Totally. Is it working?
Not even close. Why the mask?
I’m starting a trend…
Kyler!
Fine. It’s for a gig.
A gig?
Refer to rule number one and stop asking questions.
Fine. In exchange for?
Three small dots appear on the screen and last far too long; long enough for me to hold my breath. The words pop up and immediately snatch away the air I so desperately tried to keep in my lungs.
You’re broken and you’re beautiful,
Shattered till you’re jaded,
Drink the bitter with the pain,
Withered, wilted, faded.
The dots appear again.
My.
Heart.
Stops.
Until he types: There. Song lyrics that equal a virtual handshake. G’night Davis.
My fingers fly across the keyboard in protest. What? Wait. Where’s the rest? That can’t be it!
The dots don’t appear.
Silence.
I type faster.
Kyler?
A song can’t be four lines.
Hello?
The dots return and I pull my phone closer, just to make sure it’s real.
You only get four lines.
What? No! Why? Why on earth would you do that? That’s unkind! Unjust! And a slew of other words to describe the horrific nature of what you’re doing. Deal’s off.
Horrific nature? That’s some kind of accolade, Lennon.
Tell me the rest of the song!
Good night, Lennon. Deal’s on. You can thank me later when you wake up with something to look forward to in a world that is unkind and unjust.
Will you ever send a full song?
Circumstances are uncertain. Will the mask be a piece of art? Sleep well fangirl.
I plug my phone in and reach for the string to draw the blinds because if he’s looking, I don’t want him to see the smile that’s taking over my face.
* * *
Sunday. It’s a thing around here. On the third Sunday of every month, it’s a big thing around here. Unless otherwise scheduled, Claire, my father, Jacob, Andrea, and now me host a Bel Air brunch for all of Claire’s socialite friends and their families. With all the fuss everyone is making, it’s as though we’re lunching with the queen.
Jacob is seated on my bed playing with building blocks while I stand in front of my closet, nervous. What if no one likes me? What if I say or do something stupid? What if OCD me comes to the party uninvited like that uncle no one wants to talk about?
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“What do Andrea and your mom usually wear to brunch? Jeans? A dress?” I wasn’t up to attending Claire’s last brunch, so I’m looking to him for guidance.
He thinks for a moment. “Mama is always in a dress, sometimes with pearls. Andi wears jeans most of the time except when the Lawsons come. She has a crush on Michael, I heard her telling one of her friends that once. When Michael comes she wears a dress.”
Let’s hope Michael isn’t coming. I select a pair of jeans from the hanger with a plain black T-shirt and head to the bathroom to shower and get ready.
An hour later, Jacob stands next to me dutifully plucking sliced strawberries from my cutting board and putting them in a bowl. I’m not sure why Claire doesn’t have help for things like chopping berries for fruit salad, or brewing coffee, or folding napkins around the rose-gold cutlery. I thought all celebrities had household staff, but I was wrong. Dad said Claire prefers it this way, that she likes to keep things real.
“Mommy loves Sunday brunch. She says it reminds her of when she was a little girl.”
I cast a glance toward Claire, who has her back to the counter. She’s wearing a black-and-white polka-dot apron with neon pink accents and piping, and she holds a whisk in one hand, a bowl in the other.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, whisking her batter. “Granny always said as long as you had good breakfast, good friends, and a good family, then you could do anything in life, and I’m inclined to agree. She was a tough one, my gran. Every Sunday we were expected for brunch, rain or shine. Unless you had a flu or an injury that rendered you immobile, you were going. The world could be comin’ down around us, and Gran thought a stack of pancakes could fix it all.”
“My mom made eggs, bacon, and pancakes every Sunday.” My voice comes out small and unsure, as if it’s testing out the memory of my mother, to see if it will make me break.
Jacob doesn’t even look up from his task as he once again reminds me, “It’s okay to miss your mommy.”
Claire’s whisk slows. “Jacob, mind yourself.”
