“The worst. Answer my question.”
“Yeah, Kyler, I like your sister more than as a friend. If you stopped playing the enforcer, maybe you’d see that she’s pretty awesome.”
“I know she’s awesome. She’s my sister.”
“I know that, too.” He shuts the trunk and turns to face me. “I have nothing but respect for the fact that she’s your sister, and I know you aren’t too crazy about the idea of me being with her. So if you truly forbid it, I’ll back off, but you’re the one who suggested I teach her guitar, so you can explain why I won’t be doing that anymore. I’m not going to be the one to make her sad. I’d rather die a slow and agonizing death than be the reason behind one of Macy’s tears.”
“Do you mean that?”
“A hundred percent. Your sister is smart and funny, not to mention beautiful. I know the type of guy she deserves, but what I can’t understand is why you seem to think it impossible that it could be me. I’m not an epic douchebag.”
“You’re two years older than her.”
He laughs. “If that’s your only reason, it’s a bad one.”
He’s right. It is.
A sixth-sense intuition strikes me that my very own words will come back to bite me in the ass here. There are two things on earth you don’t fight against. Mother Nature and love. Follow that law and life will be incredible, but if you try to fight either one of them, boom. Game over.
“Take her out, then,” I say. Then I point my finger at him and remind him one last time: “You better treat her like a goddamned princess. You shouldn’t date your friend’s sister, but if you’re going to break the cardinal rule, remember the bro code. I will be forced to hurt you badly if you mess with her.”
Silas smiles. “I won’t mess with her. Does this mean I have your blessing?”
“No,” I say, “you don’t have that. I give you a hint of acceptance. That’s as generous as it gets.”
“That’s fine,” he says, “I’ll take it.”
* * *
School has always sucked. With Lennon it sucked less, but she’s gone, and the tension between Silas and me is heavy; even worse, the weight hangs overhead like an ominous veil on a day where the air around us vibrates with excitement.
We’re the center of attention, something I have very mixed feelings about. I spot Andrea in the hallway, and her face looks like she’s spent the morning sucking on lemons. I’m guessing my little Lennon speech last night has pissed her off something fierce, because anyone who has half a brain would argue that I’d never do what she framed me for. I want to say something to her but I don’t, choosing instead to let the school and its student body’s newfound adoration of Fire to Dust do the talking.
I’m irritated with Silas, no doubt, but life hasn’t exactly been handing me nice things lately, and irritated or not, I still don’t mind seeing my friends living the dream, yet it’s requiring a lot of socializing that I’m not used to.
This is the third time we’ve been stopped in fifteen minutes. People are smiling, saying they either heard it was awesome, or they were there and saw for themselves. Two girls ask for my phone number, and Blake Chandler, whom I’ve never spoken with before, has just spent ten minutes telling me about his band, looking at me the whole time like I’m a hero for playing in an underage club.
People I’ve never even noticed before are stopping me in the hallways to tell me what an epic performance that was. It’s cool to be recognized for music, but being a people person is hard.
When Blake leaves, Emmett turns, unable to keep the grin from his face any longer. “This is awesome.”
I wouldn’t call it that. This is madness.
Proof of that comes that same afternoon in the cafeteria. I’ve seen various versions of my proclamation to Lennon followed by my song all over the social media circles of our high school and its known associates. We have a hashtag on Instagram and Twitter, and my phone’s battery is about to bite it because of notifications from every single app and platform conceivable. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted to happen, but if there is one outstanding positive thing about it, it’s that for the time being, Lennon is no longer Hell Air Learning Academy’s hottest topic.
FACT: LEVI JAMES LINDERMAN IS THE BRINGER OF
THE BEST EGG ROLLS ON PLANET EARTH.
LEVI JAMES LINDERMAN VISITS TUESDAYS, Thursdays, and once a weekend. It’s almost guaranteed my father is paying good money for this privilege, but I like to believe Dr. Linderman has become invested in me as a person and not only a paycheck. He’s like an older, wiser friend most of the time rather than a doctor seeking to pick apart my brain.
