All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  Claire is putting combs away and turns. She smiles when she sees me. Mom always liked her. She said once that Claire smiled so big that the love would travel from her lips to her eyes.

  “Good mornin’, beautiful,” she says. “How’d you sleep? I hope everything was all right.”

  “It was fine,” I lie and look down at my feet sinking into the plush area rug like it’s quicksand. “I just wanted to come and say thank you for the sewing table. Dad said you ordered another one. You didn’t have to do that. The one that’s in the room will work perfectly.”

  Claire dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “Nonsense. You just wait, kiddo. You’re going to have a fabulous room and a sewing area fit for a master seamstress.”

  Heat flushes my cheeks. “Thank you,” I say again. “You really didn’t—”

  She doesn’t let me finish. “I don’t ever do anything I don’t want to do. Ask your daddy.” Her eyes flick toward the clock. “You’d best be getting ready for school.”

  She’s right.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  Much to the absolute horror of my father, we walk to school. That’s how everyone wants to arrive on the first day at a fancy private school, right? Loser. Walks with parental unit. I refuse to get into the car. And my father refuses to send me out into the big bad streets of Bel Air, so we end up compromising. He’s been staring at his phone the whole time.

  “By tomorrow, I’ll figure out the buses,” I tell him. “Betcha didn’t even know you have those things around here, huh? In the meantime, be grateful. It’s a fact that walking twenty to twenty-five miles per week can extend your life.”

  He looks up. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

  “Extending your life isn’t the best idea?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Funny, Bug. I mean the bus. I’m not sure the bus is a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  I stop walking. “Are you being serious?”

  “Lennon, this isn’t some small town in Maine. You live in Los Angeles.”

  “Check my report cards, Dad, I’m slick in geography. You live in Bel Air. One of the richest neighborhoods on the planet, no one around here is suffering enough to mug me.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he says. “I was referring to—”

  I wait for him to continue but he looks at me.

  “Referring to?”

  “I mean someone in your condition.”

  My eyebrows dart upward. “My condition?”

  “I’m not sure how well someone with OCD may do on a bus.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but this person with OCD will fare far better on a bus versus a car. Research has shown you’re three times more likely to get injured in a car. Can we please not argue? I’m nervous.”

  He stops. “The doctor said we had to keep you to a routine as much as possible, otherwise I would have given you a few days to settle in.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I had three months in the Riverview Psychiatric Center to settle in. Life doesn’t stop because I lost everything. The world keeps spinning and people keep living and life goes on. That’s the harsh truth of it all.

  We spend the remainder of the walk in silence until we reach the school. Like everything I’ve seen here so far, it’s a structure built with bricks of privilege in a striking display of grandiose gloating. It resembles a prestigious Ivy League university campus more than a high school. Tall, towering buildings created in a Gothic revival style sit encompassed by massive iron gates, paved walkways, and parking lots. A large marble sign is perched on the pristine lawn: BEL AIR LEARNING ACADEMY. I turn to him, hands in my pockets. “I can walk home by myself.”

  He’s not paying attention. Instead his head turns to the side, and his hand issues a small wave. I look sideways to see who has captured his attention.

  The phoenix kid. Kyler. Like yesterday, his black hoodie is hiding his face. He’s standing next to a car that’s worth more than most normal houses, a shade of royal blue, with flashy chrome. Despite it being my favorite color, it’s still the ultimate douchemobile, but not much different from every other car in the parking lot.

  The only facial features I can make out are strong and defined, but it’s near impossible to see his eyes, because they’re cast down. In a split second, though, I decide he’s not a monster. I study him for a moment longer.

  I’m so transfixed that when his head sweeps up, and those same eyes I wondered about seconds ago pin me frozen to the ground, I lose my breath. They’re a steely, glacial blue.

  They darken and shift, and his brow creases in frustration.

  Are you the villain of someone’s story?

  I return my attention to my father. “So I’ll see you later.”

  I pivot and begin a fast-paced walk to the school, head down.