I finish the strawberries, wipe the cutting board with a paper towel, and get the cantaloupe from the pile of groceries on the table. “It’s okay for us to talk about my mom.” Truth is, I’m not sure it is. I don’t know that it won’t make this room shrink and my chest hurt, but somehow allowing myself to remember her helps to keep her alive.
“I don’t want Jacob to accidentally say something that could bring pain to your heart,” Claire states. She looks at Jacob. “If Lennon wants to talk about her mama, Jacob, then she can bring it up. Otherwise, hush.”
Jacob looks up at me for confirmation, so I give him my best smile. “It’s okay.”
He eats one of the strawberries from the bowl and with it stuffed in the side of his cheek, he asks, “Lennon, can I ask a question about your mommy?”
“Sure you can, buddy.”
“What was she like?”
“She was awesome,” I say. “She liked to bake cookies and knit blankets and play the guitar. She loved music so much. I’m pretty sure the only thing she loved more than music was me.”
“My mommy loves me more than anything else, too,” he says.
I smile at him. “Of course she does.”
“Do you look like her? I bet she was pretty.”
“She was, and it depends who you ask, but some people think so.”
My dad enters the kitchen. “Some people think what?”
“That Lennon looks like her mommy,” Jacob offers.
Dad ruffles Jacob’s hair. “She does.” His head tilts slightly to the side and his eyes soften. “My God,” he says under his breath. “You really do look just like her. With your hair down like that, it’s hard to tell the difference.” He focuses on Jacob again. “When Lennon was a little girl, she used to love to hear the story about how her mom and I met.”
Jacob hops down from the stool and looks up at our dad, then at me. “Can he tell us, Lennon, please?”
“Sure.” I’ve heard the story hundreds of times, maybe more. Both his version and hers. I don’t know why things didn’t work out between my parents, because I was only two when they separated, but I never asked. They were best friends for as long as I can remember. If Dad was driving me to school, he’d come over and drink coffee with Mom for an hour before I’d even be ready. He’d steal bacon from the frying pan and Mom would slap his shoulder and laugh. If it was my birthday, they’d go shopping for my gift together. Dad would sleep in the guest room on Christmas Eve to be there when I woke in the morning, and when he got this amazing opportunity out here in Los Angeles, my mother was the one who convinced him to go.
She moped around for weeks afterward but told me that things only came around once in a lifetime, and we both loved my father enough to support his dreams.
I must look lost in thought, because my dad clears his throat. When I look up he asks, “Are you sure, Bug?”
I nod.
He pours Jacob a glass of orange juice and himself a coffee before they both sit down at the table. Jacob sets crossed arms on its surface and rests his chin on top, ready to be enthralled by the impending tale. I keep chopping the cantaloupe and brace myself for one of the best memories my father held of my mother, long before I knew her.
“I was at a concert in Tennessee,” he begins. “It was Fourth of July weekend and
already it was hot as Satan’s underpants. My clothes stuck to me like I’d run through a sprinkler. In fact I’m pretty sure I had pit stains all the way to my wrists.”
Jacob and I both laugh. Claire flips a pancake and places a finished one next to it in the warming drawer. She giggles, too. “Good Lord, Joshua, always such a charmer.”
“So there I am, sweat dripping from me in buckets, when I see her. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground with a group of friends. Her hair was long, down to her waist like Lennon’s, and she wore it in these two huge braids. There was a flower crown around her head, and she had a guitar across her lap that she was strumming while she hummed a tune. She must have felt me watching her, because next thing I knew, she looked my way and without missing a single note on her guitar, she gave me the brightest smile I’d ever seen.”
I wait for the next portion of the story, because it’s always been my favorite part. I look at Claire, hoping it won’t offend her, but she looks at me warmly and I know she can tell how much this means to me.
