Broken Things

by Lauren Oliver

  “How have you been?” Owen asks gently. A hot rush of shame floods my cheeks. I get it now. He’s here to check up on me. To do his friendly, neighborly duty to the screwed-up girl he left behind.

  “Fine,” I say firmly, for what must be the tenth time in the past two days. I make for the door and deliberately jangle my keys so he’ll get the hint and take off. He doesn’t. “Everything’s fine.” Big mistake: now that I’m on the porch, he’s close enough that I can smell him—a clean boy smell that makes my stomach nose-dive to my toes. “Don’t you live in England or something?”

  “Scotland, actually.” Scotland, actually. Like it’s no big deal. Like Scotland is the next town over. At least that explains the new accent. “I was in school there. Finished in May and now I’m back for the summer. I’m starting at NYU this fall.”

  I can barely get my fingers to work. I fumble the keys and drop them. “NYU, wow. Congratulations. That’s . . . that’s . . .” NYU was my school. My plan. My dream. I was going to go to NYU and study dance with a minor in English literature, and on weekends take ballet classes at Steps, where generations of dancers have spent Saturday mornings softening their pointe shoes on the floors.

  How is it that Owen—Owen, who hated every class except science, who spent half his time in school with his earbuds in, staring out the window, who sometimes put his head down on the desk and slept through tests—is going to NYU? It’s like what happened to Summer barely registered. Like the year he spent at the Woodside Juvenile Rehabilitation Center, waiting for his trial to start, penned up with crazies and criminals and sixteen-year-old drug dealers, didn’t affect him at all.

  Or actually, it did affect him. It made him better. Shiny and new, like an expensive Christmas present. Brynn and I ended up broken, pieced together in fragments.

  And Owen, who was so broken back then, became whole.

  And now the boy I used to love is heading off to my dream school.

  Thankfully, I manage to get the door open, but Owen puts a hand on my wrist before I can slip inside, and his touch startles me into silence.

  “Mia . . .” He’s watching me intensely, the same way he used to: as if the rest of the world has disappeared.

  I remember then a line from the original Lovelorn about the centaur Firth, a line that always reminded me of Owen: His eyes were as dark and wild as a storm, and big enough to drown in.

  “What?” My heart is beating painfully again, thudding against my ribs.

  A look of uncertainty crosses his face, and for a second I see the old Owen—weird, wild, mine—float up underneath the surface of Owen 2.0, Shiny Plastic Barbie Owen. It occurs to me that now that he’s crossed over into Normalville, he isn’t used to girls just staring at him like dairy cows. The girls he knows probably do things like giggle and toss their hair and squeeze up next to him to show off pictures of their Caribbean vacation on their phone.

  “Look,” he says, “can I come in for a second?”

  “No,” I say quickly, remembering how I first found him: cupping his hands to the window, peering inside. All my shame comes rushing back. How much could he have seen from outside? I’ve made pretty good progress on the front hall, but the table is still buried beneath mounds of takeout flyers and unopened mail, and there are several cardboard boxes blocking the closet door. Could he have seen into the dining room? I haven’t even started on the dining room. The Piles there are so staggering, so complex in their arrangement, that Abby says my mom should have an honorary architecture degree.

  Ten days until Mom comes home. Ten days to tackle the Piles. Ten days to turn back time, to find the truth, to start over.

  “Come on, Mia.” He’s standing way too close to me. It can’t be accidental. And now he’s smiling all easy and cool, one corner of his mouth hitched as if it’s hit an invisible snag. Practiced. That’s what his smile is: practiced. I wonder how many times he’s used it, how many girls he’s practiced on. “Don’t pretend you’re not a little happy to see me.”

  “Not really.” My voice is high-pitched, shrill as a kettle. I feel a sharp stab of guilt when his smile drops away, but at the same time it’s a relief to see a crack, a fissure in Owen 2.0. The words are flying out of my mouth suddenly: “It’s a funny coincidence you came back on the fifth anniversary. Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

  Owen flinches as if I’ve hit him. But I’m the one who feels as if I’ve been hit—I’m breathless, shocked by what I’ve just said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Owen says.

