All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  Why her?

  “That’s fair,” she says. “I feel like I’m supposed to know you.”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I get that. Me too.”

  “I’m falling in love with you, too.”

  I hear nothing else. The sound those words make is far greater, so much more exceptional, than any piece of music I could ever make.

  FACT: PANIC ATTACKS SPARK THOUGHTS OF

  CATASTROPHIC EVENTS AND AN OVERWHELMING

  BELIEF THAT DEATH IS ABOUT TO TAKE YOU.

  I HAVE A THERAPY APPOINTMENT this morning. The bus is empty, and it doesn’t take me long to get to Dr. Linderman’s office. To my surprise, he’s sitting outside, on the steps of the large building.

  He’s wearing khakis, a golf shirt, and Vans. Purple spectacles today.

  “How many pairs of glasses do you own?”

  He considers this. “Thirty. Maybe thirty-five.”

  I nod to the door of the office. “Carbon monoxide leak?” I guess.

  “Well, isn’t that an OCD state of mind,” he says, rising to his feet.

  “Guilty as charged, Levi.”

  “Come with me,” he says, his hands dipping into his pockets.

  I follow quietly, at first assuming we’re headed to the park, but at the side of the building, Dr. Linderman takes a sharp turn and veers off toward the back. As I move to catch up with him, he holds up a set of keys, pressing a button on a key chain. A car chirps, its headlights flickering to life.

  “A BMW. Believe it or not, I’ve seen a more douchey car than that lately.”

  “Douche-y,” Linderman repeats slowly.

  “Read: ‘pretentious,’” I say, holding up my hands to make air quotes. “And if you think I’m going anywhere near that silver death trap, think again.”

  “We’re just going to get into the car,” he says. “I won’t so much as turn the ignition over. I just want you to sit in the seat, Lennon. Can you do that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, for the sake of arguing that it’s kind of my job to help you, I’m going to need you to dig deep and be able to sit in the car. I’ll be with you the whole time, and we will talk about it.”

  “You sure know how to destroy a perfectly good day.”

  “You’ll be stronger for it in the end.” He smiles warmly. “You got this, Lennon. I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t believe you were ready.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” I tell him. “I’ll never be normal.”

  “You don’t need to be. We’re not trying to change you. You don’t have to be normal.”

  Kyler’s sentiment exits my mouth. “Ordinary can never achieve greatness.”

  “Good thing you’ll never be ordinary,” he says. “And like I told you, no one says you need to be normal. The objective is to focus and take back your control.”

  He stops and looks at me. Dr. Linderman may be a Beverly Hills doctor, but he cares. I can tell he does. “I promise you, Lennon. I only want to help you become stronger, more independent. I hope to see you take back your life, even if it’s hard.”

  I nod, then look at my shoes, because I may not travel in this car, but what if I can sit in it? What if I can lay the first brick in a staircase of life-defining moments right here, right now, today? I remember Kyler and how brave he was. How brave he is. “I’ll try it.…”

  I make it to the car door and rest my fingers on its handle. The second they do, an image of Jacob, bloody and dead, flashes in my brain. A lump solidifies in my throat, and I gulp at the air.

  Jacob could die. People die in cars.

  My dad, arms and legs twisted in a tangled, distorted mess.

  I can’t breathe.

  People die in cars.

  I open the door and gaze across the car’s hood. Dr. Linderman is directly across from me. “How is the anxiety on a scale of one to ten?” he asks.

  “A hundred.”

  He looks at me.

  “Fine, like a nine point five.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That everyone is going to die.”

  He nods. “They might.”

  I can’t breathe.

  Dr. Linderman taps the hood of the car. “Eyes over here, Lennon. Maybe something bad will happen.”

  How is this supposed to be helping?

  “Can you say that?” he says. “Maybe something bad will happen.”

  “Maybe something bad will happen.” I hardly choke the words out.

  “Let’s sit in the car.”

