All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I nod. Unable to speak.

  He applies pressure on two of the fingers of our left hands, and as I move my right one to strum the set of strings, I feel his right hand slip to my side and underneath the fabric of my T-shirt. He rests it there, just above the waistline of my jeans, and even though his hand is frozen in place, the tips of his fingers trace fire into the skin near my belly button. I inhale sharply and try to focus on strumming.

  “Go,” he says. “Do it.”

  I strum. He slides our fingers both horizontally and vertically down and presses again. “Again.”

  We repeat this a couple more times. The hand he has resting on my belly slides more boldly in exploration with every note we play until it feels as if he’s strumming me, making music with his hands on my skin. My body and mind both betray me, because as he touches me, I let out these uncontrolled breaths and utter little whimpers that have no business escaping from my mouth. It’s accompanied by chills, tingles, and an ache that’s so foreign to me I have no idea how to react.

  Kyler seems unaffected, his focus on the chords of the song. “We’re going to do it faster this time, the transitions from one note to the next.”

  Easy for him to say. He’s not the one being tortured at the moment. I pause and listen for a change in his breathing, anything to indicate he’s as on edge as I am, but I get nothing.

  We repeat the chords at a faster pace until suddenly, we’re playing something beautiful.

  He rests his chin on my shoulder as he glides my fingers seamlessly across the frets, and I strum in the same rhythm. He sings, each word soft, his tone curving seamlessly around them.

  “A girl like you, untouchable,

  You’re haunting all my dreams,

  I wish you could be mine somehow,

  But that’s hard for me to see.”

  Our fingers continue to dance from fret to fret. My breath continues to tremble, my body continues to buzz, and my brain starts to fire as it processes the words he’s singing.

  “I have no faith in fateful things,

  I’ll always be alone,

  You could change my life, and make it right,

  Show my heart it’s home.”

  The tension in his words soaks into my pores and seeps through me. The tenor of his voice, the closeness of our bodies consumes me, and when Kyler pauses long enough to play a few extra notes and says, “Lennon’s song,” I come unglued.

  My hand falls from the guitar and he squeezes my side. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

  I shake my head. I spin to face him and wonder if the look on his face reflects my own. Vulnerable. Having reached that point of a relationship there is no coming back from. When you look at the other person and know, without question, that your hearts beat in sync, that your minds are connected, even if they’re broken, and that you will never be the same person again no matter what happens. “That song’s a bit tragic,” I say, sucking in a breath. “Show me that we aren’t a tragedy.”

  I climb on top of him, lock my fingers through his hair, and I kiss him.

  He grabs the sides of my face with his hands. “You’re beautiful.”

  I kiss him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I kiss him until it feels right.

  Fifty-five times.

  And like any good OCD girl would do, I repeat the process.

  LUST Я US

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  LAST NIGHT. LAST NIGHT. LAST NIGHT.

  I cannot stop thinking about it and I wonder if this is a small taste of what Lennon’s mind is like all the time. My brain is flooded with memories of how she smelled, the taste of fruit on her mouth, the way she reacted to my touch. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised: me or her.

  She comes to the end of her driveway, in her sneakers, with huge, messy hair and a backpack slung over her shoulders. Her skin is glowing, her face flushed hues of pink. She doesn’t even try to hide her massive smile when I approach.

  “Good morning, sunshine. I realize we had a pretty wicked make-out session, Davis, but you’re sparkling like I did utterly unspeakable and indecent things to you last night.”

  Her blush goes from pink to scarlet.

  “I feel like a make-out junkie,” she says.

  I bring my hand to her face. “Could be a band name, Lennon. Make-Out Junkies.” I lean in and kiss her before saying, “Think about it.”

  She giggles. “We’d need a slogan.”

  “Make-Out Junkies. Lust Я Us.” I kiss her a second time and pull away. “As much as I’d rather stand right here in this spot with my mouth on top of yours, we should get to school. There’s a mandatory assembly on cyberbullying this afternoon. Can’t miss that, now can we?”

  She grabs my hand. “No, definitely not.”

  * * *

  I spend the entire first part of the day attending classes, but really my brain is a million miles away. Imagining and replaying various scenarios of the make-out session with Lennon. I’ve kissed girls, sure, but it was never like that. A tornado of feelings and secret thoughts spilled out through lips and hands, and it’s all I can do to make it through the morning without trying for a repeat performance in the janitor’s closet.

  Lennon is getting extra help with math at lunchtime, so by the time the announcement comes on about the quarterly “awareness assembly” I’m itching to see her. Four times a year we’re forced to attend them and acknowledge whatever cause some committee has in mind. Whether it’s saving villages in need of clean drinking water or arming the students with information about drug use and the serious risks associated with sexual promiscuity. Today, we get cyberbullying.

  I can hardly contain my excitement.

  The assembly is in the gym. The lifeblood of high school. Home to pep rallies, basketball games, and school dances. Right now students are spread out everywhere, mumbling about math tests and who is going out with whom. Some are shouting, yelling loudly across the gym at their peers, occupying the bleachers in large groups.

