Broken Read online

  “Ugh, another brainiac. Have fun. We have chemistry.” Nessa waves and they’re swallowed by the crowd, a wall of broad-shouldered, very tall guys wearing Smithfield Wildcat letterman jackets blocking them from my view. Suddenly I feel like a gazelle alone on the Serengeti, facing a pride of lions. I pull Phil close to my side and scurry to the math wing.

  Trigonometry is easy. Not just because I’d already covered the material in cyberschool over the summer before I went back into the hospital, but because numbers don’t lie. They don’t need interpretation.

  I make it through the class on autopilot, filling my notebook not with proofs or formulas but with a backward accounting of my life, trying to come up with a real memory. All I can produce is a chronology of hospital stays, medical procedures, and anonymous doctors’ faces.

  Taking a different tactic, I try focusing on holidays, but there aren’t many I can actually account for. Holidays and summers are prime times for my Set Backs. Funny, I never noticed it before. Must be the stress.

  Then I try gifts. The tee I’m wearing came from my dad—he actually saw Kurt Cobain in concert, way back in 1991. And my denim jacket, I stole it from him, but he doesn’t mind. He lets me get away with so much more than Mom.

  I let my eyes drift shut, finally a memory. It’s only from last year, but it’s a start. Dad wearing his denim jacket, raking leaves. I’m watching him through my window. He piles them as high as his head, waves to me, holds his nose, runs like hell, and does a cannonball into them. I laugh and tap on the window, pleading for more. He rakes them all over again until Mom comes out and asks him why he isn’t finished yet and did he expect her to do everything around there?

  I love both my mom and dad, but sometimes I’m not so sure they love each other. Maybe that’s why Dad doesn’t seem to mind being away so much—he’s a sales rep for Academic Supplies and travels from one school district to another; that’s how he met my stepmom. My real mother died when I was just a few days old, so I guess by the time I was three, he was pretty tired trying to take care of me all on his own. And who better to take care of a sick kid than a nurse, so that worked out great for everyone.

  Nowadays with the economy and layoffs, he’s having to cover more territory than ever and is gone most of the time. He says he doesn’t mind, since it makes sure my health insurance is covered, and anyway, he hates coming home to an empty house when I’m in the hospital.

  When I was little, he used to come visit me in the hospital, but I’d always have a Set Back during his visits—my mom said the excitement was too much for me. Dad hates hospitals, so I think he was relieved when she finally asked him to stop coming.

  No one asked me.

  And that’s it. My only halfway normal memory. I try and try but can’t remember anything important from when I was young—certainly nothing as far back as Mrs. Gentry wants us to go. Every time I close my eyes and concentrate on the past, my throat chokes up and my heart stampedes into overdrive.

  I wonder if I am crazy. Not for the first time. Maybe one of those Near Misses rotted my brain and now it’s all Swiss-cheesed like the pictures you see of the brains of people with Alzheimer’s or drug addicts. But then why can I remember everything else? Books I read years ago, things like algebra and geometry, even history—although I admit, I get fuzzy on some of the presidents like Taft and Harding and whatshisname, McKinley.

  It’s my own life that’s a blur.

  13

  Homeroom is next. Fifteen minutes of boring announcements over the intercom and TV screens. The only one that sounds at all interesting is that there’s a pep rally scheduled for Thursday, last period. Sounds like fun to me. The rest of the kids groan as if mandatory peppiness and school spirit is too much to ask—some kind of cruel and unusual punishment.

  I’m excited and answer with a perky “here” when the teacher calls my name, but everyone else just grunts or makes a monosyllabic acknowledgment. Terminal boredom.

  I don’t feel sorry for them. Not at all. They have no idea what boredom really is—not until you’ve spent years of your life drifting between hospital rooms and your house, barely ever going out in public. If they only knew, they’d be as excited by the prospect of being in school as I am.

  The fifteen minutes is over and we’re all sprung. I meet up with Nessa and Celina outside the cafeteria. First lunch is pretty much mostly sophomores, Nessa informs me. “But some of the other cool kids eat now as well, so it’s not too bad.”

