Cracked

by Walton, K. M.

Wait, hold up. How would she know that? How could she know that?

  I huff. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say. God she smells so good.

  “I know you smell like springtime,” she says, “right after it rains.”

  That must be the hospital soap. No one has ever told me I smelled like anything except for my pop. He would sometimes tell me my breath smelled like dog crap in the morning. I wish I’d brushed my teeth before bed. What if my breath smells like dog crap?

  “Don’t you want to know how I know your secret?” she asks.

  I don’t know how to answer her. If I say yes, that’ll mean I do have a secret. If I say no, she might leave my bed. I tell her I don’t have a secret.

  Then she kisses me.

  It is a perfect, vanilla-filled kiss. No tongue, just lips touching in all the right places. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it’s clear she does. She is the first girl I’ve ever kissed. Yeah, I know, I’m sixteen. Whatever.

  She pulls back, then gives me a peck.

  I love her.

  Her hair smells like flowers, and I try to breathe her in without being creepy. She washed her hair for me. She’s got her head on my chest again, and I would give anything to have the balls to reach over and stroke her head. But my casted wuss of an arm stays by my side.

  “I really don’t know your secret. I was just trying to fake you out,” she says. She lifts her head and kisses me again. It’s a real good thing I’m already lying down, because I swear to God I might pass out with her deliciousness. This time she licks my lips with her tongue, and my crotch is about to burst. I’m thinking that she’s not a virgin. I am fine with this, as long as she keeps kissing me like she’s kissing me right now. She does. We make out for like a half hour, maybe more, who knows.

  “The nurses come in here every hour, you know,” I say in between kisses. Again, the dumbest thing to say, ever. Why don’t I just push her out of my bed and hit the call button?

  She puts her head on my chest. “I know. They don’t scare me.”

  My mind goes back to all the questions I wanted to ask her. I decide to go big.

  “What are you afraid of?” I can’t believe I asked her.

  She lifts her head and looks me right in the eye. “Nothing,” she says. Then she lays her head back down on my chest.

  “Oh, come on, everyone’s afraid of something,” I tell her, even though if anyone asked me the same question, I’d have an identical answer.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asks.

  Crap. Now what?

  I can’t say, “nothing” because that would be stupid, and I do not want her to think I’m stupid. Stupid guys don’t get kissed by hot girls. I could tell her about my pop and how he beats the shit out of me, but I’m not scared of that anymore, just sort of numb to it. I could tell her about being afraid I’ll never find my real dad, and how he probably won’t want anything to do with me. But I can’t do that. It’s too complicated.

  “Losing my bike. I’m afraid of losing my bike,” I say. There: easy, truthful, not too mushy.

  “What are you, eleven? Don’t you have a car?” she asks.

  I blew it. No more kisses for me.

  “No, I’m not eleven, and no, I don’t have a car. It’s a BMX bike, not a tricycle. My bike was almost four hundred bucks,” I say, slightly annoyed. I don’t want to be too annoyed, because I don’t want her to leave my bed. Ever.

  “Your turn.” I’m not letting her off the hook.

  “I already told you. Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything. Or anyone.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  Did I really just say that? Did I really just call her stupid? Am I for real? I don’t deserve any more kisses because I’m stupid, not her.

  She sits up and runs her fingers through her hair over and over again. Her back is to me. My side is instantly not as warm as it was when she was snuggled next to me. I don’t like how this feels.

  She turns around and her face is twisted in anger. “You don’t know anything about me, asshole.”

  “Exactly. I don’t. Why do you think I asked you that question?” I desperately want her to lie back down. To kiss me again.

  “Yeah, well, if you knew anything about me, you wouldn’t be kissing me or sniffing my hair. You don’t know anything.”

  Man, I thought she couldn’t tell that I was smelling her hair.

  “You wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone make out with me. I’m the crazy girl, the one everyone loves to mock and whisper about. Everyone loves a good crazy girl. And I’m her.”

  “I know one thing. Everyone wants to be loved without conditions or restrictions, limitations or boundaries.” Whoa. I pulled out the big guns.