  I put my hand on the small of Lennon’s back to help her up the first step toward the top of the bleachers. There’s less chance of being called on, or made an example of this way. Silas, Austin, and Emmett are all seated.

  Students continue to pour in for a few moments before Principal Walsh takes his place at the podium erected in the middle of the gym. The microphone on the podium gives feedback for a moment, but then the buzzing stops, and the room falls silent save for a couple of students coughing and a soul or two daring enough to finish their thoughts to their friends in hushed whispers.

  “I’d like to welcome you to our assembly on cyberbullying. Thank you all for coming.”

  ’Cause we had a choice.

  Lennon leans down to root in her backpack for something. She locates a bottle of water and takes a sip before screwing the lid shut, smiling at me, and setting it down.

  “…and that is why it’s important to take a stand,” Principal Walsh is saying. “We’ll watch a short film and then hold an open-forum discussion. I’d like to encourage conversation and participation.”

  The lights dim, and a video comes on the three big screens placed throughout the gym. Bel Air Learning Academy Awareness Assemblies Presents: Cyberbullying. Take a Stand.

  The music that accompanies the slides is off; it doesn’t transition in time with the images being presented. Something about that prompts an irritating tic in my brain. Maybe that’s what the color red is like for Lennon. The video starts by listing facts about cyberbullying. Statistics about the number of kids who are victims, different mediums where cyberbullying can occur, how the law is starting to change regarding cyberbullying. The video introduction cuts to a group of kids. The footage is clearly pre-internet era, maybe the ’70s or the ’80s. The children on screen talk about being bullied. From name calling to laughing, the schoolyard brute, stuff that parents were told can be chalked up to “kids being kids.”

&nbs
p; It then cuts to a news story dated last year about a fourteen-year-old girl who’d committed suicide because of the extent she was bullied online. Everyone is tuned into the screens, horrified expressions on their faces, while the camera shows a pretty girl smiling, living the American dream, and then it shows her heartbroken mother, and then her headstone.

  The next image in the documentary makes no sense. It’s a screen cap with my name, KYLER BENTON, displayed on what appears to be my Facebook account.

  I whip my phone from my pocket and open the app, but a screen pops up to request that I sign in. I enter my log-in information, but it flashes and tells me I don’t have the correct username and password combination.

  I try it a second time and the same message appears.

  Horrified, I look back to the screen to digest what is currently displayed for all to see. My status reads: I LOVE my crazy girlfriend…she really is…crazy…

  Directly underneath the text is a picture of a letter, shot as close as possible to blur the background yet still produce a clear image of the words scrawled on the paper. There’s a logo at the top from Riverview Psychiatric Center, in Maine.

  My eyes scan the picture.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  Please find all documentation related to patient Lennon Davis, age 16, enclosed. A broad overview is below; however, you will find detailed reports and recommendations contained within the attached documents. Please don’t hesitate to contact me should you have any questions or concerns.

  Davis, Lennon. 16.

  Patient displays symptoms of identified obsessive-compulsive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. Patient speaks of being plagued by intrusive thoughts, dominated by thoughts or disturbing images of harm to loved ones. Patient’s compulsions vary; however, repetitive behaviors in patterns of five are predominant. Patient displays a need for logic and order. Having undergone a recent trauma with the death of her mother, the patient’s symptoms worsened, and she was subsequently placed in our facility.

  The room comes to life. Phones hum and buzz, ding and vibrate in every direction. People begin to talk. The lights in the gym flash on and Principal Walsh rushes to the laptop, demanding that everyone remain calm, but it’s no use. Every student in Bel Air Learning Academy has pictures of Lennon’s medical records on their phone right now.

  My eyes dart to Lennon, and hers are wide with terror, with shock, and they’re filling fast with tears of humiliation. My hand shoots out to cover hers. “I didn’t do this, you know that, right?”

  She nods, blinks, and silent tears pour down her face. I stand up and make my voice as loud as I can. “Shut the fuck up. You closed-minded rejects of society. You walk around here like you’re something else, but everyone knows the truth. You.” I direct my speech to Elizabeth Ronan, for no other reason than she’s the first one I see. “Think no one knows you snort your brother’s Ritalin in the bathroom at lunch? I hope the minuscule amount of brain matter you have bleeds from your nose.” I look at Chase and his buddies. “And, Chase, my friend, if you don’t think we all know your dad is boning Cynthia Lancaster’s much younger mother, think again. And you.” I point to Ally Winters, who was so engrossed in the drama of Lennon moments ago, and is now staring at me, her mouth open in horror. My words exit with the force of fire from a dragon’s mouth in the heated silence. “We all know your sister is away at rehab because she was addicted to coke. She’s not at the school for athletes you told everyone she had a scholarship to.”

  I grab Lennon’s hand, but she’s stiff. I squeeze it, but she’s still staring at the screen, her eyes huge and rimmed red, her body shaking.