  I fold like a lawn chair and sit. Not because it’s easy, but because I’m about to pass out.

  “Maybe something bad will happen.”

  He says it again, and I think of my dad. I think of how hard he’s trying. He’s the only family I have left. And Jacob and Claire. I think of Kyler. What if something bad happened to him? Tears spring from my eyes and fall down my face, so I close them. My entire body is trembling.

  “Just breathe,” he says. “Breathe and focus. Remember it’s the disease controlling your thoughts and you do have the power to ignore them,” he says. “Even when it seems like you don’t.”

  His words sink in.

  And my hands twitch as if they’re trying to argue his point, to prove that they are in control.

  “Just breathe, Lennon. What’s the anxiety at?”

  “Seven,” I mutter. My heart is slowing, my breaths coming easier.

  It’s the OCD. Nothing will happen to Jacob, Dad, Claire, or Kyler because I’m sitting in this car. Nothing is going to happen to them because of me.

  He makes me sit there, sweating bullets, being afraid, for the full session. When he says we’re done for the day, I cannot get out of there fast enough.

  As I’m walking three steps ahead of him, he hollers, “Lennon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be proud of yourself. It’s a big deal.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

  PERFECT CHEMISTRY

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  LENNON HAD AN APPOINTMENT THIS morning, so instead of being in Chemistry—studying matter—I’m here, soaking up the sun on the east side of the school, thinking about a different kind of chemistry. The Lennon and Kyler kind. A handful of rebels stand fifteen feet or so away, smoking pot or cigarettes and drinking Vitaminwater spiked with vodka.

  The bus’s air brakes hiss, and when she steps off, her focus is on the tips of her sneakers. It’s so unbreakable that she doesn’t even see me. Her hair cascades down, making a curtain for her face, and her shoulders slump so she’s almost hunched over, arms wrapped around her middle as if she can hang on tight enough to keep herself stitched together. My hand shoots to the side to stop her. Her gaze darts up, a wary look painted in her eyes before relief registers on her face.

  “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “Maybe. Shouldn’t the weekend be, like, four days instead of two? Life is full of questions, Lennon.”

  “Dr. Linderman made me sit in his car this morning.”

  So she is trying to keep herself stitched together. She’s wearing the face of fear.

  I reach for the belt loop of her jeans and pull her close, then wrap my arms around her. Her body is rigid at first, but then she exhales and relaxes a bit. “You okay?”

  “Been better. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my morning.”

  I squeeze her and kiss the top of her head. “But you did it, and that is pretty badass.”

  She gives me a small, proud smile. “I did, and you’re right, it is.”

  “You’re a hero,” I say. “You should tell Jacob.”

  She pretends to look at a watch that isn’t on her wrist. “Ego fluffing to commence in three, two…”

  “Touché, Davis.” I release her but slide my fingers through hers. “Let’s go inside, get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken and Beautiful and Badass is on my arm. She’s proud
to be there, and for one infinitesimal speck of time, I hold on to the feeling of a beautiful girl on my arm who is proud to be there, because I know I’m going to lose it. Before I drop her hand, I close my eyes to savor the moment, even just for one infinitesimal speck of time.

  FACT: F*&% CAN BE USED AS A NOUN, VERB,

  ADVERB, ADJECTIVE, AND INTERJECTION.

  THOUGHT: I SHOULD SWEAR MORE OFTEN.

  IT’S A STRANGE THING HAVING the most repulsive start to what turns out to be a beautiful day. A cosmic paradox, if you will. Kyler releases my hand the second we breeze through the school doors. His fingers clench into a fist before raking through his hair, his brows drawing down into a pained expression. No part of him wants to let go. I don’t want him to let go, either. He moves to pull away from me, but I grasp the tips of his fingers with mine and bring him back to me. “What’s wrong? Scared of being seen with the crazy girl?”