  This takes her by surprise. The big lug in the wheelchair is deeper than she expected. He just said something interesting. I can tell by the look on her face that I’ve confused her. She looks like she’s smelling a pile of horse manure.

  “What? What are you talking about?” she stammers.

  I go for the repeat. Basically because I can’t come up with anything else to say.

  “I said, ‘Everyone wants to be loved without conditions or restrictions, limitations or boundaries.’”

  “Did you make that up? No, there’s no way you made that up. But where did you hear that? Did you read that somewhere, like on a card or something?”

  I think she’s just insulted me, but I don’t care because she’s curled up next to me again. She could say anything to me right now, and I wouldn’t care.

  “No. Well, sort of, but—what do you write in that book?” I blurt out.

  “What do you care?”

  I don’t really know why I care, but I do. I’ve been dying to snatch it from her hands and read the whole thing. “I don’t know. I guess I’m curious.”

  “Yeah, well, wouldn’t you like to know,” she says with a grin. Then she leans down and kisses me again. Full force kiss. Tongue and all.

  Nurse/linebacker Agnes throws the curtain back and booms, “Party’s over, Kell. Out!”

  I get the scowl from Agnes too. Kell leans down, gives me a peck, and whispers in my ear, “You sure know how to kiss, gimpy.” Stunned, I watch her hop out of my bed. She turns and blows me a kiss, then skips out of the room.

  She is the wackiest girl I’ve ever met. And she left her journal/notebook/diary thing on my nightstand.

  Victor

  I DON’T WANT TO GET OUT OF BED. IF I GET OUT OF bed, that means the day has started, and I don’t want this day to start. Bull has already showered. I had to wheel him in there an hour ago, and then wheel him back when he was done. I crawled back into bed after both times and pretended it was yesterday.

  “What, are you crying over there because you’re girlfriend’s leaving today? Hurry up and get ready, I’m starving!” he shouts through the curtain. Oh, how I wish the curtain was made of soundproof steel so I would not have to hear another human being’s voice. Especially his.

  I squeeze my hands into fists under my blankets as rage bursts from my brain like a bullet. The covers are off. I’m out of bed. I’m standing right in front of him. I pull back one of my fists and punch him in his face. I know it landed, because

  1. I think I broke my knuckle, and

  2. His lip is bleeding.

  I have completely lost my mind.

  I just punched Bull Mastrick in the face. Me, Victor Konig, punched Bull Mastrick in the face. Me. I did this. It appears that he is in just as much shock as I am, because he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even do the instinctual hand-to-face maneuver you always see in the movies after someone gets punched in the mouth. He sits there like a statue. A bleeding statue.

  “Don’t you ever talk about her again,” I spit out at him. Then I turn around and head straight for the bathroom to assess the damage to my hand. It’s not broken, but it hurts a ton. I look at myself in the mirror to see if I look any different after punching someone. I smile. You have no idea how happy I am that
Bull Mastrick was the first person I’ve ever punched. Immediately I wish the bathroom door had a lock on it. Even though he’s in a wheelchair, I can picture him pushing his way in here and leveling me.

  I hear Ellie come in our room.

  “Oooooh, what happened to you?” she asks Bull.

  Through the door I hear him answer, “Smacked my face on that table trying to reach for my water.”

  He lied. Why did he lie? I know it wasn’t to protect me. But why did he lie? Pride. Bull lied because he doesn’t want anyone to know I nailed him. Victoria, Dicktoria, whatever, punched him and made him bleed.

  “Let me get you some ice, William. Hold on,” she says.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  She says she’s going to get him a wet washcloth.

  “Victor’s in there,” he says.

  “Not a problem. I’ll be right back.”

  I’m not coming out of here until he’s gone. I’m glad I’m in a bathroom because I just might crap myself. Punching Bull in the face is the most fearless thing I’ve ever done. And now I’m scared shitless. He will kill me. I know this for sure.

