All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I grab my duffel bag from where it’s been sitting in the foyer and head to my room.

  I stop, momentarily wanting to turn the doorknob five times, but I don’t. Bad things might happen. It’s a thought. It’s only a thought. The thought can’t control me. I control the thought.

  I swing open the door, and I gasp. Gone are the gray walls, gone is the gray bedding. Gone is everything. And everything in here is new or mine from home. There’s a fabric headboard, romantic and in a shade of deep royal blue. It’s old-fashioned-looking with diamond shapes spanning its width, and the bed is covered in blankets and pillows. Loads of white blankets in different sizes and textures. The walls are painted a clean white, and everything else in here is blue, green, or purple. There’s a vase beside the bathroom door with peacock feathers.

  I step into the room, feeling my lips pull upward into a smile. There’s a large white dresser, and my heart skips for a moment before I open a drawer and see my clothing organized exactly as I’d had it. A sewing table is set up on the wall opposite my bed, and the contents of my trunk are unpacked into a cabinet with cubbies and labels. Bookcases on one side display my trivia books, stacked into clusters of five, and my mother’s records, cardboard sleeves tucked inside plastic ones.

  I run my fingers along them and notice they’re in alphabetical order. A record player sits by itself on a shelf in the middle. I’m frozen into place, reeling from shock with genuine warmth in my heart, when there is a soft knock at the door.

  I turn to see Claire standing there, her hands held together in front of her. She’s in a pair of sweatpants and a matching hoodie, in muted gray. She smiles sweetly. “Your daddy said your favorite color was purple, but your friend Ashley told me it was blue, and Jacob insisted on adding green, so I told Trixie to use a little of each.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Mind if I come in, sweetie?”

  “No, of course not.”

  She enters the room and sits gingerly on the bed. “Listen, sugar, I know your daddy is being real stubborn right about now, but he thinks it’s for your own good.”

  I wouldn’t have invited her in if I knew she was going to defend my father. “It’s not. Claire, Kyler didn’t do it.”

  “He threatened Andrea, Lennon. And trust me”—she holds up a hand—“I can see how that might be easy to do if I were him, but he shouldn’t have done it regardless of whether Andi is responsible for the incident.”

  I sit on the bed beside her. “Are you telling me you don’t think I’m lying? That Andrea is the one who did it?”

  “I’m telling you I’m not as willing as your daddy to rule out the possibility that she’s not. Listen, I came in here to apologize for asking you about the interview. I wanted to wait until you were home so I could properly apologize, one on one. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I thought it might be helpful for you.”

  I stop her before she goes any further. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I know I’m not your mama, Lennon,” Claire says, “but I do love you. I care about what happens to you and I want you to know that I’ll do my best to make sure you have the kind of life she would have wanted you to have. Nothing can bring her back.” She reaches out and touches my knee.” But I will make sure you know love any way I can.”

  My eyes burn immediately and as I nod, I feel the hot tears slipping down my cheeks. I swipe them away and mutter, “Thank you.”

  Claire reaches into her pocket and pulls out my cell phone. “Your daddy’s opinion is loud, but I’m his wife, and sometimes my voice is louder than his opinion.”

  My hand shakes as I take it and throw my arms around her neck. “Thank you! Claire! Thank you.”

  She smiles. “You’re welcome.” She stands and points a finger with a stern look on her face and says something my mother would have. “Don’t you be staying up all night looking at that thing, you hear me? Mind the time and get to bed at a decent hour.”

  I look down at my phone like it’s a solid gold bar. “Okay. Thank you.”

  She nods and closes the door softly behind her.

  Before I check a single app, I open my text message screen and compose one.

  My dad thinks he can keep us apart. This means war.

  YOU CAN’T ESCAPE THE HYPOCRITICAL MIND.