  The doors to the building open, and I’m blasted with air-conditioning. Thank God, because that stare was the human equivalent of a fire-breathing dragon.

  The woman behind the desk is busy sorting papers, and she only glances up when I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m, uh, I’m new. I’m Lennon. Davis. Lennon Davis.”

  She picks up the phone and cradles it on her shoulder. “Jada Dempster, please report to the main office.” She hangs up the phone, stands, and heads to a filing cabinet. Her fingers fly across the file folders until she retrieves one, opens it, and pulls out more paper. “Here’s your locker assignment and your schedule. Jada will be along any minute to show you around. You can wait there.” She points to a small leather chair. I sit, crossing one leg over the other, resisting every urge to get up and organize her papers.

  A small girl enters the office. Her hair is black as midnight, her skin dark and flawless. It’s intimidating, to be honest, and I’m self-conscious. She’s beautiful.

  When she smiles, like she’s doing now, she’s stunning. “Hi, I’m Jada. Welcome.”

  “Lennon,” I say, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”

  Jada thanks the secretary before turning. “Lennon, huh? That’s a cool name. Your mom or dad a Beatles fan?”

  Most people never ask if my name is courtesy of a parent’s loyalty to Mr. John Lennon himself. Maybe they don’t know enough to ask or maybe they don’t care to. Either way, I’m impressed. I nod. “Yeah, something like that.”

  She takes the folder and opens it to examine the contents. While she’s looking over the paper, I cross one arm over the other so my fingertips wrap around the wrist opposite them and pulse against my skin, counting in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  What if there’s something confidential? What if my entire medical records are in that file? That’s ridiculous. It’s a schedule. That’s it.

  Before I can come up with a thousand different scenarios of the information available in that folder, Jada looks up. “We aren’t in all the same classes, but I’ll show you where your homeroom and your classes are. It won’t take long to learn your way around.”

  I wind through the hallways, keeping my eyes fixed on the back of Jada’s light pink sweater. She weaves through the crowd. “What about uniforms?” I ask. “I thought all schools like this had uniforms.”

  “Used to,” Jada says, “but a few years ago some students threatened to sue the school for infringing on their rights to express themselves. It was a whole thing here, and by the next school year, the uniforms were gone. Most students are happier this way, at least you can be an individual.”

  I follow her down several long corridors filled with kids. By private school standards, it may be small, but an obscene number of people fill the space. When I think there is no end in sight, Jada stops walking and points to her left. “Mr. Martin’s class.”

  I peek in while Jada leans closer. She smells like jasmine. “Are you all right? Want me to go in with you?”

  I shake my h
ead. “No. I’m good. Thank you.”

  “We have English together, second period,” she says. “I’ll be outside this door to get you.”

  My heart races, my palms sweaty. I clench them into fists to stop myself from turning the doorknob.

  Jada senses my hesitation. “Everyone’s pretty nice. Try not to worry.”

  Telling someone with OCD not to worry is like telling someone not to have blue eyes or five fingers. It’s illogical and absurd. Jada doesn’t know that.

  She knows I was named after a Beatle.

  “MY SCARS ARE WRITTEN BY YOUR GUILT, THE PAST

  WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU, THERE’S NO ESCAPE, EMBRACE

  YOUR FATE, THE FIRE BURNS INSIDE YOU.”

  Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, “Scarred”

  I SPEND MOST OF THE first class distracted, but it doesn’t really matter. Grades have always been important, so I stay on top of them. Academic success is imperative because life treats beautiful people differently, and since I don’t have the luxury of looks, I sure as hell better have something smart to say. My father is hoping for a clone but expecting a failure, and I’m not into giving him the satisfaction of either.

  By English class, second period, I’m wishing for a coffee and thinking I should have gone to Strings and Things, checked out records instead of coming to school. I’m bored and my only prospect of entertainment is our English teacher, Mr. Lowry himself, until I walk through the door and see Jada Dempster next to the new girl, whose eyes are large glassy orbs fixated on her shoes.

