I will my feet to move, to keep time with his, but I end up looking like a crazed person chasing after an enigma. Before I can complain, I spot a girl with caramel-colored waves piled high on her head grinning at Kyler.
She runs up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. I cringe because that’s not something I’d dare to do. Ever. I don’t even have time to consider who she might be before she speaks. “Hi, big brother.”
“G’day, Mae.”
She looks at me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Macy, this is Lennon Davis. She’s from Maine. Lennon, this is my kid sister, Macy. She’s from the fucking milkman because there is literally no other plausible explanation how we are related.”
Macy crinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at Kyler before she extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lennon. Ignore everything Kyler says. He wants everyone to think he’s bad. He’s not.” She’s smiling at me, so large, so wide, so warm, that I can only agree with Kyler. There’s no way they are related. She lets go of our handshake and squeezes his shoulder. “He still loves his tree house.”
Kyler removes Macy’s hand from its resting place. “As much as Macy loves walking home,” he says. “C’mon, Lennon, we’re going to be late.”
I smile at Macy. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” she says. “See you around.”
I follow Kyler to the gym, biting my tongue the entire time. A tree house? A tall, brooding, hoodie-wearing, mysterious, scarred boy who drives a fast car, doesn’t like parties, plays music in a band, and has a tree house.
Why can’t he be boring?
As we make our way up the steps of the bleachers, I see Andrea sitting with her groupies. The girls look like various incarnations of the Barbies I used to play with growing up, and the boys resemble stereotypical jocks from teenage TV dramas. There’s one with bleached-blond hair in a football jersey with his arm thrown lazily over Andi’s shoulders.
Kyler’s strides are huge, and he doesn’t so much as glance sideways as we pass, but my chest gets tight, as if my body knows that Andrea has spewed every hurtful thing about me to their eager ears and they’ve all passed judgment without ever speaking a word to me. I shouldn’t care, but I do. Kyler heads to an empty space next to three other boys.
Two of them are identical. There isn’t a strand of DNA that’s different. Each has a mass of blond waves. The one on the left wears his pulled into a loose bun, while his brother’s is sprouting every which way from his head. Both have a decent growth of facial hair shadowing their jawlines.
The third one is wearing dark jeans, black boots, and a Nirvana T-shirt. His hair is onyx, clipped short at the sides and longer at the top.
Kyler turns and points to the pair of blondes. “The one with the ballerina hair is Emmett,” he informs me. “Sitting next to his twin, Austin.” He motions to the dark-haired boy. “This is Silas.” All of them look up at me. “This is Lennon. She’s sitting with us.”
Silas smiles. “Hey, Lennon.”
The other two offer the same greeting, speaking in unison.
I lift my fingers to offer small wave. “Hi.” My words exit my mouth in a near whisper, my brain consumed by thoughts of what Andrea may be saying about me at this precise moment in time. Warmth spreads across my limbs and flares like flames to my face. Shit. It’s the first sign of panic. Panic leads to fear, fear leads to OCD me, OCD me leads to compulsion, compulsion leads to ritualizing, and ritualizing leads to the part of myself I would rather die than show. Too much has happened this morning. It’s enough mental stimuli to last a lifetime, and it’s overwhelming.
I slip a stealthy hand into the pocket of my jeans and retrieve an Ativan while the fingertips of my other hand begin their ritualistic dance across my thigh. Kyler turns his head around, as if he’s gifted with supersonic hearing and knows what I’m doing. The way his vision strays to my hand for a second suggests that he does, which only makes me more nervous.
I stop tapping. Kyler motions for me to sit next to Silas and then slides in next to me. His leg touches the length of mine. I look down at our knees, connected.
I hunch down, rummaging for my water bottle. The pills dissolve, but it’s an easy way to slip the Ativan underneath my tongue without attracting attention. I clutch the bottle in the hand I can control. I wish the Ativan would kick in. I can feel my heartbeat thrumming against my rib cage in time with my fingers drumming. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Andrea casts a backward glance to where we’re sitting. Her gaze flutters to my hand. She glares at me, turns, and leans in to whisper to the blond Ken doll by her side. He sneers and twists his body so he, too, can investigate, his focus on my tapping.
“Hey.” His voice is loud, drawing the attention of anyone on our side of the bleachers. “You didn’t tell me your stepsister was hot as fuck, Andi. I mean, you said she was a bit mental, but who cares? She doesn’t need to talk, so long as she can sit there, shut up, and look pretty.”
Kyler sits up straighter.
The boy continues, “What I can’t understand is what she’s doing with Freddy Krueger over there. What are you doing with him, sweetheart? Come sit with us.” He motions to one of the other boys. “Brady’s lap is ready for you.”
The expression on Andrea’s face is a trifecta of amusement, boredom, and irritation. I look at her, wondering if she’s going to put an end to things, but she doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“Are you mute?”
My stomach churns.
Why is the stupid Ativan taking so long?
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He looks at Andi. “Is she mute? Or is she slow?” He snaps his fingers in my direction. “Earth to Andi’s stepsister. Are you stupid?”
