a shoulder thump, a skull knocking into Mia’s jaw, a knee slamming against hers.

  Mia drops one bag. Teetering back, she tries to stop the second bag from slipping. Too late. No no no—the eggs—

  She sidesteps to avoid crashing into her grandmother’s rollator, but her balance goes, sending her smacking to the ground with a painful jolt to her hip.

  She rubs her side and grimaces. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says, wanting to assure her grandmother before she has time to worry. She twists onto her knees.

  The other girl is leaning back on the ground, arms propping her up. She’s about Mia’s age, or maybe younger, with white-streaked black hair tied back tight. A cracked Coca-Cola machine beside her blinks in and out, casting a red glow on her angry frown.

  “I’m so sorry—I wasn’t looking—” Mia starts.

  “Forget it.” Without looking at Mia, the girl gets to her feet, takes her distance, and dusts herself off. The movement hurts—Mia can tell.

  Still sitting on her knees, Mia surveys the damage to the groceries. Could’ve been worse. The eggs are intact. The groceries are scattered all over, though, and she’s blocking the entryway, and, crap, now her grandmother is reaching over to help Mia up.

  “I’m fine!” Mia repeats, and hastily climbs to her feet to prove it. She doesn’t want her grandmother making an effort—between her poor balance and bad knee, she’d end up on the ground alongside the groceries. “See? I’m fine. Let me get this.” Mia sinks back into a crouch, all too aware of her grandmother’s eyes on her, and probably the girl’s eyes and other shoppers’ eyes, too. Her cheeks feel hot with embarrassment. So much for helping out her mom by taking her grandmother shopping. And so much for proving to her grandmother that she’s a capable almost-adult instead of the twelve-year-old her grandmother treats her as. The busier her mom becomes at work, the worse her grandmother’s fussing gets.

  Something lying beside the egg carton catches her eye. It’s a pinkish tube of ChapStick, cherry flavored. Mia holds it up. The girl is already walking toward the parking lot. Not a word of good-bye or apology. Mia presses her lips together, then calls out, “Hey. Is this ChapStick yours? Here.”

  The girl turns back to face them. For a moment, she seems frozen. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” she says shrilly.

  Mia tilts her head. “’Scuse me?” It comes out more aggressively than she intended, but it’s nowhere near the girl’s level of pissed off.

  “Again? It’s been twenty minutes—I just finished—Agh!” The girl stalks back to Mia and snatches the ChapStick from her outstretched arm. “Yes. That’s mine. Thank you.”

  “Yeah,” Mia says dubiously. “You’re welcome.”

  Her grandmother is always telling Mia to make friends instead of being glued to her Nintendo Switch. Normally, she practically shoves Mia at any girl her own age. Right now, though, she’s the one glaring at this stranger. “You ought to apologize.” She jabs a finger at her. “Help my granddaughter collect our things.”

  “It’s fine. I can do it.” Mia says it for her grandmother’s benefit alone. To her surprise, though, the girl listens: She sinks down by Mia’s side and pulls one spilled bag close, then takes the fallen meat packs beside it and piles them inside in a straight stack.

  “Listen,” the girl says, her voice low. She seems to be looking at Mia’s shoulder more than her face. “You showed me kindness. I need to repay it.”

  “Say what now?”

  Kindness? Who talks like that?

  Who talks like that with the same kind of withering glare Mia’s mom reserves for when she’s talking to her boss on the phone?

  “You get three wishes.”

  What the hell is one supposed to say to that? “Yeahhh.” Mia slowly reaches for a fallen avocado.

  The girl picks up the eggs, checks them even though Mia already did, and holds out the carton. “They look fine.”

  “Great.” Mia takes the carton and stuffs it into her bag. She stands upright. “Well, bye.”

  “You get three wishes,” the girl repeats, pushing herself to her feet. She’s talking low enough for Mia’s grandmother not to hear. “I’ll explain—”

  “I gotta get home.” Mia tucks the bags back under her arms and starts down the street.

  Her grandmother gives the other girl a curt nod, although the frown tugging her lips down shows she’s still not happy. “What a rude child. You’re not like that to strangers, are you, Mia?”

  “Course not,” she assures her.

  “Ah, of course not. We raised you better.”

  As they walk, Mia shoots a glance over her shoulder. The girl is still standing by the entrance.

  “Start thinking!” she yells.

  SIENNA

  Sienna gives the girl from the corner store until the next morning, then materializes in the high school bathroom while the girl—Mia, if she’d heard that old woman right—is washing her hands at the sink.