Lemon-yellow eyeglass frames circle his eyes today; he’s wearing a white shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and jeans. A shoe box is tucked under his arm, and a plastic bag near-bursting with cartons of Chinese food is looped around the other.
I grin as soon as he enters the room. “It’s like you know me.”
He holds up the takeout bag. “Well, I can’t promise it’s the fine dining you’re accustomed to, but the egg rolls are spectacular.” With his free hand, he grabs the shoe box and holds it out. “I stopped by your place on my way over so I could talk to your dad. Jacob was insistent that I bring you this. Its contents have passed the vetting process at the check-in desk.”
I take the shoe box and open its lid. Inside are four paper airplanes. Dr. Linderman raises an eyebrow, so I shut the lid and try to explain. “It’s his new thing, paper airplanes.” I point to the one he swapped for mine that sits on my desk.
“Ah yes,” he says. “I noticed. Young Jacob was proud of the large selection he’d made.” He nods toward the box. “That’s but a sampling.”
I wonder if one of the planes is mine. If that’s Jake’s way of returning it when he realized his mistake. I set the shoe box on the bed and rub my hands together. “Now, down to more serious matters, I believe you spoke of spectacular egg rolls.”
He moves to the small table nestled between two armchairs, sets the food down, and sits in one of the chairs. I take a seat across from him and pull apart the chopsticks while he unpacks the food. I snatch a carton at random, and when I open it I’m pleased to have chicken chow mein. My mom and I used to have these lazy rainy-day weekends where we’d lie in her bed all day watching documentaries and emerging only when pizza, chicken, or Chinese food was delivered.
Dr. Linderman appears to have scored ginger beef. He chews, swallows, and says, “I was chatting with Dr. Waxman. He’s deeply impressed with your progress. He’s reporting that you’re doing remarkably well, Lennon.”
“Yeah. I can’t lie, it’s a nice place. But I want to get out of here.”
“You’re well on your way.”
“We’ll see about that. I have a horrible feeling my dad’s gauge on whether I’m mentally fit to come back home is centered around a return to school, which will never happen.”
“Never say never, Lennon. Maybe you’ll feel otherwise.”
“Doubtful,” I say. “Nothing can ever fix what happened.”
“Maybe,” he allows, “but you can resolve to own it or choose to run from it.”
“Says the guy who—wait for it—doesn’t have OCD.”
He smirks. “Right you are, but I know a thing or two about it.”
“I bet.”
He switches cartons, and his face lights up as he proudly displays an egg roll between his chopsticks before handing the carton to me. “Try one,” he says. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re talking up these egg rolls so much, I’m scared to try one. What if they don’t live up to the hype you’ve diligently created?”
“They will,” he answers without a moment’s hesitation. “So, tell me something—let’s assume your father doesn’t base his decision on your willingness to return to school, and you get out of here. What are you looking forward to the most?”
I almost choke on my egg roll. “Egg rolls that taste like this.”
“I
told you: spectacular,” he says. “Now the truth. What will make you happiest?”
“Kyler, obviously.”
He reaches into the carton for a second egg roll. “I notice you’re deeply connected to this young man.”
I grin. “You got that, did you?”
“I think perhaps you should stop and think about that.”
I take another egg roll. “Are you serious right now, Levi? Are you suggesting I’m obsessing over him, as an individual with obsessive-compulsive disorder may be predisposed to do? There’s a reason it’s called obsessive-compulsive disorder. I can promise you, although I appreciate your concern, it is not an obsession with a human being. It’s an obsession with who I can be with that person. Aside from with my mom, I’ve never felt okay with being myself, I’ve never been comfortable in my skin that way with anybody except her, until him. I didn’t have to hide behind some lie to keep up appearances. I didn’t have to pretend to be ordinary, I could just be.”