  I hear grunting. He’s wheeling himself over here to dismember me. I think he kicks the door. He growls, “You tell anyone about what you just did and I’ll—”

  “How did you get all the way over here, William?” Ellie chirps. Thank God she’s back. I have no desire to hear what he’d do to me if I told anyone what I just did. “Here, put this on your lip. I filled it with ice.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  There’s a light knock on the door. “Victor?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll wheel William over to breakfast, okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I tell her.

  I take the hottest shower of my life. My skin is red, and I’m sweating . . . in the shower. I’m trying to wash the fear away. But it’s crazy-glued all over me.

  All over me.

  Bull

  I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT PRICK PUNCHED ME.

  Then I think, I can’t believe it took so long for that prick to punch me. I know I deserve it. I know I deserve to have the crap beaten out of me. I get that. I just can’t believe he really hit me. He must really like Nikole. Love does weird things to guys. I should know. I stayed up all night reading Kell’s journal cover to cover. But it’s not a journal at all, it’s a novel. I guess I don’t need to ask Ellie for anything to read now.

  Believe it or not, Kell’s writing a book. It’s about a little boy who has no parents and lives on the streets, and finds out he has magic powers after he spends the night with a talking rat. I couldn’t put it down. But I kept stopping and resting the book on my chest and thinking how freaking cool this girl is. I mean, she’s writing a book. A real book.

  I also had some trouble getting Kell and her boob out of my head. And her lips. And her flowery-smelling hair. And how warm she felt next to me. And her vanilla breath. And her long eyelashes. And her chipped nail polish. And her tongue.

  Like I said, weird things.

  I’m in the cafeteria now, and she isn’t here yet. I’ve looked over at the big table, oh, like, five million times already. I keep checking the door too, but she hasn’t come in. I can’t wait to tell her what a good writer she is.

  Victor hasn’t come either, the wimp. He’s probably still hiding in the bathroom. I wonder if he’ll show for group, which, according to Lisa, starts in five minutes. Kell walks in. She makes her sweatsuit look so hot. My eyes follow her. She walks right up to me, and I smile.

  “Where is it, asshole?” No smile.

  I don’t get it. She had her tongue in my mouth last night; she put my hand on her chest last night. I don’t get it.

  “Good morning to you, sunshine,” I say, and hold up her notebook.

  She grabs it and walks away.

  She didn’t even give me a chance to compliment her or tell her my favorite parts, like when the kid figures out he can shoot laser beams from his eyes and he zaps the bad guy right in the nuts. I literally felt a sting in my crotch as I read that part, it was that good.

  Andrew says to me, “Look, there goes the Queen of Crazy.”

  If I wasn’t in the wheelchair I’d have probably knocked him out, so I throw an insult his way instead. One that will sting. “She isn’t any crazier than you, retard.” I grind in the retard part because I know that’s what his stepdad called him. I’m not proud of saying it, but I have to make it hurt. And it does. He’s up out of his chair like a pouncing cat, about to split open my lip on the other side, when muscle guard Jimmy jumps up and gets in between us. We all know how big Jimmy is, and I’m really thankful, because he is about the only thing in the room that would’ve blocked Andrew’s insane rage from landing on my face.

  Nurses and orderlies fly in, and Andrew’s removed like a criminal, hands behind his back. I feel bad again. He screams that I’m an asshole the whole way down the hall. I guess it really was kind of low, but he called the girl I love crazy. Yeah, I said it, I love her. I want to protect her, which is definitely a new feeling for me. I’ve never felt that way about another person before. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to protect is my bike. She’s way better than a bike. My bike doesn’t have soft lips or smell like vanilla. She’s just way better.

  I tell my side of the story to Agnes, and, well, let’s just say she thinks I’m the victim here. She tells me I’m lucky the guard got in between us, and I laugh and tell her I’ve been in fights with dudes way bigger than Andrew. She pats me on the head kind of hard and tells me to be good, like I’m a dog.

  I know I did the right thing, and for the first time in my life an adult agrees with me. I’m not sure, but I think what I’m feeling is pride. It’s foreign to me, though, so I’m not 100 percent sure. And that kind of sucks.

