All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I think I smile for the briefest of moments before I hear Mr. Lowry say Kyler Benton is my partner for a class project. The smile evaporates.

  Mr. Lowry gives me a questioning look. “I trust you have no objections, Miss Davis.”

  I shake my head despite every single instinct not to. I object! He’s a hoodie-wearing, foul-mouthed, sulky guy. I can’t be tethered to him! Not for an entire project, module, unit, term, or otherwise.

  “Excellent. In that case, let’s begin. As Mr. Benton so kindly pointed out before gracing us with his love of profane English language, I am Shakespeare. By the end of this unit, you will learn, love, and appreciate Shakespeare more than your little minds could ever conceive.” He takes both of his hands, places them beside either temple, and mimics an explosion. “Mind blown. For now, get together with your partner and come up with five facts about Shakespeare.”

  People holler for their pairs, their friends. I cast a glance at Kyler, but he yanks his hoodie up farther and slouches in his chair. My heart speeds up. I freeze, waiting for it to take hold, but to my surprise, it doesn’t. Moments like this, where I’m free from the OCD, are as fleeting as a shooting star exploding across the sky, so I try to enjoy it until Lowry’s voice enters my thoughts: “We aren’t waiting for Shakespeare’s resurrection, Miss Davis. Off you go.”

  I drag my chair over to where Kyler sits. As soon as I place it beside him, he extends his legs in a single fluid movement to put distance between us.

  A nervous laugh leaves my lips. I can’t determine if he really is an asshole or if he’s just an angry emo kid with a knight-in-shining-armor complex, so I attempt to make light of it. “I haven’t caught Andrea’s BCBS yet. Not contagious, I promise.”

  He acknowledges me with a tip of his chin. “Good to know. Not sure if I want to take the risk, Lennon. From Maine.”

  “Observant.” Setting my notebook on the table, I reach for my pen, but before I even retrieve it, he rips a page from his and offers it to me. In penmanship neater than I’d expect is a list:

  1. Shakespeare didn’t go to university.

  2. He started writing in the 1590s.

  3. Shakespeare’s phrases are used all the time without thought: good riddance, as luck would have it, break the ice…among others.

  4. He also wrote poetry. Times were tough.

  And my favorite:

  5. Part of the epitaph on his tombstone reads: “Cursed be he that moves my bones.”

  A dire warning for anyone who considers robbing his grave.

  I stare at the list, dumbfounded. “You know all of that?”

  “I’m a slave to the great oracle Google, Lennon.”

  I see a tablet on his desk. “So you Googled it?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “In an eighth of a second?”

  He shrugs. “What can I say? The school has good Wi-Fi.”

  “You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

  He moves the side of his hoodie with his finger to reveal only his eyes. “You trying to say you’ve got facts about Shakespeare stored away in the back of your mind for immediate recall when it’s necessary?”

  “Not exactly.” It’s a lie. I could spew a fact or two, so I test one. “But three days after Shakespeare was born, the parish in which he lived recorded an outbreak of the plague.”

  The eyebrow not draped in his hair inches up his face. “Impressive. Anything else?”

  He’s already putting off an unwelcoming vibe, so I shake my head. “Not much directly relating to Shakespeare.”

  “A-plus for your efforts, but it seems the internet is our best option.”

  “Fine. You win.”

  Mr. Lowry is writing something on the board. Romeo and Juliet. He draws a line down the middle of the blackboard and adds, for modern culture.

  Kyler grabs his paper back and scrawls on it.

  6. Bonus fact: Romeo and Juliet was first published in 1597.

  Damn. He’s good. He grins and slides the paper across the table. He taps his temple. “That one was all from up here.”

  “Your assignment, should you choose to accept it—”

  “I don’t,” Kyler mutters.

  Lowry continues, “—is a modern-day retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Think of something that will have a contemporary, edgy twist that would appeal to the youth of today. And think hard, because this assignment will reflect thirty percent of your final grade.”