He sets his chopsticks down and brings his hands to his jaw thoughtfully; it’s a total clichéd shrink move, but I’ll allow it. “That’s fascinating you would say that.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“Well, you mentioned you could be yourself around him—that’s what you like. Yet the door has only just opened for you to own this, Lennon, and be yourself, but you refuse to walk back through it and face your peers. Did you ever stop to consider they might accept this about you, too?”
“Hasn’t even crossed my mind,” I say, “because that sounds like some fantastical idea a guy who knows zilch about OCD would say.” I pause. “Wanna try again, Levi?”
His answer surprises me. “I’ll pass,” he says. “As tempting as the offer is, if you don’t adjust your attitude, there’s nothing I can say or do that will change it. But I am curious about one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What do you hate most about OCD?”
I set the carton of noodles down. “What don’t I hate most about OCD? That it’s work to be who everybody believes I should be, it controls me, it killed my mom. That is what I detest the most about it. It killed my mother. She’s dead because I’m this way.”
Levi sets his carton down, too, and joins his hands together, leaning back into the armchair, assuming a secondary proper shrink position. “It didn’t kill your mother, Lennon. An intoxicated driver did.”
“She wouldn’t have been driving if I didn’t have OCD.”
He shakes his head. “You are convinced you know that to be true, but who is to say she wouldn’t have been out gathering up dry cleaning, or going to the hair salon? There are circumstances in life that are a matter of crappy coincidence. You did not cause your mother’s death.”
I stay silent.
“Can you believe me when I say that?” he asks.
“Maybe. One day.”
Levi nods. “Not before you’re ready.”
“My turn to ask you something.”
“Shoot. I’m an open book.”
“Do you think my dad keeping me away from my friends, my life, is the right choice?”
“I think he thinks it’s what’s right for you. He doesn’t wish you to see hurtful or harmful things on social media.”
“He won’t even let me text Kyler. He doesn’t believe me that Kyler wouldn’t do it.”
“Give it time,” he advises. “Besides, when true love is offered to us, Lennon, time or distance won’t matter.”
“Ever been in love, Levi?”
“Yes,” he says, “I have. Her name was Melanie and she was”—he pauses, in search of the right word—“extraordinary. Unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I met her on a trip to Bali, we hit it off right away, found out we both lived in LA. When we had returned home and settled, we dated.”
“So, was it true love?”
“Yes, Lennon, I have no doubt it was.”
“Why aren’t you with her?”
“Ovarian cancer,” he replies.
My stomach knots. Not the answer I was expecting. My hands tremble as I set the carton down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite all right,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
“How did you know? That what you felt was real?”
“I stopped searching for proof. I quieted my mind when it questioned me. I listened to my heart.”
“My heart tells me it wants to go home. Where he is.”
“At this point in your treatment, you can leave when you feel you’re ready, assuming you have your father’s support, but I urge you to wait until that’s truly the case. Like I said before, you’re making tremendous progress—and please let me remind you, this isn’t a mandated institution, Lennon. You aren’t committed here like one may be in a psychiatric hospital. You can leave, but know everyone around you right now is trying to help you get your life back. Everyone has your best interests in mind. Even your dad.”
We finish our Chinese food in a comfortable silence, and when I bid the good doctor good-bye, I apologize for bringing up his pain. “I bet she was a total babe.”
He smirks. “She was. Have a good night, Lennon. I’ll see you Thursday.”
“Can you bring pizza?”
“Your wish is my command.”
Dr. Linderman leaves and I perform my bedtime ritual fifteen times. I don’t even know why I’m doing it—I’m currently in control of my thoughts—but my anxiety spiked after talking about Kyler and my mother, and Dr. Linderman’s Melanie.
Just as I’m ready to crawl into bed and end the day, I spot the shoe box I’d forgotten about. I grab it, sit down, lift the lid, and peer inside. None of them look like the plane I’d made, but one has a musical note on its wing.
My heart stops.
My hand shakes as I reach into the box to get it, picking it up before unfolding it. As Kyler’s handwriting reveals itself, my heart accelerates. It’s just as excited as I am.
