Broken Read online

  She catches my stare and turns her face away, dropping Phil between our chairs, hunching her shoulders like a turtle pulling into its shell. “Sorry, shouldn’t be touching your stuff.”

  “No,” I protest. “It’s fine. Thank you.” Didn’t I just say that? A blush singes my face. Hoards of doctors and nurses I can deal with. But I am totally unprepared for small-group dynamics or, even worse, small talk. I try again. “Hi. I’m Scarlet. Scarlet Killian.”

  “We know.” The black girl bounces into her chair. “You’re late. Like weeks late. Gonna upset our balance of power.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. Jordan returns with water in a paper cup and presses it into my palm. Reveling in his touch, I gulp it down, just to fill the silence as everyone stares at me.

  “This is Nessa Woodring,” he introduces the black girl who waggles her fingers at me. Each fingernail is a good half-inch long and adorned with a different color, jewel, or picture. Watching her wave them is like watching a Pixar animation. “And Celina Price. They’re sophomores, like you.”

  Celina just nods, still not making eye contact.

  “Hi,” I say again, totally lame, but I have no idea what else to say.

  Nessa flounces the top half of her body across the narrow table as if prostrating herself on an altar. “So, Scarlet.” She draws out my name into three syllables. “What’s it like to die?”

  8

  Nessa flattens her hand on top of mine, pinning me to the table. “Seriously. What was it like? Was there a bright light? Did it hurt?”

  “Nessa!” Jordan snaps. “Leave her alone.”

  The intensity of Nessa’s gaze pushes me back. If we had swords, she would have won the duel. I have the feeling Nessa doesn’t often lose.

  Finally, she blinks and releases me. She settles back in her chair, pulling her knees up and balancing her chin on them, suddenly smiling, a smile that would be at home on a portrait of an angel. The light brushes her hair, sparking off it as if she wears a halo. “Sorry. My mom says I have problems with being too bold and brash, or is it brusque? Probably all three. And my dad, well, he tosses around words like ‘oppositional’ and ‘defiant’ and ‘impulse control,’ but he’s a shrink, so who really listens anyway?”

  I find myself nodding in agreement, but I’m not sure who I’m agreeing with: her mom, her dad, or her dismissal of them both. It’s easy to see why she might need a little mentoring and support. Something about her feels bright yet jagged, a broken mirror glinting in the sun. But her smile is genuine and I can’t help but smile in return.

  “Anyway,” Nessa continues, turning a palm up as if offering a gift, “since you’re starting late, let me fill you in. Jordan, he’s supposed to be our mentor—the M in PMS, if you will—but mainly he sits around and says nothing. That’s probably because I do all the talking, but I’ve got a lot to process—you’ll hear all about that later.” She pauses as if expecting me to interrupt and tell her I already know who she is, but all I can do is sit there and nod as the words pour out of her faster than a freight train.

  I’m thinking her dad was right on all three accounts, but I can’t help but like Nessa. When she smiles at you, it’s with her whole body, like you’re the most important person in the world—except herself, of course. Still, there’s just this spark to her. Charisma, that’s the word for it.

  Jordan slides his hand along the tabletop. Trying to distract her long enough to get a word in. “How about if we give her some practical info instead of the Gossip Girl sound bite?”

  Nessa doesn’t even take a breath as she makes a conversational 180. “Sure. You should know that Celina here is the smartest kid in our grade. She can help you catch up. Last year, she held the ninth-grade academic achievement honor.”

  “Not for the whole year,” Celina murmurs, retreating from my nod and smile of appreciation. “Besides, things are different now, especially with my mom gone so much.”

  “But you can help, can’t you?” Nessa bounds from her chair again. Even gravity can’t restrain her for long. “And we can all introduce Scarlet to all the right folks, get her on track. Peer mentoring, support, isn’t that what we’re all here for?”

  She sounds ready to leap onto the table and lead us all in a cheer.

  Jordan sighs. He’s obviously used to having to rein her in. “I’m meant to be the mentor, remember?”