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  I MISSED THE ILLUMINATION OF the window on the far right of Josh’s house for forty-two nights, so when the corner of my eye catches the familiar warm flicker, I pick up the remote and pause the movie I’m watching as I wait for the wonder of the Lennon Davis light show to commence. On. Off. Repeat. To my surprise and—I’ll admit it—my disappointment, it doesn’t. I knew parts of her would be better, but I hope they didn’t erase the pieces of her brain that make her extraordinary. The gears and cogs that click and spin inside her mind, and make it turn in the opposite direction from most people, the same direction as mine.

  I pad cautiously across the bedroom toward the window. I need to see her with my own two eyes, without my dad’s presence threatening me. I try to convince myself that I’m not dreaming; she’s home, she is next door, a mere ten yards away from my window. I want to confirm to myself in person that she’s still Lennon. Beautiful. Badass. Lennon. Weeks have passed and I’ve been holding my breath the whole time, waiting for her to return.

  I freeze halfway across the room when my cell phone vibrates in my hand.

  My dad thinks he can keep us apart. This means war.

  She has her phone back. I smile.

  Well hello to you too Lennon. Welcome to this century. Text messaging is what all the young kids do.

  You’re funny. Sorry. Hi. I’m in this century but ready for a battle worthy of a bygone age.

  A historic battle, huh? Did I ever tell you my lifelong dream of dying with valor, Davis?

  This isn’t funny!

  No, I type. It’s not. I’m sorry.

  I hate him.

  You don’t hate him. You hate the circumstance not the person. I’m not Josh’s biggest fan either but I think he believes he’s doing the right thing.

  I don’t care what he believes.

  If it makes you feel any better I tried to race outside and greet you when your car pulled up but my dad stopped me. Stood in front of me with his arms crossed, his neck vein popping like he’s a member of the goddamned secret service. What a tool.

  Why would that make me feel any better? It makes me feel worse. I hate this.

  Don’t cry sunshine. Come to the window. I want to see you.

  I wait for a few seconds before she appears. It’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time. Her face is somber, her hair piled high on her head in what Macy has explained to me is called a topknot. She’s wearing oversized gray sweatpants and a white sleeveless shirt. The kind I’d picture on a guy named Boris with a drinking problem.

  Cute ensemble Davis, are you going for the convict/felon style? If so…nailed it.

  Her gaze is on the phone screen as she bites her bottom lip, fighting a smile. Shut up. That sounds like something a convict/ felon would say. Plus you’re clearly jealous I can pull this style off far better than you.

  Hate to break it to you Davis, but the only time I might be the better looking one is when we’re both dead. Since it’ll be closer to the natural version of me, and you’ll be made up with blue eyeshadow and crimson lips courtesy of some underpaid makeup artist working in the morgue. As for today’s fashion I’m practically a convicted felon anyway according to your dad. Violent and unpredictable.

  My dad knows nothing. I miss you.

  He assumes I did something terrible to you. Add to that the fact I punched a dent into the locker beside Andrea’s head and I’m on the no-fly list.

  What are we going to do?

  Easy. I’m light years ahead of you. Are you ready for my wisdom?

  If you have a solution let’s hear it.

  I don’t want to type it because th
e answer is obvious and I’m not sure how she’ll react to me pointing it out.

  All you have to do is come to school tomorrow. We’ll skip and I’ll make you shine by doing speakable and respectful things to you in the parking lot of the country club.

  She pauses before she types, I can’t go back there.

  Yes, I reply. You can.

  Kyler…I can’t…you don’t understand. That was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.

  Wait. Is she serious?

  I punch the Facetime button on my phone with my thumb. She answers. I don’t even say hello. I open with “You’re so many kinds of wrong on this, Lennon. I understand. I understand more clearly than anyone else.”

  Her eyes are extra small on the screen, yet they still bore into me like lasers. “You may understand what it’s like to be different. I’m not saying you don’t, because you are. But I can look at you and see right away what makes us different. When all the problems are a product of your mind, when it’s not something logical or tangible…I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re different brands of different and there’s a stigma with mine.”