“I knew from that moment, Jacob, that I had to know this girl. I had to meet her and talk to her and find out everything I could about her, because that smile changed my whole world. Like as soon as she gave it to me, everything was brighter and more alive. It was like she hid the sun behind those lips. She kept singing and I walked over. The whole time I wondered what on earth I was doing. I knew for a fact this girl was out of my league. Not even light-years out of my league, entire galaxies out of my league.”
Jacob shifts in his seat, looks at me, and grins, so I smile back.
“But you know what I said to myself?”
“What?” Jacob asks.
“I said to myself, ‘If you don’t talk to her, Josh, if you don’t say hello, you’ll regret it every single day of your life.’ So I picked a wildflower nearby, the same ones that made the crown on her head, and I walked up to her and said”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“‘Excuse me, but I wanted to show this flower how beautiful you are.’”
“You did not,” Claire says, her mouth curling at the edges. She looks at me. “Lennon, sugar, tell me he’s lying. Tell me the man I married was not that cheesy.”
“It only gets worse,” I reply. “Just wait.”
“And then,” Dad continues, “I was worried I wasn’t smooth enough, so do you know what I said next?”
Jacob shakes his head while Claire mumbles, “I’m afraid to ask.”
“I said to her, ‘I was also wondering if you could give me directions?’ And she said, ‘Sure, where are you headed?’ So I said, ‘Hopefully straight to your heart.’” Dad looks painfully proud of himself, as if he’s just told the best punch line in history.
It works, though, because with those words, none of us can keep it in, not even for a second, and the whole kitchen erupts with laughter. Claire’s laughing so hard that tears start to stream down her cheeks, which only makes everyone laugh harder.
When she can finally catch her breath, she says, “Your mama must have been an angel to even give your daddy the time of day after that. For the love of all things holy, Joshua. Directions to her heart?”
Claire echoing Dad’s pick-up line prompts another fit of uncontrollable laughter. I have to put the knife down because my body is shaking. “Dad, your game was terrible. Actually you had no game. Zero. None. Like if it’s possible to have less than no game, that’s what you had.”
“In all fairness,” Dad says between chuckles, “I was eighteen and stupid. But it worked. So you see, Jacob, Lennon is a total miracle from a beautiful woman that I didn’t deserve back then.” He stands up and kisses Claire’s forehead. “I learned a lot from her, though, she made me a better man and gave me Lennon. Just like your mom did when she gave me you.”
A loud thump interrupts any reply Jacob may have to this, and everyone turns to see Andrea, who has just dropped her cell phone on the floor. “Shit,” she mutters as she picks it up, inspecting it for damage.
“Andi,” Claire says brightly, “you just missed the most ridiculous story about Josh.”
“Total ladies’ man,” Jacob adds.
I laugh again, this time at such a grown-up statement coming from the mouth of a little boy.
“Sounds captivating,” Andrea says drily. She doesn’t care at all about anything Claire, my dad, Jacob, or I have to say. “I won’t be here for brunch, Mother.”
Claire’s hands go to her hips. “Pardon me, but yes you will, young lady.”
Andrea has sucked the happiness from the air with her arrival, and everything feels tense.
“No,” she says firmly, “I won’t. It’s Liam’s birthday. Jess and I are taking him for lunch in Beverly Hills.”
She heads to the front door, puts her hand on the knob, and turns to shoot all four of us a deadly glare. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin your happy family moment.”
“Andi.” Claire moves to step forward, but my dad puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“Let her go,” he says softly. “Forcing her to stay will only make her angry.”
Jacob’s smile is gone, too, and as Andi gets in her car to leave, I wonder if she will ever allow herself to be happy, even for a second.
WHAT IS SHE LISTENING TO?
Random Thoughts of a Random Mind
I SIT WAITING FOR LENNON at the bus stop the next morning. She’s got headphones on, the bulky kind, and she looks like she’s enjoying whatever it is she’s jamming to, until she sees me. She stops dead in her tracks, and her mouth hangs open in shock.