  Nessa freezes in midstride. Slowly she pivots to face Jordan. From the look she gives him, it’s clear they know each other well. Jealousy stabs my gut as I wonder exactly how well.

  “Well, Mr. Junior-big-shot-mentor, if you’re so smart, then why didn’t you save—”

  Celina jumps up, slapping her palm down between the two of them. “Stop it, both of you. Just stop it.”

  Nessa heaves in a breath as if the air in the room is suddenly too heavy. Jordan doesn’t look so good either, blinking furiously like he has something in his eyes, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Nessa, as if he’s worried she’ll vanish.

  I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that it’s painful and very, very personal. Just as it’s obvious that beneath Nessa’s incessant chatter lies a deep well of anger and sadness. Suddenly I wonder if I have any support to offer that would be helpful. Not like I have much experience with, well, anything outside of hospitals.

  Celina sits back down and says in a calm voice, “It’s Scarlet’s first day. We should be focused on her, not on—not on things we can’t change.”

  Jordan pulls his gaze away from Nessa and gives Celina a small nod and even smaller smile, which surprises me because she’s doing his job, taking control of the situation and playing the peacekeeper. But it works. Nessa relaxes and beams at Celina in another abrupt shift of emotion.

  Me, I just sit there, clueless. And fascinated.

  As I take them all in, practically seeing the delicate threads of power and pain connecting and interlacing in an intricate web, I realize how woefully unprepared the hospital has left me for the drama that is high school.

  Forget algebra and chemistry. I need a remedial course on people.

  9

  Before anyone can move or say anything, the door opens and a man enters. He’s thirty-something, cute in an older-guy kinda way, reminds me of one of my consultants, a specialist in cardiac electrophysiology. Genius but so caught up in his life of chaotic cardiac electrical impulses that he walked around oblivious to the rest of the world. His hands were the coldest and clammiest of them all—he never looked me in the eyes once. If he could have cut out my heart and taken it with him to study, not bothering with the inconvenient body surrounding it, he would have.

  “Oh good, you got started without me,” the man says with a wide smile, plopping himself down in the chair at the head of the narrow table and leaning it so far back I’m worried it’s about to tip.

  He wears a dress shirt, tie, suit trousers, but has red socks and a pair of canvas sneakers on, also red. Like he’s watched too many Dr. Who reruns. His accent isn’t English, but it’s not ragged central Pennsylvania either. Instead it’s flat, like he’s washed it clean of any trace evidence. “And, Scarlet, welcome, welcome! Have you all introduced yourselves?”

  The others nod. The man doesn’t seem to realize that he hasn’t introduced himself to me, but I’m not dumb. This must be Mr. Thorne, the counselor who’s meant to guide me through the labyrinth of my sophomore year.

  Thorne fiddles with his pen, clicking it and twirling it, beaming his smile at each of us in turn as if assessing the weather.

  Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms is my assessment. Thorne bounces his chair, tipping ever farther back, making me catch my breath as I wonder if I should say something, and his smile grows wider. Cocky, even.

  “Let me catch you up, Scarlet,” he says, and I realize that although I was clueless, Nessa had actually been mimicking him e
arlier. And doing a pretty good job of it. “These groups are carefully composed, members chosen to help address certain strengths and weaknesses that came to light when I reviewed the incoming sophomores’ records. Our job here, together, is to bolster those strengths and work on those weaknesses. Bring everything out in the open, explore them, together, in a nonjudgmental, honest fashion.”

  I stare at him, certain he’s joking. His expression is the same as the nurses who’d tell me shoving a honking feeding tube down my nose “won’t hurt a bit” while they pin me down and force it in.

  “From your record, I see that you’ve been homeschooled since third grade—most recently via the cyber academy. Your grades are excellent, your test scores very impressive.” Celina glances up at that. “But,” Mr. Thorne continues, “given all the time spent in the hospital—oh, did you have a chance to tell the others about your unfortunate condition?” He pauses dramatically, waiting for me.