  Lacey is flipping out at Andrew attacking me, and she’s panting and telling me I shouldn’t have called him that. My pride speaks up and I clarify things for her. “Duh, I know that,” I tell her, “but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “It was just so mean. I swear. So, so mean. God, what are you, like, in love with Kell or something?” she says while blinking like a looney tune.

  Uh-oh, I’m getting mad again. I keep my cool though; I do not want to be the next one escorted out of here with my hands behind my back, broken wrist and all. Ouch.

  “I don’t care about her,” I lie.

  “Then why did you get Andrew all hyped up?”

  I shift in my wheelchair, trying my best to not lose it on her. “I don’t know. Because I wanted to.”

  “Well, it wasn’t cool. I swear. You shouldn’t have done that. He’s already gotten in trouble for his other freak-out. Now they’ll put him back in solitary because he’s a ‘danger’ to us.” She says the word danger with her fingers doing air quotes.

  I reply with my own air quotes and say, “I. Don’t. Care.” Air quote. Which is a big lie. I do care. And I actually feel pretty bad about it. Just then Kell gets up from her table and walks toward me. Everything else in the room disappears; it’s all just her. I stare at her and smile. She gives me the double finger again.

  What the . . . ?

  Victor

  I TRIED TO STAY IN THE BATHROOM, BUT ELLIE CAME and knocked and started asking a ton of questions. I told her I didn’t feel good, like I was going to throw up. She brought me some ginger ale and crackers and had me lay down. No temperature, tonsils looked good, eyes clear, strong heartbeat—she told me I just needed something in my stomach.

  Ellie leaves me alone to rest, but I pace the length of my room a hundred times. Today is Nikole’s last day. And I’m hiding out in my room. I gag a few times. The ginger-ale-mixed-with-vomit taste lingers in my mouth, each swallow a bitter reminder of what a weak, selfish jerk I am.

  I actually tried my best to get out of group. That’s how terrified I am of Bull’s revenge. Ellie said missing group wasn’t an option, unless I was unconscious. I seriously tried to think of ways to knock myself out, but I coul
dn’t come up with anything.

  So here I am, in group. I’m the first one here, except Lisa, of course. And some new guy with really bad acne. He looks pretty miserable. Lisa introduces him as Grant. He only nods, no smile. Believe me, I understand the discomfort he feels right now. She asks me who I’ll be calling, since it’s my fourth day and all. I tell her I’m calling my grandma, my nana.

  “Not your parents?” she asks.

  “They’re in Europe right now. I don’t even know where they are, actually.” This makes my stomach lurch, and if I were near a toilet, I’d probably vomit.

  “I see. How do you feel about this? About them not coming home?” she asks.

  Even though Lisa’s face is gentle and kind, I want to say, “How do you think I feel? It makes me feel like crap. It makes me feel unloved, unwanted, un-everything.” But I’d never talk that way to an adult. So instead I say, “I don’t know.”

  She says in a calm voice, “You don’t know. Who do you think would know, then? You know, how you feel?”

  Why do some people have to be so annoying?

  “I don’t know,” is all I say. She probably thinks I’m as dumb as the chair I’m sitting on. Probably dumber. I look over at Grant to see if he has any reaction to our conversation.

  “Well, Victor, you think about my question. Okay? It’s okay to feel things, even if you’re a guy. When a guy knows how he feels and why he feels that way, well, then he owns his feelings, which is healthy thinking. And healthy-thinking guys make great boyfriends, and friends, and sons, and even husbands.”

  The word boyfriend makes me think of Nikole again and how selfish I am. I should’ve been at breakfast with her. It was her last meal here, and I was hiding out in my room like a scared puppy. Lisa is right: I have really unhealthy thinking. My thinking is diseased and coughing and oozing green snot.

  My mother hates the words “snot” and “boogie” and “booger.” She basically hates anything inside the nose, no matter the color or consistency. If it’s from the nose, she hates it. When I was little and sick, she made my father wipe my nose. When I was almost five, she said I had to be responsible for wiping my own nose from then on.