  Kyler’s hands cover his face. “Oh my God,” he says into them.

  My gut twists. He hates me and now he’s paired with me. Perfect way to start my student experience in Bel Air. I look at him apologetically as though I should feel bad that we’re stuck on a project together. “Well, he didn’t sell that as fun for me, either,” I tell Kyler. “For what it’s worth.”

  The hair is hanging over his left eye because his hood is pulled forward, but he still looks at me when he speaks. “Forget about it. Got any ideas?”

  “For?”

  His smirks. “The project. The shitty project we have to do about Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Well, if we wanted to do modern, we could have it set up like a dating app, only in essay form.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No,” he repeats. “A dating app is romantic. The story of Romeo and Juliet is anything but.”

  “What? That’s not true.”

  His eyebrows knit together. “Are you kidding me? It’s goddamned tragic.”

  “Well, technically the play is a tragedy, but—”

  He shakes his hoodie-covered head. “No. No buts. You’re insane if you think Romeo and Juliet is a love story.”

  Now it’s my brow that furrows. “So I can’t have an opinion. You asked me for an idea, I gave you one.”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking at the clock. “A bad one.” He swipes his tablet, notebook, and pen into his backpack and holds out his hand. “Phone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone,” he says, pronouncing the words carefully, in case I’m hard of hearing. “Give it to me, we can exchange numbers and discuss the project worth thirty percent of my final grade. Whether I want it to be or not, that makes it important.”

  No use praying that my hands don’t shake, because they do as we exchange phones. I enter my number and hand it back. He snatches it from me, stands, slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Later, Lennon from Maine.” With those words, he’s gone.

  Jada waits for me beside the door at the end of class. “That was weird.”

  It was such typical Andrea behavior; I’d almost forgotten about it…almost. Hoodie-boy’s intervention seared my brain, despite being overshadowed by our pairing. I think I’m most interested in what makes him hate Andrea, because it gives us something in common right away. Might help with the animosity about the project.

  “It’s not that weird. She’s my stepsister. She hates my guts because I woke up and took a breath this morning.”

  Jada frowns. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. No wonder she was picking on you.”

  “Yeah, well, you get used to it.”

  Jada dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “No matter. That’s not what I was talking about, anyway. It’s no real surprise your stepsister is a bitch. I’m talking about Kyler.”

  Kyler.

  “Did Andrea date him?”

  Jada coughs. “Pardon me?”

  “Did they date? My half brother says Andrea told him that guy’s a monster.”

  Jada pauses thoughtfully. “Well, he isn’t friendly, but I’ll tell you this, he may be an angel, what with that voice of his.…” She stops, as if she’s forgotten a detail. “He has a singing voice that’ll make you weep.”

  I have a hard time picturing him singing. “He seems more like the smoke-pot-and-wallow-in-life’s-problems kind of guy. Is he in the choir?”

  “No, like in a band. With three other guys. They’re called something about Fire.”


  A student walking by turns. “Fire to Dust,” he volunteers.

  “Are they any good?”

  Jada nods. “Amazing, but he doesn’t like to play. He’s done it twice. Once at a fund-raiser for a student here named Jenny Fischer. She got cancer, and we were trying to raise money. And once at the school pep rally last year because Principal Walsh offered him a reduced suspension to perform after half of the choir got strep throat. Kyler had been in three fights in less than a week, so he was in more than enough trouble to take the deal.”

  “Why be in a band if you don’t want to perform?”

  Jada shrugs. “No one blames him. I mean, he has to live with it.”

  “With what?”

  “You know.” She makes a motion with her hand around her face.

  “What?”

  “His face.”

  “What about his face?”

  Her eyes narrow in disbelief. “You were sitting right across from him.”

  “Oh, his birthmark?”