  Jada is speaking, her finger extended to the row of desks. The blonde looks up and I freeze. First thing this morning, when I saw her with Josh, I knew I’d won bragging privileges with Emmett because I was right. She’s hot. But up close and personal, she’s beautiful. The extraordinary kind of beautiful that makes guys like me do stupid things. Her hair is long and tumbles down her shoulders in loose, bouncy waves. Her eyes are light and flecked with amber, her skin freckled slightly across the bridge of her nose, which along with her mouth, are both upturned. Sure, it could be mistaken for aloof, but it’s not; it’s cute. She bites her lip before tucking her hair behind her ear and scooting into a chair. First she retrieves a notebook from a brown canvas bag before placing it on the desk. She does the same with a pen and then sits on her fingers, like a kid scolded for being too rambunctious.

  I stalk past, staring at my feet to avoid eye contact. In the parking lot when she looked at me, it made me nervous. An uneasy feeling flip-flopped in my gut, and my throat got dry. Zero chance I want to do that again.

  The fabric of my trusty hoodie once again forms a barrier, a protective bubble between her scrutiny and me. I’m hoping that my casual walk-by will kill any interest she may have in me—because new people always have interest—but as I move past, she turns her body at her waist and I can feel her glancing at me over her shoulder. I sit down, praying she’s had her fill, but when I shift my gaze up, she holds it, refusing to look away. Her head tilts. This minuscule change in expression catches me off guard. I’m not used to such fearless staring contests with girls. I feel like some freaking world wonder she’s seeing for the first time; her, a curious spectator, eager for more. What is it? How does it work?

  Irritated, I lean down and grab my tablet, open it, and swipe my finger across the screen. From my current perspective, I can see her feet, which are weirdly small, turn to face the front.

  Mr. Lowry enters the classroom. He’s wearing a long black robe with a white puffy collar, a fake mustache, even a wig that’s bald on top with long gray hair rimmed around his skull. “Good morning, students,” he says.

  A girl named Whitney pops her gum. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, Willie,” I say.

  Mr. Lowry closes his hands and claps. “Bravo. Astute observation, Mr. Benton. Please share with your fellow classmates, who, like Whitney, may not be aware of who I am?”

  “William Shakespeare,” I say. “Willie for short, Bill if you prefer.”

  Mr. Lowry is the dorkiest person I’ve met in my life. He’s always a little quirky and a lot outspoken. I appreciate it. The guy doesn’t mince words. Short. Sweet. To the point.

  His eyes settle on the blond girl and his face falls. “Oh right. A new student. Class, we have a new student. Tell us what your name is and where you come from. Stand. Project your voice. Be quick. We have things to do. It’s the start of a new module today.”

  As she stands, the legs of the desk chair screech across the industrial tile floor. She cringes and then takes a deep breath. Her hand falls to her side, and she taps the top of her thigh with the tips of her fingers. She’s creating a sporadic rhythm. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  “I’m Lennon,” she says.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  “From Maine.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Weird thing to notice, right? Nope. I make music. Patterns or repetitive beats; it’s all music. I bite back a smile. New kids aren’t so often good at following directions—they’ll give their entire life story. This girl answers the two questions and volunteers nothing else.

  I can also appreciate that.

  Lennon. Cool name. From Maine. Like most Stephen King novels.

  She looks at me a second time before she settles in her desk, exhales, picks up her pen, and taps it alongside the coil of her notebook. The tapping quickens in speed and triples in ferocity, and pretty soon, Lennon’s foot is tapping, too.

  Andrea clears her throat. Her eyes cut into Lennon as if she’s nothing more than an ant, ready to be crucified under a magnifying glass. “Do you have a nervous tic or something?”

  Lennon’s pale face blooms with color, tension rolling off her in waves.