  Celina rolls her eyes and reminds Nessa, “We are sophomores.”

  I’m not paying too much attention. I’m starving. Usually I’m never hungry, so I see this as a good thing. Mom would probably argue otherwise, shove some reflux meds down me, and order me to rest until the rumbles in my stomach subside.

  They lead me into the cafeteria and it’s like walking into a Category Five hurricane. The sounds are overwhelming—add to them the smells of chili mac, French fries, corn syrup served a dozen ways from Friday, plus body odor, not to mention the bustle of a hundred kids pushing their way through the lines, jockeying for table space, and establishing their social hierarchy.

  It almost makes me long for the comparative quiet of my hospital room (although hospitals are actually very noisy and never peaceful—so much for a “healing” environment). Once I get past the initial shockwave, it’s kind of fascinating.

  “What’s Jordan doing here?” I ask, spotting him sitting alone at the end of a table near the windows. Prime real estate, but since he’s a junior here at the sophomore lunch period, I guess he’s top of the food chain.

  “Poor guy,” Celina says.

  “It’s all our fault,” Nessa adds. “He might just as well be wearing scarlet letters.”

  I realize that everyone ignores Jordan, and they’ve left space around him. Space enough for three at least.

  “It’s because of the peer support?”

  “Yep. Thorne has single-handedly destroyed all of our social lives and condemned us to the freak table. And where we go, Jordan goes as well.”

  “Couldn’t he ask to mentor another group?”

  They exchange glances. “You don’t get it, do you?” Nessa grabs a tray, hands it to me, then gets her own. “Mentoring us is Jordan’s punishment.”

  “Punishment? For what?”

  Suddenly Nessa is preoccupied, trying to decide between the spongy brown slop that’s labeled green beans and the green mess that’s meant to be dill carrots. I can’t eat any of this—no way am I going to even try to be adventurous with my diet and risk getting sick on my first day. All I get is a bottle of V8. Liquid vitamins, yummy.

  Celina and I pass Nessa. While we’re waiting to pay, Celina finally fills me in. “Nessa’s sister, Yvonne, killed herself last year. Jumped off the gym roof.”

  That explained what I’d seen earlier—the eruption of emotions, anger and I wasn’t sure what else tangled together, when Nessa lashed out at Jordan. “Why is Jordan being Nessa’s peer mentor a punishment?”

  “Jordan was dating Yvonne last year. Before she—” She fills in the blank with a sad look and a shrug.

  “So everyone blames him? That’s not fair—I mean, did she leave a note or something saying he was the reason why she killed herself?” I can’t imagine Jordan doing anything to hurt someone that badly. Suddenly I find myself judging Nessa’s sister as unstable, crazy, and I know nothing about her.

  Celina shakes her head, leading me through the maze of tables, sidestepping a puddle of unidentifiable brown and yellow mush. “No note. In fact, Nessa’s still convinced Yvonne didn’t kill herself. Sometimes she even talks like someone might have killed her—”

  “No. Really?” My voice jumps and people are looking. Celina throws me a glare that says quiet down, so I do. “Why would anyone—”

  “They wouldn’t. But it makes her feel better.”

  Denial. That I u
nderstand.

  Kinda like a girl with a busted heart trying to come to school and act normal.

  “Jordan actually volunteered to mentor Nessa,” Celina continues. “He thought since the two of them knew Vonnie better than anyone, maybe he could get through to her, help her. But sometimes all she does is lash out. He figures it’s better she hurt him than herself.”

  Wow. Makes me appreciate Jordan all the more. And wonder at Celina’s relationship with him—it was her he looked to when Nessa lost it this morning during the counseling session.

  We pass a table of girls who all look like college students. My main impression is pearls, perfect posture, and portrait-ready painted faces.

  “Divas,” Celina whispers. “The popular girls. They run everything.” She looks over her shoulder and I realize she’s not whispering because this is some kind of secret but because she doesn’t want Nessa to hear. “Nessa’s sister was the only sophomore Diva last year and Nessa was a shoo-in to join them this year. Until…”

  Nessa catches up to us, one finger caressing her Pandora necklace as we walk past the Divas. They studiously ignore us as if we’re less than dirt beneath their fingernails. I never thought the act of ignoring someone could be so very dramatic.