  She examines me as if she’s not sure if I’m blind. “That’s not a birthmark.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “His face. It’s not a birthmark. He’s tortured. Like the Phantom of the Opera. A reclusive musical genius with a burned-up face.” She spins on her heel and I trail behind her, chasing after this piece of information and trying to grab on to it, to possess it.

  “Wait. What did you say?”

  Jada stops walking. “His face is scarred.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “He was in some house fire as a kid. The left side of his face has burns from chin to cheekbone and up across his temple, it even dips down on his neck and over his shoulder to God knows where. He tries to hide it, I’ve seen it once or twice, but never for long. Almost never see him without a hoodie or a beanie, and if you catch a glimpse, that hair of his is always hanging down in front of it, anyway.”

  It takes every ounce of resolve I have not to do a one-eighty in the middle of the hallway and return to him. Not to scrutinize, no, I would never do that. But I’m curious. I know these two things about him. Just two. His name is Kyler, and he was in a house fire as a little boy. And instantly, I am fascinated.

  Not in some morbid fascination kind of way, either.

  I mean I am truly captivated, enthralled, and utterly fascinated by him.

  My scars are invisible, buried deep inside, guarded by the monster in my head.

  Kyler who was in a house fire.

  His scars are there, literally written on his face.

  I pass the rest of the school day wondering about him. By the time I walk home, I only want to sew Jacob’s cape. I don’t want to be captured in the pages of Kyler’s story. He’d be like a book I could never stop reading. I know it. It’s possible I can convince Mr. Lowry to give me a new partner.

  Jacob waits on the front porch when I return home. His knees fold up to his chest and he’s got one arm resting over the other, his camera in his palm, and his chin resting on top.

  I sit down beside him. “What’s the matter? Rough day?”

  “Andi told me I was a terrible reporter.”

  Nice.

  “Andi is wrong.” I smile. “You’re a great reporter, and soon, you will have a cape like a real superhero.”

  “She’s says there’s no such thing as superheroes,” he laments.

  “You need to ignore her. She’ll regret being mean one day.”

  “I don’t know why she doesn’t like me.”

  “She’s afraid of your mad superhero moves.”

  “Andrea isn’t scared of anything. ’Specially me.”

  “She’s scared of something. Everyone is. And it’s the bravest people who admit it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you scared of?”

  Everything.

  I choose something safer. “I don’t like heights.”

  “I’m not scared of heights,” Jacob says, his voice heavy with pride. “We went to New York a few months ago. I went to the stake building.”

  “I’m not surprised you went to the Empire State Building. You’re a superhero.”

  He smiles and stands. “I’m a hungry superhero. I got us snacks. I was waiting for you.”

  I cringe, imagining the various scenarios that may wait in the kitchen for us. “What did you get us?” I hope to God he doesn’t answer with something like “pizza.”

  He reaches into his pocket and retrieves two small packs of fruit snacks. “I got us these,” he says.

  I take one from him. “I love fruit snacks. Who told you?”

  He shakes his head and stands tall, proud. “No one.”

  “WE HIDE BEHIND THESE PETTY LIES, WEARING MASKS

  WITH HOLLOW FACES, WALLS WILL FALL AND ROADS

  WILL CALL, THAT LEAD TO DIFFERENT PLACES.”

  Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, “Impostor Syndrome”

  AFTER SCHOOL, SILAS AND AUSTIN stand outside my car, flipping coins for who gets to ride shotgun. I drive an Aston Martin Vanquish, so space is limited. Yeah. I’m that guy. Wealthy parents with guilt complexes, born with a silver spoon, the works. The rich teenage douche of Instagram everyone loves to hate. Not going to lie, the car is sweet, but it’s also unnecessary. I’m seventeen. My dad seems to forget that, or perhaps he can’t bear the mental anguish he’d suffer at the wheel of a Honda. Only the best, and because of the blood that runs through my veins, it extends to me, too. Anything less is a blow to his ego he’d never recover from.