And Jacob. What a mastermind. I’d underestimated him.
Plans for sleep are foiled by the adrenaline I feel from reading the letter. I read it five times, then fold it back into an airplane and set it on the bedside table. I grab my notebook and my pen and head to one of the lounges.
Cecilia is in there with another patient, Aubrey. Aubrey has a different subset of OCD than me, one that it could be argued is worse. She’s a germophobe and spends a large percentage of her life doing things to ensure she or members of her family do not get sick. Cecilia is sprawled across the couch while Aubrey is perched on a single cushion as if the sofa is ground zero for the bubonic plague, her spine ramrod straight. They’re talking about makeup and plastic surgery. Cecilia is checking her phone intermittently, and she bolts to her feet when I enter. “You look happy,” she says.
“I am.”
“I would be, too.”
That makes little sense. My feet stop moving and I look at her. “You don’t even know what I’m happy about.”
“Hell yes, I do. It’s everywhere. Even with them blocking your social media, I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”
She’s frustrating me. “Heard what?”
“About your boyfriend.”
My feet unglue themselves from the floor as I dash to where she’s standing. “What about my boyfriend?”
Germophobe Aubrey smiles.
“Your boyfriend, Kyler. That’s his name, right? Kyler? You said he was in a band.”
“Yeah, he’s in a band.”
She flops on the couch and pats the cushion. I take a seat next to her, and Aubrey scoots across the cushions to Cecilia’s other side. Cecilia swipes her finger across the screen of the phone, mumbling, “I’m only guessing, but with names like Lennon and Kyler, I mean, it’s hard to think it’s anyone else.” She taps the screen again and holds her phone resting on her lap so the three of us can get a good view. And there he is. Kyler, on someone named Lisbeth Beauchamp’s Instagram. Lisbet
h had checked into Shade, and in a small, perfect square a video is displayed.
“Everyone is talking about it,” Cecilia says. “It’s spreading like wildfire.”
I’m about to reach out and click the small triangle to play the video, but Cecilia does it first.
Kyler’s voice, which I haven’t heard in so long, comes from the speakers of her phone. “Actually, no, she’s a lot weird. And I love every quirky, strange, weird, flummoxing, inexplicable thing she does.”
The crowd quiets.
“I wrote this song for her. This is its second incarnation because I played it for her once, and she said it was tragic and that she didn’t want us to be a tragedy, but, uh, yeah, I guess you’ll hear the new and improved version of Lennon’s song.”
He sings the first few lines of my song, and my body decides now is a good time to recall what happened the last time I heard it. I lean closer to the screen, forgetting for a moment that I’m not viewing it alone, and the smile on my face is impossibly wide.
“That’s him, right?” Cecilia asks. She’s proud, like she’s cracked some great code in the mystery of Lennon and Kyler.
I nod. “That’s him.”
“You are so lucky. What I wouldn’t do to have a guy like that write a song for me.”
“Me too,” Aubrey offers.
I ask Cecilia if we can watch it again, and we do four more times to total five. I want to steal her phone and bring it to bed with me, so I can watch him, hear him, over and over and over. Instead, I take my notebook to my room and pen my letter back.
Dear Kyler,
First off, may I take a moment to say Jacob is a little mastermind—the kind of kid who will take over the world someday with his ingenious brain. Talk about resourceful!
As for the performance at Shade, would you believe me if I told you I’ve seen it? Cecilia Prescott (yes, the one you’re thinking of) is here at Willow. Since she’s the child of a megacelebrity, she has everything. Including her cell phone.
My dad refuses to let me have mine, even if I earn it on the points system. He figures I’ll be too traumatized by the evils of social media to continue, plus, well, you, but I digress. Since Cecilia’s father isn’t a dictator, she has her phone and has seen Fire to Dust on social media. I told her you were in a band, I told her your name, and just like that she put it all together. The Instagram post had more likes than I can fathom, I hope you’re proud.
All Our Broken Pieces Page 25