  “Is she okay?” Silas asks.

  I stand up and wrap my arm around her waist to pull her up. It gets her attention. “Walk out of here with me. We don’t need to stay here.”

  She nods robotically. I take her hand and together we talk down the stairs, and as I get to the door of the gymnasium, I don’t bother saying anything but I do extend my middle finger and hope like hell they all see it.

  FACT: AS FAR AS DAYS OF THE WEEK GO, FRIDAY HOLDS

  THE RECORD FOR MOST AUTOMOTIVE ACCIDENTS,

  CYBERATTACKS, AND DECLARATIONS OF WAR.

  TEARS SCORCH MY EYES AND blur the gym, the students, the teachers. Everything is covered in a dense fog. Dark, vast emptiness stretches out in front of me and extends to either side. I attempt to focus on my shoes, but my brain flips to a spin cycle that hurls a million feelings into the pit of my belly at the exact same time. Humiliation. Anger. Rage. Betrayal. Embarrassment. Loneliness. Heartache. Loss. Grief. I’m completely exposed.

  Topsy. Turvy.

  Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.

  My heart strikes my chest, punishing my airway, and for every gulp of oxygen I’m desperate to take in, an inferno spreads in my lungs. I’ve ingested poison and it hurts to breathe. I gulp hard and fast as Kyler’s arms hold me tight. He helps me to the gym door and outside where the air is just as thick, maybe even thicker, and he leads me to the parking lot, steering me in the direction of his bright blue car. I dig my feet into the pavement and my nails into the skin on his arm. “No.”

  His breath warms my ear, but his voice is a million miles away. “You’ve got to trust me,” he says, releasing his grip. “Lennon, please, I’m trying to help you.”

  “No.” The taste of salt drips onto my tongue as the tears that put it there fall. I shake my head quickly—too quickly—and make myself dizzy. Kyler spins to face me. “Please, we don’t have a lot of time. They’re gonna come out of that school with their cell phones up and you’ll be all over YouTube in a matter of minutes.” His voice drops. “Listen to me, I know how scared you must be. I know every single cell in your body, every instinct inside of you is telling you not to get into that car with me. I know how much you’re fucking hurting, but please, trust me. You can do this, Lennon.” He rests his forehead on mine. “You can be whatever you need to be with me, just get in the car. I’m trying to protect you.” His eyes dart to the doors of the school, clouding with the kind of desperation I’ve seen only a handful of times.

  The hot fingers of fear grip my throat and squeeze. I inhale sharply, but it’s still a blaze in my lungs and makes me gasp instead.

  Kyler will die in the car.

  Don’t you see, Kyler? I’m trying to protect you.

  I shake my head a second time. The liquid fire on my cheeks and the California air fuse together, and I’m in flames. Like the boy standing in front me. Kyler Benton who was burned in a house fire, who is everything I never knew I was missing. Kyler Benton who will die if I get into his car.

  “You’ll die.” My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. It trembles and cracks in a million fractured pieces.

  Kyler’s hands reach out for my face and I glower, afraid I’ll burn them, too. “I won’t die, Lennon. I promise you I will not die, not in this car, on this day. Please, I am begging you to get in this car.”

  Kyler will die in the car.

  Kyler. Will. Die. In. The. Car.

  “No,” I say more firmly. “I can’t.”

  “You can do this. You can do anything. More than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.” The familiar prickle that I hate tickles the tips of my fingers as they, too, ignite. I sob again.

  Kyler opens the car door. “Please. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I promise you, I’ll be okay.”

  He’ll be okay.

  The dismissal bell rings.

  How long have we been standing here?

  I settle into the car and pull my legs in. He shuts the door, and I tap before he’s even seated. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  He fires the ignition at the precise moment hundreds of curious students are expelled from the school doors—a swarm of teenage locusts.

  “Shit,” he mutters. He slams the car into reverse, swings h
is arm around the back side of my chair, and looks behind him. Once he’s out of the stall, he hammers into drive and doesn’t even stop at the stop sign before we are gone.

  The movement of the vehicle makes me ill, so I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter something under my breath about breathing, and I tap. I tap, I tap, I tap, I tap, I tap. Faster, harder, and with more vigor than I’ve ever committed to doing anything. Because if I tap enough times, at the proper speed, with the proper pressure, Kyler will not die. And I’ll do anything to save him. Me? I’m already dead.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  I don’t know what streets he’s navigating. I don’t know how long we’ve been driving, but I recognize when we stop. There’s a click as the door opens, and Kyler extends his hand to tug at mine. “C’mon, Lennon, let’s get out of the car.”

  I stand and grab hold of his hand, unsure of my legs’ ability to perform their function of keeping me upright. Kyler holds on to the tips of my fingers with one hand while he shuts the door with the other. I drop his hand as soon as the alarm signals that it’s locked so I can grasp the door handle. Tears continue to burn at my eyes, my nose is plugged, and there is a knot in my throat the size of a grapefruit.