  I’m pacing, hands buried deep in my pockets while I contemplate what will comprise the next few months of my life. “I should have kept my damned mouth shut. If I hadn’t caused a scene, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  Silas looks at me, a coin perched on the side of his hand, ready to be sent flipping into the air in a fate-changing battle. “Well, you are, so now what?”

  “If I woke up this morning and told the Universe to screw me”—I point my arms to the sky—“please screw me over as much as possible.” I let my hands fall to my sides. “I still couldn’t have thought up a worse scenario.”

  Silas flips the coin and catches it before answering me. “Wanna know what I think? She’s just a girl, bro. I don’t know why you’re getting all freaked out.”

  I shrug. “The only thing I like less than change is being forced to meet new people.”

  Austin waits for Silas to rest the coin on the back of his hand and reveal the results. Silas takes draped fingers off the quarter, and their eyes shift to the disc on the back of his hand. Austin groans and throws his arms up with frustration, much like I just did, at the same time Silas kisses the coin and shoves it back in his pocket. Given that he tops even me by at least two inches, he has to fold his body whenever he’s in the back seat. Good thing he won, I guess.

  Austin looks at me. “What’s wrong? You afraid someone might actually get to know you?”

  I glare at him. “Do I remember you saying something about how you’re walking today?”

  Proving he’s wiser than he looks, he opens the door and lets himself into the back.

  Silas gets into the passenger seat. “It won’t be that bad. You’re a little crusty around the edges, sure, but you’re not a crappy person, either, so you got that going for you.”

  “What a glowing endorsement,” I say.

  Silas laughs.

  “Dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Silas turns, disbelief registering on his face. “Really? No more stupid than being scared of doing an English project with some girl.”

  I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine. It purrs smoothly as I pull out into traffic. “I’m not scared, genius. I’m not into making friends. You of all people should know that.”

  To say I took a while to warm up to Silas would be an understatement. Austin and Emmett and I go way back, but before Silas, our guitar player was a guy named Alex. He was older, and once he graduated he was out.
Emmett found Silas, who had just transferred from a foster home to his aunt and uncle’s place. Talk about rags to riches, Silas lives it.

  Emmett swore on his life I could trust Silas with mine, but I didn’t buy it. Time’s been the only thing to prove me wrong.

  “Regardless,” Silas says. “You’re overthinking. Chill out.”

  Yeah, easy for him to say.

  Austin pokes his face between the driver and passenger seat. “Text her. Talk to her first, then maybe you won’t feel so weird about it.”

  “She’s irritating. She thinks Romeo and Juliet is a love story.”

  “So that makes her irritating.” Silas laughs. “Text her something—break the ice. Because you are frosty as the arctic morning in January.”

  I don’t tell either of them this, but it might be a good idea.

  I drop Austin off at his place and turn to Silas. “You going home or do you want to come over?”

  I remember that it’s Tuesday, and I regret issuing the invitation. I have to pick up Macy on Tuesdays. On the surface, that doesn’t seem like much of a problem, but it is, because despite my explaining the bro code to Macy, she’s got it bad for my bandmate.

  I don’t get it. Emmett rocks this surfer, man-bun-wearing vibe, but it doesn’t even come close to the rough-around-the-edges vibe that emits from Silas like a heartbeat. He’s like a walking, talking pheromone that pulls Macy like a magnet. She can get to the back of the line.

  We get to her fifteen minutes late. As she saunters up to the car, dance bag slung over her shoulder and water bottle in her hand, she notices Silas in the front seat, and a smile pulls at her mouth.

  Silas gets out and moves the seat enough for Macy to get in. She stops and grins at him before subtly (not at all) slipping past and into the back seat. She slides herself from behind him, to behind me, no doubt to make sure the back of his chair doesn’t block her line of sight.

  Silas gets in, looks over his shoulder, and flashes her a smile. “Hey, Mae.”

  I don’t need to see her to know she’s blushing like a fool. “Hey.”