  Now that I’ve started, it’s like the words are vomit—they’re making me sick, but still I can’t stop. “It just seems weird. Like you came back to commemorate it. Like it’s something to be proud of.” I want to take it all back. But my mind has become a monster, and I can only make it better by finishing, by exploding everything—him and me and whatever there used to be between us. “You know, you never even told us where you went that day. All this time, and you never told us. So what are you hiding?”

  There: I finish, practically gasping, hating myself and hating him even more for forcing me to act this way, for moving away and getting normal, for leaving me behind.

  Owen says nothing. He just stares at me, white-faced, and for a second I see the old Owen, the Owen who used to camp for days in his tree house when his dad was blackout drunk, the Owen who used to remind me of an animal in a trap, scared and hurt but still fighting.

  He bends down and scoops up the box he was carrying when he first spotted me. He yanks open one of the flaps.

  “I came to show you that I still had it,” he says, jerking his chin toward the contents of the box—an old cell phone sporting a ridiculous pink cover, a water-warped graphic novel called Revenge of the Space Nerds, photo-booth photos of Owen and me making goofy faces at the camera, a pair of rainbow socks—all of them items we selected for our personal time capsule, which we were planning to bury somewhere in the woods just in case the apocalypse came and future civilizations wanted to know about us. Owen claimed he was going to do the burying part, but I guess he never got around to it. “I kept it all these years. But I don’t need it anymore.”

  He practically shoves the package into my arms. His cowlick is sticking straight up, as if it, too, is outraged by my behavior. I’m suddenly crushed by guilt, by my own stupidity. I haven’t seen Owen in years, and I managed to ruin everything in the span of five minutes. If being an idiot were an Olympic sport, I would win a gold medal.

  “Owen—” I start to call him back even as he’s stomping toward his car, but he whirls around and the words simply evaporate. He’s furious. And something else—another expression is working beneath the anger, a look of hurt so deep it makes me want to curl up and die. It’s crazy how someone else’s pain can do that, just take the legs out from under you.

  “You want to know what I was doing that day, Mia?” He crosses back toward me, and for a second I find myself scared and take a step backward. But he stops when there are several feet of space between us. “You really want to know where I went?”

  I do. Of course I do. But at any second I know I’m going to start to cry, and I don’t want him to see it. “You don’t—you don’t have to.”

  He ignores that. “I was helping her.” He doesn’t have to say he’s talking about Summer. That’s obvious. “She asked me to do her a favor—she made me swear not to tell anyone, not then, not ever. And I did. It was nothing,” he says, in answer to the question he must anticipate. “Trust me. She only asked me because she knew I could hop on a bus and my dad wouldn’t even notice. He was almost always drunk back then. I spent half the time in the tree house.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us where you went?” I say.

  He shoves a hand through his hair, trying to make his cowlick lie down, which it doesn’t. “Like I said, it was nothing important. Nothing relevant. She was just trying to put the past behind her. Besides, I felt sorry for her. The least I could do was keep her secret.”

>   “You felt sorry for her?” I repeat, certain I must have misheard. No one felt sorry for Summer. Summer was the light. Summer was the sparkle and dazzle, the beautiful one, the one all the boys broke their necks trying to follow down the hall. Grown men—dad-age men—slowed their cars to look at her and then, when she stuck her tongue out at them, sped up, red-faced and guilty. And sure, the other girls made fun of her trailer-trash fashion and called her a slut and wrote mean stuff about her in the locker rooms, but they were obviously just jealous.

  Summer had power. Over them. Over us. Over everyone.