  Gross. School bathrooms. School in general. Escaping this hellhole had been the one upside of Sienna’s life the last couple of years.

  The mirror shows Mia’s mouth dropping open. “You—” She dashes away from the sink. Water sprays from her hands. Her backpack slips off one shoulder. “What the hell?!”

  The doors to the bathroom stalls are all open, while the door to the hall is shut. Good. No one’s around. Sienna can’t materialize anywhere someone aside from her current charge can spot her, but there’s always a risk of people walking in or overhearing them.

  “Three wishes,” she says. “Go.”

  “How did you do that? How—what—”

  “I can grant wishes, but this is the part that surprises you?”

  “Wishes?” she says.

  “Yes. Three.”

  Mia stands there, slack jawed.

  It always takes people a while to get past this part. Sienna wrestles back her impatience. “I have to show appropriate gratitude to anyone who shows me kindness. You offered my ChapStick back, even though I bumped into you and spilled all your groceries. It counts.”

  The explanation doesn’t always help. And it doesn’t now. Mia is still just staring, frozen in the middle of this dingy bathroom. Her brown eyes are wide; the overhead lighting glares down on her curly halo.

  If the gears in her head are turning, it doesn’t show on the outside. Or Sienna doesn’t see it, in any case. She’s not much good at that. What someone looks like and who they are—what they wish for—rarely match up. She’s stopped trying to figure people out. The less she cares, the less their wishes keep her up at night.

  “Your name’s Mia, right?” Sienna keeps her eyes on Mia’s shoulder. “If I’m going to be working for you, it helps to know.”

  “Yes. Mia.”

  She introduces herself. “Sienna.” Why is Mia looking at her like that? Fascination? Shock? Bafflement? The stare is so intent it makes her want to snap at the girl, but she holds her tongue.

  “You … can grant … wishes.” Slowly Mia pulls her bag back up to her shoulders.

  “Have to,” Sienna says. The itch to correct her is too strong. “Grant wishes. Yes.”

  Whenever someone shows her kindness, something inside gets knocked out of balance. It’s a nauseating feeling, like the pieces of herself don’t fit right. It gets worse the longer she waits to approach the person. Once, she ignored her new charge for a full week, pretending she didn’t owe anyone a damn thing; by the end of that week, she could no longer walk. She spent an hour writhing on her kitchen floor before finally blinking to the house of the guy who’d shown her kindness—(he’d told off some boys badgering her to smile)—to offer him the wishes.

  Mia is stil
l watching her. Slowly her expression shifts into something less intense.

  Click.

  The pieces of Sienna slot back into place. The nausea fading away is a relief, like coming up for air. “Good,” Sienna says. “We’re on the same page.”

  Mia still doesn’t say anything. Sienna still can’t quite tell if she’s fascinated or stuck on horrified. “Wish up,” Sienna suggests.

  A shrill noise cuts through the bathroom. Mia’s head snaps up. “I have to get to class. Can we talk after school?”

  “I’ll visit you at home.”

  “No! I mean, not—don’t teleport in like you did. My family might see you.” She hesitates. “Meet me outside the school later. We’ll go home together.”

  “Just call me when you’re home and by yourself. I’ll show up automatically.”

  “That’s … weird,” Mia says. “I’d rather just meet after school.”

  “Your wish, my command.”

  “Wait, I didn’t mean—that wasn’t a wish—”

  “Relax. That didn’t count.”

  * * *

  To reach Mia’s bedroom, they have to cross the living room, where Mia’s grandmother—Sienna recognizes her from the store—is showing a giggling toddler how to peel a banana while a TV drones in the background; then they need to cross the kitchen, where Mia’s mother is unloading the dishwasher with one hand and scrolling through her email on her phone with the other hand. A pop song blares from a nearby Bluetooth speaker.

  Mia finishes harried introductions to both and drags Sienna upstairs. She shuts the door behind them, blocking out the noise. Sienna breathes in, out, appreciating the silence. She knew to expect Mia’s family at the house, but she’s not used to talking to people. It’s too risky: They might be kind. Even now that she’s bound to Mia for the time being, it’s hard to suppress those instincts.

  On top of that, the music was loud. It made it hard to focus on what anyone was saying. She shakes her head as if to send the beats spilling out from her ears, leaving only silence.

  Mia crosses the room to reach her bed.

  Finally Sienna looks around. The room is overwhelmingly blue—from the bed to the desk chair to the wallpaper—with colorful posters adorning the walls and dozens of video games weighing down the shelves. A widescreen computer dominates the desk, while two handheld gaming devices and a few manga titles lie scattered on tangled bedsheets.