Her hands flutter to remove the headphones. “Is your car broken?”
I reach for the brown paper bag beside me, retrieve a muffin, and grab one of the takeout coffees, handing both to her. “Good morning to you, too, Davis.”
She sits next to me and pulls a piece off the muffin, shoving it in her mouth. She chews and then smiles. “Why the breakfast?”
“Call me a concerned friend,” I tell her. “Trying to start your day off on a positive note.”
Her smile grows wider. “With breakfast at the bus stop?”
“With me, at the bus stop,” I say. “But yeah, breakfast comes in a close second.”
“I already ate breakfast.” She looks at the sky before turning her attention back to me. “But they do say it’s the most important meal of the day. So you can’t really have enough breakfast, can you?”
“You can’t. And you already ate breakfast but haven’t seen me yet.”
“Where’s your car?”
“At my house. The one next door to yours.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
She tilts her head to the side and gives me a stern look that reminds me of a childhood scolding. I slump my shoulders. “Because you have a doctor’s appointment you’re taking the bus to, since you don’t do cars. I can appreciate that, but I also know you’ll miss English, and whether you will admit to it or not, you’ll miss me, so I’m kinda saving you the trouble,” I tell her. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re coming over later, remember?”
How could I forget? We’re starting the mask. “Yeah, but then I couldn’t give you these.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of folded notepaper. I rise to my feet, grab my paper bag and my coffee, and say, “See you after school.” We have no other classes together today. There’s a good chance I won’t see her till then.
She holds the paper up. “What’s this?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “It’s the first installment of my payment plan. Read it on the bus.” It’s not the song I’ve been writing for her. That’s way too much, way too soon. But it’s a song. Something she’s been trying to get her eyes on.
Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken has officially taken up residence inside my head. Damn.
FACT: IT TAKES A MONARCH BUTTERFLY 28–38
DAYS TO COMPLETE ITS METAMORPHOSIS.
THOUGHT: IT TAKES A TEENAGE GIRL SIX WEEKS.
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br /> HE’S IN A PALE BLUE hoodie today, the color that makes his eyes look surreal. They remind me of postcards of those Caribbean islands, oceans painted by the hand of Mother Nature in devastating shades of blues and greens.
As I watch him walk away, I realize he’s right. I will miss him.
I look down at my coffee cup, and there on the sleeve, in Kyler’s handwriting, it says, sleep is for the weak. think about it.
I laugh and bring the drink to my lips for a sip, then shake my head. The bus pulls to the curb and rumbles to a stop. I keep the square of paper between my fingers until I’m seated and then, my hands shaking, I read it.
You’re broken and you’re beautiful,
Shattered till you’re jaded,
Drink the bitter with the pain,
Withered, wilted, faded.
Hide among the walking dead,
Fill empty cups with hollow lies,
Silence the screams beneath your skin,
Or look through different eyes.
See the world just like me,
You’ll never be the same,
The planet and its mystery,
Its pleasure, and its pain.
More later…
Kyler.
I think I’m still smiling when the bus drops me off in front of Dr. Linderman’s office. I hope we go for a walk today, because it’s a lot easier to think with the sun beating down on your skin than it is in some stuffy room. I wave to Stacy, who waves back, her fingers moving one after another in a manicured hello. She picks up the phone and tells Dr. Linderman I’m here.
I don’t even sit before the door swings open.
Dr. Linderman is wearing obnoxiously orange glasses that remind me of a traffic pylon, and a suit. Probably Versace. I smirk at him. “I realize I’m cause to celebrate, but you’re a little overdressed.”
He gives me an impish grin. “Clever. I’ve had an important business meeting this morning, but now I need a walk. Too much coffee, too much breakfast.”
I spin on my heel. “No such thing as too much breakfast. It’s the best meal of the day. And you say I’m the crazy one.”
All Our Broken Pieces Page 13