  “I always felt sorry for her.” All the anger seems to have gone out of Owen at once. Now he just looks tired, and much closer to the boy I used to know, the Owen who was once mine. Casper the Ghost. Nosebleed. The Trench Coat Terror. But mine. “You and Brynn—you guys were always yourselves, you know? You didn’t know how to be anybody but you. But Summer . . . It was like she only knew how to play a role. Like she wasn’t fully a person, and had to pretend. She would do anything to get people to like her.” The stubble on his jaw picks up the light, and I have to put my arms around my stomach and squeeze. He’s become so beautiful. “That’s how it was with me. She didn’t like me. Not really. But she didn’t know any other way. And I was young. I was in seventh grade. And stupid. Nobody had ever liked me before.” Now I’m the one who looks away, heat rising to my face, understanding that this is his way of explaining, or apologizing for, what happened between them.

  I liked you, I almost say. I always liked you. But I don’t.

  “She was always jealous of you, you know.” He’s making a funny face, as if the words are physically painful and he has to hold his mouth carefully to avoid getting bruised.

  “Of me?” This, too, is shocking. Summer was everything I wasn’t: confident and gorgeous and mature and cool. Half the time I’d find Brynn and Summer giggling about something—shaving down there or period cramps or getting to third base—I was too clueless to understand. Nothing, Mia, they’d say, rolling their eyes in unison; or Summer would pat me on the head, like I was a kid, and say, Never change. “Why?”

  He half laughs. But there’s no humor in it. “Because I was in love with you,” he says, just like that, so quickly I nearly miss it.

  “What?” I say. I feel as if a fault line has opened up directly beneath my feet, and I’m in danger of dropping. “What did you say?”

  But he’s already turned around, and this time he doesn’t come back.

  Although it seemed every person, goblin, giant, and dwarf in Lovelorn had gathered to witness the ceremony, it was utterly silent. Slowly, the elders of the village began to chant. “You are a child of Lovelorn,” they said in unison, “to Lovelorn you will be betrothed.”

  “I go willingly for Lovelorn,” Gregoria said next, as she had been instructed, as every Savior before her had responded, her voice a bare squeak.

  “Will you do your duty and be saved?” The voices rose up again, thunderous.

  Gregoria was now completely white—which, considering the greenish tint of most dwarfs’ skin, was extremely alarming. “I accept what is right for Lovelorn,” she recited. “I accept what is right for me.”

  “We have to stop it,” Ashleigh whispered frantically.

  But of course, they couldn’t.

  —From The Way into Lovelorn by Georgia C. Wells

  Brynn

  Now

  “Wow.” Wade stares up at Mia’s house as if he’s a holy pilgrim and this is the site of Jesus’s birth. “Wow. So she’s lived here all this time?”

  “Uh-huh.” I get out of the truck, grateful to be on solid ground. Riding around with Wade feels like going sixty miles an hour in a tin can filled with crap. He and Mia’s mom could have a junk-off for sure. “Now, remember the deal—”

  “I help you, you help me,” Wade says, raising his hands, like I got this, I got this. Wade is nineteen and a sophomore at a local community college, studying How to Be a Hopeless Nerd or Conspiracy Theories 101 or something—but he dresses like he’s fifty in 1972. Today he’s rocking green plaid trousers, cowboy boots, and an old work shirt with the name Bob stitched over the pocket.

  “You help Mia on her little crusade,” I clarify, not trusting Wade not to screw this up somehow. “And you help me get back into a sweet little rehab of my own choosing. I’m going to need a heavy-duty meltdown this time.”

  “Unless we finally figure out what really happened. Then you won’t need to go back.” The only reason Wade helps me at all is because he thinks I can’t stay on the outside—not while people still think I killed Summer. Since our old neighbor tried to incinerate me and people on the street still whisper “witch” when I pass, Wade wasn’t that hard to convince.

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.” I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. Wade is one of those supersmart nerds—he’s transferring next year to Boston University, apparently on a full scholarship—who can also be hopelessly dumb. Kind of like Mia.

  Wade swipes a hand through his hair, which is long, shaggy, and the color of uncooked spaghetti. “Mia Ferguson’s house. I really can’t believe it.”

  “Can you try not to be a total creep for five minutes?” I stalk past him toward the front door, skirting the enormous blue Dumpster.

  Wade jogs after me. Loose coins and keys and whatever else he has in his pockets jangle loudly—like a cat bell, to let you know when he’s coming.