Oh. My. God. I turn my head toward Kyler, who stiffens. His posture is rigid and unmoving, his voice deep, almost menacing. “Choose your next words wisely, Chase. I’m going to suggest you start with ‘Sorry’ to my friend here.”
Tap. TapTapTapTap. One. TwoThreeFourFive.
TapTap. TapTapTap. OneTwo. ThreeFourFive.
TapTapTap. TapTap. OneTwoThree. FourFive.
TapTapTapTap. Tap. OneTwoThreeFour. Five.
TapTapTapTapTap. OneTwoThreeFourFive.
His hand comes down on top of my fingers. His skin is warm, a few degrees hotter than the temperature in my veins at his touch.
My brain, my body, my fingertips freeze all at once. Fire and ice collide.
“‘Sorry’?” Chase says, half-laughing. “Nah, I don’t really feel like it.”
Kyler gives my hand a squeeze. It doesn’t feel like one meant to reassure; rather to say, Watch this. He leans forward. “Listen, I’m in a good mood,” he says. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask a question that dumb. I’ll pretend you remember in tenth grade when I nailed your scrawny ass so hard in rugby that you had to go to the emergency room and the dentist all in the same week. I’ll pretend you remember last year when I gave you a black eye for disrespecting my sister. I’ll pretend that you remember those things, and being the upstanding citizen that I am, I’ll let you off with a warning instead of kicking your ass like we both know I can. But you need to shut your mouth. Now.”
Silence falls over the crowd as so much tension fills the entire gymnasium that I forget to breathe.
Without a sorry in sight, Chase turns to face the front. Kyler’s fingers lift from mine as his thumb strokes the top of my hand.
Exactly five times.
LENNON WHO LOOKS LOST.
LENNON WHO IS LOST.
Random Thoughts of a Random Mind
I DON’T MENTION HER WEIRDNESS at the bus stop. I’d offered her a ride, but if the look on her face was any sign, one might have thought I’d asked her to come club baby seals instead. I don’t mention Chase Maxwell and his dick move and I don’t mention the mad drumming skills Lennon seems to possess or how that fascinates me and makes me want to know more. An
d I sure as hell don’t mention my random caresses, yes, plural, of her hand. I don’t mention it because I do not understand how or why it happened in the first place. It was obvious she was panicked and uncomfortable, and only a heartless person like my father could ignore that.
When I walk up to our fence, I realize I’ve been thinking about her for most of the day. Then I realize that it pisses me off. I like being in control of my thoughts, so when they wander, sneaking in uninvited and unwelcome, my mind gets a huge thumbs-down.
Silas’s words echo in my head. She’s just a girl, bro.
Yeah, she is just a girl. But she’s a beautiful, charmingly strange girl who isn’t afraid to dish my brand of comic relief back at me. She knows music. Real music. She’s named after a legend. If I believed in fate, even a little, I’d reckon this could be it. But I’d have to believe in fate, which I don’t, so she’s just a girl, bro.
I watch TV for an hour until my mom hollers that dinner is ready. I deliver the silent treatment to Macy as punishment for trying to embarrass me about the tree house.
The sound of utensils hitting the china plates echoes through the dining room. My mom’s eyes narrow on me. “You’re quiet this evening.”
“A lot on my mind,” I mutter.
Macy pauses with her fork in the air. “The girl you were with today, maybe?”
She’s walking home from dance class for two weeks straight.
My mom squeals in delight. “Oh! I knew there was something! What girl?”
I say nothing.
“Kyler,” she presses, “is there a girl?”
“There’s lots of girls, Mom.”
“The girl next door,” Macy volunteers. “Her name is Lennon.”
When her name exits Macy’s lips, my dad messes with his tie and clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Josh’s daughter,” he says. “The one who just moved here from Maine?” Pft. Lawyer. Always prodding me for information.
“One and the same,” I say. Now I’m curious to know what it is about the mention of her that makes him so uncomfortable.
“You’d best keep your distance,” he warns.
Despite my better judgment, my interest level in Lennon was high, but now it’s skyrocketed up the charts on account of my dad’s apparent disapproval.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“It’s my understanding that girl has issues.”
“Everyone has issues, Dad. You should know that.”
“Serious issues,” he clarifies.
“What kind of serious issues?”
He shakes his head. “Josh didn’t get into specifics. I was leaving for work. But I know he inherited her and her mile-long list of problems when the mother died.” He says the mother as if Lennon’s mom wasn’t a living, breathing person. And everything suddenly clicks.
Lennon who looks so lost.
Lennon who is so lost.
I understand.
This makes what I’m about to say undeniably satisfying. “Well, she’s my partner for our term project in English, so staying away from her will be hard.”
“Ask for a new partner.”
“Pass,” I say. “I can manage with the one I’ve got.”
“She’s pretty,” Macy volunteers.
My mom smiles.
My dad stands from the table, picks up his plate, and shoves the chair in. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Got it,” I say. “Thanks for your concern, Greg, that’s solid.” A few years ago, before I had what my mother has dubbed the greatest growth spurt in history, I would never have spoken to him this way because he’d hand my ass to me, but now I’d like to see him try.