  That’s the stupidest reasoning I’ve ever listened to. “A stigma? Really? Is that some fancy word you learned at the world-renowned Willow Recovery Center?”

  Her brows pinch together. “What?”

  “A stigma. Pardon me, but fuck that. You think I don’t know what it’s like for people to assume something bad about me is true without ever so much as questioning it? Are you for real?” I suck in a breath. “I’m about to say something, Lennon, and it will piss you off something fierce. It’s been my experience that when you call someone on their bullshit, they get defensive.”

  Her skin flushes pink. She’s angry already. But I have to risk saying what I need to say because she won’t get it otherwise, she won’t understand. “I have to call you on it. Because in truth, it’s a little fucking hypocritical that your letters were filled with meaningless garbage about having faith in yourself and fucking with fear when you won’t even come to school.”

  I dare a glance at her. Her lips are pursed, her brows drawn down, her skin pinched pink with tinges of anger. “What do you expect? You’re not the one everybody will talk about.”

  Those are fighting words. “Is that some kind of sick joke? Do you remember who you’re talking to? I’m just saying it’s pretty telling about your true thoughts on the situation. I haven’t seen you in over a month. And you won’t come to school, which is the only place you can be with me. It seems like a logical conclusion. It’s within your power to return to school. You’re just letting fear or pride control you, exactly like you said you wouldn’t.”

  Lennon’s glare could burn straight through the invisible screen armor on my phone. “Good night. Glad I got my phone back for this.” With that, she hangs up.

  Frustrated, I toss my phone on the desk and head for a shower. I won’t be able to sleep now, guaranteed. I didn’t mean to pick a fight with her, but I’d do anything. I’d swim across an ocean to be with her, so the fact that she won’t return to school is surreal. A difficult problem with what should be a simple solution.

  FACT: I’M BRAVER THAN I EVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE.

  I’M MAKING PEACE WITH MY FEARS.

  I COUNTED THE DAYS AT Willow. Marked each one with a red X on the calendar. Clichéd, like something out of a movie, but it helped to have a visual reminder I’d see him soon. A countdown until I’d be able to throw my arms around him, text him thought-provoking questions, or spend time in his tree house.

  Only one of those things happened, though, so instead I lie in bed, empty and hollow, just like when Mom died. That’s what it feels like, as if he has died. Dramatic, yes, but also true. Sure, I can peek through the window and see him, and yeah, now at least I can text him, but I can’t smell the laundry-clean scent of him, or touch his skin, or kiss his lips. And being deprived of those things is my definition of hell.

  At home in Maine, my friend Ashley was obsessed with this kid named Benjamin Foster. She had the hots for him powerful enough to melt the atmosphere. I used to observe her in silent awe. How is it possible one person could be that important to another? But now, amid the chaos that my life has become, I understand.

  I bury my head under the covers and try, without success, to fall asleep. Fighting with my dad, hating Andrea, fighting with Kyler. All exhausting and stressful. A constant pull between wanting to give up and wanting to fight harder for what I believe in, because I believe in us. My eyes are sandpaper and my throat is dry as bone. I head to the bathroom and grab a glass of cold water, checking my phone to see how much time I’ve spent willing sleep to come. A long text from Kyler is displayed on the screen, time-stamped 4:21 a.m.

  I’m sorry I was an asshole. I’m frustrated and I took it out on you. I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through but I know what it’s like to be talked about. They won’t even give the courtesy of doing it behind your back. Thing is, fuck, Lennon, I miss you. I want to have you in my arms again Lennon and there is no obstacle that will stop me from trying so I’m having a hard time dealing with how you see it. But for what it’s worth I accept it. You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do and I shouldn’t try to make you. Assuming you still want to talk to me then I got us covered Davis. Plus Jacob is a diabolical mastermind. Surely between the three of us we can figure something out. I’ve waited almost two months but I promised you I’d wait a lifetime so what’s a little while longer in the grand scheme of things?