  “Hey.” He looks hurt. “I’m doing this for you. I’m on your side. We’re family, remember?”

  “That doesn’t mean you aren’t a creep,” I say. Deep down, I know he really does think he’s helping. But seriously—who gets obsessed with a murder case and spends years blogging about it and theorizing and interviewing people? Creeps, that’s who.

  Today Mia’s face reminds me of an egg: pale and fragile and one hard knock away from total collapse.

  “Oh,” she says, exhaling. “It’s just you.”

  “Who’d you think it would be?” I ask, but she shakes her head, frowning at Wade.

  “Who’re you?” she asks. Another sign something’s screwy. Mia’s far too polite to be so blunt.

  “This is my cousin Wade,” I jump in, so that Wade doesn’t ruin things before we make it inside. In contrast to Mia, he’s practically beaming. He could probably power a car battery based on the strength of his smile. “He’s cool,” I add, which is the opposite of the truth. “He can help us.”

  “Wade.” Wade recovers his voice and steps forward to pump Mia’s hand, as if he’s a campaigning politician going door to door. “Wade Turner. It is so nice to meet you. You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting—”

  I elbow him sharply in the ribs before he can continue. Already, I can tell that the name means something to Mia. She’s frowning at him, puzzled, as if trying to place him. I have no doubt that over the years he’s tried to reach out to her—he admitted to me that he had, after I refused to give him her email address, knowing she had likely changed it anyway. But she finally shakes her head, letting it go, and steps backward, gesturing for us to come inside.

  “Cool place” is all Wade says on the way upstairs, which is just a sign of his major brain scramble. Mia shoots him a look to make sure he isn’t making fun of her, then raises her eyebrows at me. I shrug and focus on dodging the piles of crap everywhere, which remind me of overgrown mushrooms sprouting from the filthy carpet. Still, I can tell Mia’s been making progress. The stairs are a little bit cleaner than they were even yesterday.

  Mia hangs back, allowing Wade to pass into her room first. She stops me before I can follow.

  “How’s your mom?” Her eyes are big and dark. I swear Mia’s eyes are heart-shaped. Or maybe it’s just that you can always see her heart through them. “Did you see her yesterday?”

  Instantly I get a bad, squirmy feeling in my stomach, like I’ve just housed a bunch of really bad Chinese food. Is it possible I am destined to become a terrible person? “She’s not do
ing too well,” I say, avoiding her eyes. “Look, I hate to ask, but my sister’s crazy busy at the hospital and doesn’t want me home alone. . . .”

  I trail off. Mia stares at me.

  “You want to stay here?” she asks, as if the idea astonishes her.

  I cross my arms tightly, try to press the bad feeling down. I don’t know why it’s so much harder to lie to Mia than it ever was to lie to counselors and hospital admin. “I don’t exactly have a lot of options.”

  That’s the understatement of the century. Last night I spent the night camped out behind the bus terminal just so I’d be close to a bathroom and a vending machine, trying to sleep while fireworks thundered across the sky in bright bursts of color. I’m sure Wade would have invited me to crash at his house, but then his mom would have started asking questions, and she would have called my mom, and then I might as well say adios to my plans to get the hell out of Twin Lakes. So this morning, I charged my phone at a local coffee shop and promised Wade the scoop of a lifetime. How could he turn down the chance to do what he has always wanted to do—to catch the real Monster of Brickhouse Lane? To play a real-life hero?

  Mia recovers quickly. “Of course,” she says. A little color has returned to her face. She was always good in a crisis. Good at taking care of other people, smoothing over the fights between Summer and me, making me feel better whenever I’d flunked another test or gotten booted out of gym class for maybe-not-so-accidentally chucking a dodgeball directly at Emma Caraway’s head. Mommy Mia, we used to call her. Or Mamma Mia, because she danced. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I’m really sorry, Brynn.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say, pushing past her. In Mia’s room, Abby is sprawled out on the bed, half supporting herself on her elbows. The copy of The Way into Lovelorn is lying next to her on the bed, facedown to keep her place.