  I shift in my seat, one hand going to Phil’s handle. Giving it a squeeze, just in case my heart needs a jumpstart anytime soon.

  “No,” Nessa answers for me. I have the feeling she answers for everyone. A lot. “She hasn’t.”

  They all swivel to stare at me.

  Talking about everything that’s wrong with me is my mom’s job. She has it down to a science—can fill in a new doctor or nurse in less time than it takes for a commercial break on TV. And I’m damn sure everything Mr. Thorne needs to know is right there in my records. Besides, half the school saw what happened this morning when the security guard unveiled Phil for the world. By now they would have texted or told the other half. There might even be videos up on YouTube, who knew?

  Yet still Mr. Thorne waits. “Go on, Scarlet. This is a safe environment. You can talk about anything.”

  Why don’t I believe him? Probably because of the way none of the others have looked him in the eye since he arrived.

  I’d much rather talk about more interesting things—like what the hell was going on between Nessa and Jordan—but I nod and give them the CliffsNotes version. “I’ve been pretty sick all my life, but the doctors finally figured out it’s a genetic defect that makes my heart not beat right, so sometimes parts of my body don’t get enough oxygen. No big deal.”

  There’s a long and awkward moment of silence. Great. Been here ten minutes and I’ve already blown it.

  Then Celina leans forward and covers my hand with hers. “But it is a big deal. Scarlet, it could kill you someday.”

  Nessa adds her hand on top of Celina’s. Like we’re the three musketeers or something. Their touch spreads warmth through my body—I’m used to being poked and prodded with cold hands and colder stethoscopes, not this. “We’re here to help, Scarlet.”

  Jordan watches from across the table, gives me a small smile and nod. Accepting me into the fold. The moment passes and the girls lean back, but I can still feel their touch, as if they’ve left something behind.

  Is this what friendship feels like? But they don’t know me, not at all.

  Mr. Thorne clears his throat. “Thank you for sharing, Scarlet.” He pulls some papers from a folder and distributes them. “I’ve updated everyone’s class schedule and contact info to include Scarlet’s. I think there’s enough overlap that we should be able to act as a safety net if she needs anything. And of course, Scarlet, feel free to come see me anytime.”

  I glance at each of them while they’re studying the schedules and programming my number into their phones. Just like that, these people are now part of my life. My safety net. Like I’m walking some kind of death-defying high wire.

  The way Mom talks about me coming to school, trying to have a normal life, maybe I am. Defying death.

  I smile. I like the idea.

  10

  “You have English next, right?” Nessa burbles as we three walk down the steps together.

  Thanks to her and Celina, we do feel together. As if we’ve always been together, were meant to be together.

  I’m glad Celina is carrying my bag because I’m giddy again and would have dropped it for sure.

  “You’ll love Mrs. Gentry, she’s the best,” Nessa continues as if I’d answered. “We just started The Glass Menagerie, Tennessee Williams. It’s so cool, all despair and desperation. My dad, he just loves old Tennessee Williams. Any of those suicidal poets and playwrights and novelists, they all turn him on, big time.”

  “Kinda like Mr. Thorne? Talk about your psychic vampires, thriving on our pain.” I hope it’s the right thing to say. I don’t want to risk breaking the spell surrounding us.

  They both stop. I swallow, sending the spinning giddy feeling plummeting from my head down to my toes. I’ve screwed up.

  But then they exchange a glance, smile in unison, and laugh.

  “You catch on fast,” Nessa says in approval. She links our arms together. “Don’t worry. We’ll protect you from old Thorny.”

  Us against the world. Feels good. I’ve never had anyone on my side before except my mom and dad. I decide to push things a step farther. “Can I ask, what was all that between you and Jordan?”

  Celina’s eyes tighten as she meets my gaze and shakes her head. Nessa grabs my arm tighter and hustles me through the door of a classroom as if she didn’t hear me. Maybe it’s for the best.

  Nessa releases me and heads for her desk. Celina leans close and whispers, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Mystery, intrigue, drama—and I haven’t even had my first official class yet. High school is so much more fun than the hospital.