  Four thirty-seven a.m. is when I crawl back under the covers with a new understanding. The murkiness has cleared. Life-defining moments are everything, and I’m going to have one tomorrow. A moment that’s sure to inspire song lyrics from front men and forgiveness from boyfriends. I crawl back into the oversized bed, hoping I can wake up and be braver than I feel, and finally, I fall asleep.

  * * *

  It’s a dictatorship around my house. My father has decided, in light of my recent mental breakdown and Kyler’s display of affection toward Andrea, and my unwillingness to return to Bel Air Learning Academy, that I need to be under constant supervision until things are sorted. Until further notice, we are both working from home, where I can keep my pride and my father can keep me under his thumb.

  Yet he still must work. His office is four doors down the hallway, but since this house is big enough to host a small country’s worth of people, there’s a decent distance between his space and mine. He’d told Claire about a conference call, at 1:00 p.m. sharp. It was with some record label from Atlanta. That call falling on the same day as my predetermined life-defining moment is a stroke of luck for me, bad luck for him.

  I head to the kitchen but promptly spin in the opposite direction the second I see the back of my dad’s head. I’m not that hungry. I’m also not a rebel in his eyes, so I need to be careful in case he can see through me like cellophane. Waiting until one is torture, but I’ll do it, because I don’t have a solid plan, just a wild idea. I head back to my room, without breakfast, and use dry shampoo and apply makeup but no lipstick, to prepare for what I’m going to do.

  He’d better appreciate the extra effort. I curl my hair with a large-barrel iron so it hangs in perfect waves and select skinny jeans and a white cashmere scoop neck that slips off the shoulder.

  During the time I take to do this, I stop to catch my breath outside on one of the front balconies where I observe Andrea getting into a Tesla with Liam. I watch as Claire ushers Jacob into her Mercedes and drives away, and I see my dad standing on the driveway in his robe waving good-bye.

  With nothing left to do, I sit on my bed, look at my watch, and wait. I read some trivia books, watch a TV show, and try to enjoy the sanctuary of my new room. At 12:45 on the dot, there’s a sharp rapping on my door.

  My dad’s voice is calm, even. “Lennon?”

  “What?”

  “You doing all right?”

  I can’t say I’m fine.
He’ll know something’s up. If I do, I may as well put up a flashing neon sign telling him I’m about to go rogue.

  “As well as can be expected,” I yell at the door. “Watching a show.”

  “Do you need something for lunch?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Are you sure? I’m about to get on an important phone call. There’s leftover pizza in the fridge.”

  “I’m fine.” I add, “Thanks,” even though I don’t mean it.

  “Sure,” I hear him mutter under his breath. His footfalls echo down the hall.

  My heart races in my chest, my gaze glued to my watch. The seconds tick by, and I wait for precisely 120 of them before I tiptoe down the hallway and stairs to the front door. There’s a small half table in the foyer that holds a tiny wicker basket used as a home for car keys. Dad leaves his in it every single day upon returning from work until the next morning or when he leaves again.

  I snatch the Porsche keys and slip out the front door undetected, I hope.

  OCD me wants to pause outside of the car and tap the roof five times, because if I get inside it who knows what could happen, but teenage girl Lennon, she’s got one objective. Not to be a hypocrite. To show Kyler that I, too, can put my money where my mouth is, that I’m not full of grand ideas I can’t bear to prove.

  If I drive this car, Kyler could die, Claire or Jacob could die, even my dad, who is on my shit list, could die. And as much as I’m angry with him, I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him die.

  People die in cars.

  The twinge in my brain is small at first, but spreads fast and furious until OCD me is out full force. I could do it, five taps, just once. Maybe that would help. The pointer finger of my left hand twitches involuntarily, burning my fingertips.

  It’s a thought. It’s only a thought. The thought can’t control me. I control the thought.