  He’s stunned for a moment before he links our fingers together, a cautious smile flittering across his face. “As if, Davis. Being the nice guy that I am, I was simply doing what’s right and thinking about what this means for you. You’re about to walk headfirst into a hot iron. The most damaging branding on your high school reputation for being with the number one social reject of Hell Air Learning Academy. There might not be any coming back from that. A situation like this is less like testing the waters, more like diving into a typhoon headfirst. Seems only fair to give you the chance to back out while you can.” He pauses for a breath. “I’d also like to discredit your theory I’d be the one afraid to be seen with you by adding that no one but me knows you’re doing battle with those OCD terrorists all the time. Your secret’s safe with me, kid. Just trying to give you options.”

  “For a social reject, you’re kind of adorable, too.”

  As predicted, everybody stares.

  Unexpected: Neither of us cares.

  We walk through the doors of the cafeteria; I lean in close to him. “I feel liberated.”

  “From?”

  “A demon.”

  Kyler gives me a sideways glance and squeezes my hand. “Could be a band name. Liberated Demons. Think about it.”

  “Our slogan could be ‘No Fucks Left to Give.’”

  Kyler freezes, his feet glued to the floor as the weight of every single person with cautious glances presses down on us. Spectators who have no idea they’re about to witness a miracle. A look of understanding flashes across his face and he turns, the corners of his beautiful mouth curl into a mischievous grin. “Did you just swear, Lennon?”

  I nod. “I believe I did swear, yes.”

  He lowers his hoodie to expose his face, reaches out, snakes an arm around my waist, and pulls me in so hard, he almost flattens me against his chest. “I love it when you talk dirty,” he says, and before I realize what’s happening, Kyler Benton’s tongue is down my throat.

  The air in the entire cafeteria is sucked out in a vacuum. One silent moment where this is a big thing that feels like a big thing because it’s never happened before. A spot in time where there is nothing but him and me and the electric currents that fire through our cells. A single second that changes everything until it’s stolen by the students who begin to clap and cheer.

  My heart grows so big, it’s going to burst.

  Heat surges through me like wildfire, and I bite my lower lip to stop my foolish grin from spreading. “We should eat.”

  “Eating is a fine idea.” Kyler sweeps his arm in the direction of the lunch lineup.

  I order a turkey burger with salad, Kyler orders an old-fashioned cheeseburger with fries, and ten minutes later we are standing at a table where Austin, Emmett, and Silas are seated and avoiding eye contact as if watching Kyler and me kiss is the most uncomfortable thing they’ve ever done.

  Silas stands and switches chairs to make sure the two empty ones are side by side. I sit and say, “Thanks.”

  He nods. “Don’t mention it.”

  Kyler sits, too, and takes a huge bite of his burger at the same time that Emmett asks, “So, Lennon, are you coming to our gig?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I look at Kyler because he hasn’t exactly invited me. His eyes go wide and he finishes chewing his food and swallows. “Whatcha looking at me for, Davis? I’d like to know, too. Are you coming?”

  “Am I invited?”

  “We just sucked face in the cafeteria, what do you think?”

  I turn to look at Emmett. “Yes,” I say. “I’d love to come.”

  The rest of the afternoon, anywhere Kyler and I go, people look, they whisper, they speculate. I think someone tags Kyler in a picture of our kiss on Instagram, but none of that matters because this, this is my normal, and it’s not normal at all. And that’s okay.

  I can’t rid myself of the grin for the entire day, and when he walks home from school with me, his fingers still tangled in mine, I can’t remember the last time I ever felt this happy. Maybe there wasn’t a last time.…

  “We should walk together in the mornings,” he says. “Until you’re ready to drive, that is. I know you don’t believe it, but one day you will be.”

  “Just like one day you won’t need your hoodies, or masks.”

  He nods. “Maybe. But today, it was huge, Lennon. Huge things have been happening to me a lot lately.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “me too.”

  “I think it’s time to celebrate. Agree?”

  “Agree.”