  11

  My first high school class. It isn’t what I expect. Oh, the kids lined up in rows of chair-desks, some sleeping, some whispering, some taking notes, some texting—even though phones aren’t allowed in school—teacher at the blackboard, that’s all just like it is on TV.

  But TV doesn’t show the really cool stuff. The ideas and discussion and way that, even if you’re too shy to raise your hand, you can still feel good when you know the answer. I’d read The Glass Menagerie a few years ago and remember enough that I know most of the answers to Mrs. Gentry’s questions.

  Celina and Nessa surprise me. Nessa doesn’t say a word the entire class. Instead, she’s focused on writing in her notebook and I don’t think it has anything to do with Tennessee Williams. Her forehead is creased and her lips are tugged down in a frown.

  And Celina? She’s suddenly all sparkly, raising her hand, shouting out answers when the discussion gets going, even challenging Mrs. Gentry, debating the brother’s motives in bringing the Gentleman Caller home to meet his sister.

  Me? I just watch, mesmerized, too chicken to risk raising my hand or answering anything.

  Then Mrs. Gentry winds down the debate and says, “Tennessee Williams calls The Glass Menagerie a memory play. He purposely gives directions for the set to be minimalistic, the same with the costumes. He even uses the unreliability of memory as an excuse for the suggestion that everything in the play is wrong. So the assignment this week is for you to each keep a memory journal. Write down your memories, going back as far as you can. Then try to verify them by interviewing primary sources. Who are primary sources?”

  “People who actually witnessed an event,” Celina answers.

  “Right. Now, memories are tricky things, especially ones from when you’re young. To help you, I want you all to close your eyes. That’s right, close them. Now breathe deep, in and out. Send your mind back. Past junior high, past first grade, what’s the first thing you can remember?”

  She drones on and on, helping us to relax and visualize our pasts. Her voice is calm and soothing. I sneak my eyes open a crack. The boy beside me has fallen asleep with soft snores. Everyone else is relaxed, heads nodding in time to Mrs. Gentry’s voice.

  Not me. I’m panicking. Heart thrumming like a hummingbird in a cage, palms sweaty, fingers curled into numb, dead claws. Even m
y mouth has gone dead. I can’t feel my lips or face. A knot tightens my throat, and I can’t swallow.

  My eyes pop open wide, searching for an escape. Mrs. Gentry is walking up and down the rows and her back is to me. Everyone else still has their eyes closed. No one sees me. No one can save me.

  Blackness curls like smoke over my vision. I’m trapped.

  12

  The bell rings. Everyone else pops out of their chairs, animated after their restful trips down memory lane, while I sit there working hard to remember how to breathe, trying to swim free of the tsunami of panic that has swamped me.

  “Scarlet, are you okay?” Mrs. Gentry asks. “It wasn’t too much for you, first day here and all?”

  I hide my shaking hands by clenching them around the handle of my backpack. As I work my mouth, my face feels like a pincushion, prickling needles stabbing my skin where it’s gone numb. “No, Mrs. Gentry. The Glass Menagerie is one of my favorite plays. Great discussion.”

  My feet are still frozen solid, unfeeling blocks of ice, but somehow I drag them across the room and to the door where Celina and Nessa wait.

  “Suck up,” Nessa says in a stage whisper. I’m mortified, but she’s smiling, and I decide she’s just teasing. My mom is the only person who teases me and I never know for sure when she’s doing it either. “My dad doesn’t believe in memory regression, but that was still kinda cool. So, what did you remember?”

  I duck my head, hoping she’ll keep talking before she realizes I haven’t answered. Now that my panic is over, I’m ashamed. Why don’t I have any memories? Why can’t I for once just be normal?

  “What’s next on your schedule?” Celina asks, saving me.

  Hordes of kids stampede around us, making me feel breathless and claustrophobic, but neither of them seems to mind at all, recklessly swerving through the herd as we head down the hallway. “Trig.”