My mom, roused from her cheerfulness courtesy of my father, stands and clears dessert plates. I thank her and pretend to kiss the top of Macy’s head. I barely whisper the words, “Thanks for that. You’re walking from dance class. Two weeks.”
She angles her head to look up at me, grinning. “Worth it,” she says. “Totally.”
Brat.
I go upstairs to my room and pick up my guitar. I strum a few chords, humming to myself. I don’t know where it comes from, or why, but I’m inspired, so I set the guitar down and head to my desk, convinced that I’m doing it only to write lyrics, to ride the wave of creative inspiration. She might be there, too, and there’s no point in denying it. I want to see Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues. This girl, whether I want to admit it or not, has caught my attention. I know better. Any kind of fascination with her will lead to epic disappointment. People like her aren’t meant for guys like me. It’s a shitty, simple truth, but it’s just that—the truth.
I peek through the blinds, but the light in the guest room, where she sleeps, is off. The tinge of disappointment I feel doesn’t go unnoticed.
I grab my notebook and a pen, somehow irritated that she’s not there. Like she’s got some damned job to do for my viewing pleasure. I scribble a few words on the paper. One of three things will happen.
1. The words will be lyrics (always the actual goal).
2. The pages will be coffee coasters (sometimes the result of not achieving the goal).
3. They will be filed under “random thoughts of a random mind” alongside many other useless, random things I scribble, draw, ponder, or creatively upchuck onto paper (neither a good nor a bad outcome; neutral).
Stop hiding in the darkness,
Step out into the light,
The sky is filled with all these stars,
So come and kiss the night.
Thoughts of her flood my brain. How she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear all the time, or how she bites her bottom lip when she’s writing, the constant tapping of her fingers on her thigh or wrist.
Infinity is waiting,
Calling you by name,
The world is yours for taking,
So take it just the same.
Lyrics.
Not coasters.
Not random thoughts of a random mind.
Not creative upchuck.
Just. Lyrics.
The light flicks on in the window across the yard and my pen freezes.
Lennon comes into the room, black fabric slung over her shoulder. Jacob, the little kid next door—her half brother, I realize now—is on her heels with a square of yellow felt clutched in one hand and a camera in the other.
I squint and lean forward, trying to get a better look. She sets the pile of black material on the bed and moves to what looks like a desk, until she folds open the top, reaches inside, and pulls a sewing machine up and out of its guts. Jacob documents this with his camera.
She holds the fabric up against Jacob’s back and nods, speaking to him as she cuts a large piece, setting the rest aside.
Shock and awe, surprise them,
Those who think you’re weak,
Look to the sky and chase them,
Those answers that you seek.
I keep writing. And watching. Lennon is measuring, cutting, measuring, cutting, sewing. And I keep writing. I have no idea how much time passes before she stands, holding out her finished item for Jacob’s inspection. It’s a cape. Jacob clasps his hands together before hugging her, putting it on, and bolting from the room like his sneakers are on fire. She smiles after him and sits on the bed, pieces of scrap fabric and torn thread at her feet. She stays that way for a few minutes, and I wish to know her thoughts.
Because it’s there you’ll find me,
Talking to the moon,
Telling him my secrets,
Asking about you.
The stars will light the sky for us,
They’ll illuminate the way,
They show you how to find me,
They’ll make you want to stay.
I gaze at the paper and back at her. She hasn’t moved. Her hair is pulled into a high bun, and she’s seated on her bed, wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt. Her hands are folded in her lap. Letters on my page are still we
t from where the ink has yet to dry. I turn my focus back to her.
Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews, you’re something unexpected.
* * *
By Friday, I’m edgy as hell. When I see her in the hallway at school, I can barely bring myself to say hello, and by the time I get home, I’m like a kid waiting to see if anyone will show up for his birthday. Mom is cooking over the stove, making a red wine reduction, while Macy is seated at the kitchen table, a science textbook open in front of her, her hand sailing across paper in a mad rush of note taking.
The front door slams closed, and I hear the thump of my dad’s briefcase hitting the floor. Mom’s eyes land on mine. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. I know.
By the time my dad makes it to the living room, his suit coat is gone, his tie is loosened, and he’s rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. He doesn’t speak to anyone, heading straight for the bar by the dining table, removing a bottle of scotch from one shelf before pouring it over ice. Scotch. He’s angry.
I pick up my phone, debating whether to cancel or not, but I’ve been thinking about her all week, and seeing her tonight, one-on-one, is like my reward for not losing my mind to thoughts of her any more than I have already. I can’t cancel.
I text Lennon.
Change of plans, Davis. Meet at the side gate. We’re working in the tree house. Inside’s not safe.
Not safe?
My dad + bad mood = great jackass. Tree house. 7 PM.
We can study here.
Andrea + the fact that she exists = greater jackass, which trust me, is really saying something. Tree house.
Haha. Truth. Tree house it is.
By ten to seven, I’m at the side gate waiting for Lennon. At 7:00 p.m. sharp, she exits her house and comes along the side of the fence that borders the two properties. Clutched in her grasp are a single notebook and four pens. I smile like an idiot the second I see her. I’m pathetic.
“Very punctual,” I tell her. “Much respect.”
All Our Broken Pieces Page 8