  “Tree house. After dinner,” he says. “You can bring your notebook. We’ll work on English to make sure our project is ready next week, and then we’ll do whatever the hell we feel like because we earned it.”

  “I’m almost done—the mask,” I say.

  “Is it dark and gothic?”

  “Depends on how you feel about bedazzling.”

  He laughs. “I was going for something harder, more mysterious, but I trust you.”

  “Back to square one,” I tease. I think about the mask. It’s almost complete. It’s a little dark, a little twisted, but beautiful. Like him.

  I’m proud of the mask, but he doesn’t need it. I wish he could see himself the way I do—the truth I see reflected in an old soul that has too much wisdom for a seventeen-year-old kid, the smile on his lips when he’s observing me and doesn’t think I notice, the waters of his eyes, calm as a glass sea yet harboring the constant threat of a riptide. What I don’t notice are the burns on his face. I am blind to the story he wears on his skin—yet I love them, those terrible scars I cannot see—because without them, he wouldn’t be Kyler. And some days, even though I know my own happiness is up to me, Kyler is the reason I remember how to smile.

  After promising to meet in the tree house at seven, we part ways at the stretch of fence between our houses. As I come through the door, Oscar races out from behind a kitchen cupboard and offers a sad bark accompanied by a wagging tail. I crouch down and pat his head. He happily accepts my greeting, jumping up on his hind legs to hold his paws up in an effortless display of cuteness.

  “Pretty quiet around here,” I tell him. I scoop him up in my arms and head straight for my room. I set Oscar down on the end of the bed, on top of a plaid throw. I’ve unpacked a handful of things from one of my many Maine boxes in an effort to make my room less generic and more inviting while Trixie works her magic, which I have yet to see any real evidence of. After placing my bag on the left side of my desk, I pick up the mask to examine it.

  It will cover approximately one half of his face. I used the plaster mold as a base and have built up layer after layer of papier-mâché and latex. I follow the curvature of the scales, crafted to resemble those of a beast.

  Kyler is seventeen. He was not born in the year of the dragon, but he sure reminds me of one, and I used that for inspiration. The most powerful figure of the zodiac and rumored to be an intellectual hothead. In some cultures, dragons are said to represent strength, courage, balance, and magic. And to me, he is all of these things: strong, brave, and able
to make an ordinary world seem extraordinary. My fingers extend to touch the piece I’ve fashioned into a replica of one of the two deadly horns seen on a ram or an ibex.

  I gather the paint I need, turn on the overhead light, and begin to finish the small, delicate strokes that will bring the mask to life so it can keep hidden the face of someone whose thoughts and ideas could change the world.

  There’s a knock at my door. I don’t stop painting. Hyperfocused on making it perfect. “Come in.”

  Claire peeks her head in. “Lennon, we’re going to a dinner party, sugar.”

  NO FUCKS LEFT TO GIVE

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  THE BAND PRACTICES FOR AN hour before supper, and after everybody leaves, I head to the kitchen. It’s 6:00 p.m. Every night since I can remember, we eat promptly at 6:15, so I’m surprised to find my mother standing at the counter, chopping herbs, looking pleased, and humming to herself while pots steam and bubble on the stove behind her. Normally she’d be setting the table or plating the food, but dinner isn’t even close to ready. I glance at my phone to check the time to make sure I’m not early.

  “Everything okay, Mom?”

  She stops chopping the pile of green in front of her. “Hi, honey,” she says. “How was your day?”

  I gesture toward the herbs on her chopping block and fetch a Coke from the fridge. “Day was great. Are we having company?” It’s the best guess I’ve got. If we don’t eat at 6:15, it’s because my dad is bringing home some work associate or a grateful client. The other option is worse, which says a lot. My aunt Betty and uncle Robert sometimes materialize for surprise visits, bringing with them my cousin, Solomon. The forced conversation that always takes place ends with me pondering how many IQ points I’ve been robbed of in the hour of my life I’ll never get back.

  She nods and resumes chopping. “I told your sister to tell you.”