  Andrea is horrible. Two years ago, when she showed up as both my new neighbor and a school transfer, she hadn’t known anybody. Still, somehow she got invited to a rager thrown by Abigail Belcourt, who guaranteed everyone it would be the party of a lifetime because Halloween was her favorite holiday. She wasn’t exaggerating. Ghosts were projected onto the windows; waiters walked around serving brains and blood bags; a sketchy, twisted soundtrack played in some of the darkened rooms strewn with candles and various replicas of creepy things; strobe lights and pop music blasted in the main room. Abby’s father, a movie producer, had access to props, so everything was shockingly realistic. The macabre atmosphere supercharged the urges of sweaty teenage bodies entangled together in some lust fest of doom.

  Andrea was dressed as a zombie nurse and yeah, she looked hot. Me, on the other hand, I didn’t dress up. I went as myself, scary in its own right. I sat on a chair, minding my business, when Andrea sauntered over and fired up a conversation that included a very sincere compliment on the awesomeness of my mask (my actual face). Before I could tell her any different, she climbed on my lap and stuck her tongue down my throat. I’m a guy. The thought that I should tell her the truth vanished in a millisecond. Her mouth was on mine, and I kissed that girl like both our lives depended on it. And the way she started to move on top of me, it felt like hers did.

  Her teeth bit down on my earlobe and she said, “If you kiss like that, I wonder what else you can do.”

  I had enough time to smirk at that little implanted thought before the lights flipped on, the music came to an abrupt halt, and the police declared our party over. Her head turned from the cops to me, her mouth dropping open in abject horror. Revulsion painted every line on her face. She swiped at her mouth, got up, and walked out silently, deciding in that very moment I was now her mortal enemy. She is both relentless and tenacious in her pursuit of her vendetta, and she makes no secret that she utterly loathes me. The feeling is mutual, so it’s the one and only thing we will ever have in common.

  I look at her victim. “Maybe you should run away before you catch Andrea’s batshit-crazy-bitch syndrome. BCBS for sh
ort. I hear that stuff is fatal and all it takes is one exposure. Might be too late for you, though. She can really spew venom, like some demonic llama.”

  Andrea holds her hand up. I’m certain zero people do that anymore. Well, zero plus Andrea. “Stay out of it, freak.”

  Freak.

  ’Cause that’s the worst thing I’ve ever been called. Try again, pugnacious princess.

  I pick up my bag and pat the outside, my fingertips running along the seams and the pockets. “I can’t believe it. I had them less than an hour ago, and now for the life of me”—I shake it around before proclaiming—“I can’t find a fuck.”

  “Mr. Benton!” Lowry’s voice barks loudly in warning.

  But I’m having too much fun, and sometimes you gotta go for it. “Hold up.” I reach into my bag, grinning the whole time before revealing my fingers. I wiggle them in a wave that morphs into a straight-up middle-finger salute. “There’s one, and it’s got your name on it. It’s a fuck-you.”

  “Mr. Benton,” Mr. Lowry bellows. “I will not ask again, so unless you’d like a one-way ticket to the office, I suggest you keep yourself in order!”

  I lean back in the chair. “Sorry, Bill. My bad.”

  The tapping slows, then stops. Her hair falls down her back as she shifts, turning toward me. She smiles.

  Mr. Lowry clears his throat. “Mr. Benton, perhaps since you’ve taken such a keen interest in your new classmate, you may wish to pair up with her for the term. You’ll have an exciting task to complete that is worth a significant amount of your final grade.”

  There’s a collective mutter of protest from the classroom. Lowry looks at me, waiting for my response.

  “Sure thing, Bill. I only had a single fuck left anyway. Wasted it on Andrea.”

  FACT: DIDASKALEINOPHOBIA IS A FEAR OF GOING TO SCHOOL.

  THOUGHT: DISTINCT POSSIBILITY THAT I SUFFER FROM THIS, TOO.

  THIS GUY MUST BE ANDREA’S ex-boyfriend. There is no other reason for the hostility between them. I want to tell him I don’t need protection from her, but I’m silent. Her stupidness and his chivalry have rendered me speechless.