  Drama Queens. Like the diabetic I had to room with back when I was thirteen—that was the Year of Nothing Good.

  Deena was her name and she could make her blood sugar bottom out, sending her into seizures and a coma, or she’d make it rocket so high she’d be barfing and in danger of her brain swelling. She did it to manipulate her parents, who’d finally had her admitted when they couldn’t control her tantrums anymore. The doctors told them to stop visiting because they were “reinforcing Deena’s borderline personality.”

  That’s doctor-talk for “this chick is so damn crazy, if she was stable we’d send her to psych, and you’re just as crazy and are only making things worse.”

  My mom loved Deena. Have to admit, Deena, like every other Drama Queen I’ve ever met, had something compelling about her. Charisma, I guess you’d call it. Some kind of energy field that grabbed you and sucked you into her whirlwind and made you care more about her than yourself.

  Mom watched over Deena even more closely than she did me. Alerting the nurses when her sugar went bonkers, holding her hair back when she vomited, teaching her how to adjust her insulin and take control of her diabetes.

  The doctors and nurses all said if it wasn’t for Mom (“the patience of a saint!”), Deena probably would have died or been admitted to a long-term psych facility.

  Mom saved her. They all said.

  Back then, at thirteen, during the Year of Nothing Good, I hated Mom. So I rolled my eyes, shrugged, and ignored them. Just like I’d ignored Deena.

  Who knew it’d turn out that the Deenas of the world ruled high school?

  14

  We make it to our table. Jordan manages a smile as I plop down across from him, Celina beside him, and Nessa beside me. I like him even more for that smile. With the sunlight streaming through the window, warming my face, and Jordan across from me, smiling, his hair flopping along his eyelashes again, defying gravity, I can pretend we’re on a picnic or someplace fun.

  Until the first spitwad hits me between the eyes and slides down onto my T-shirt.

  “Losers,” an anonymous voice sings out.

  “Summers found some fresh meat,” a guy from the table of football players beside us says loudly. Someone kicks my pack and it hits the ground with a thud. I grab it and tuck it between me and the window.

  Everyone else is studiously ignoring us, yet I’m very aware that they’re also focused on us at the same time. It’s a weird feeling. Reminds me of waiting for the anesthesia to start working, hoping it kicks in before the surgeon starts cutting, but also kinda hoping someone’s gonna rush into the room, say it was all a mistake, and call the whole thing off after all.

  My stomach knots with the tension, so tight my hand has to flick the spitball twice before I’m able to knock it to the floor. Jordan straightens, looking around, and I see he’s ready to defend us—defend me. But even I know what the cost would be. I place a hand over his.

  He jerks, his gaze slamming into mine. Too much, too familiar.

  I try to act casual, sliding my hand away from his. “Those fries look good.” They don’t. They look like they’re ready to melt into a soggy puddle of lard. “Can I have one?”

  He says nothing, as if it takes extra long for my voice to penetrate his hearing. Nessa is chattering to Celina about homecoming, even though it’s still three weeks away, talking about signing up for the decorating committee so she’ll have an excuse to go even if she can’t get a date, and should she ask some boy or should she wait and see. They’ve both missed the entire spitball incident—or ignored it…ah, the power of denial. Handy tool to deal with high school, I’m learning.

  So it’s just me and Jordan. My skin feels hot all over.

  Jordan nods to his plate of fries. “Sure. Help yourself.”

  I stretch my hand out, thinking one fry can’t hurt.

  “Scarlet!” Mom’s voice cuts through the clamor of students yapping.

  My stomach drops to my knees, begging for this to not be happening.

  “Scarlet, there you are.”

  It’s happening.

  Mom stands at the end of our table, holding an insulated lunch box aloft. “You forgot to stop by my office to get your lunch. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  I reach across Nessa for the bag, but Mom holds it out of reach. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

  Swallowing my sigh, I introduce her. She shakes Nessa’s hand. “I knew your sister, such a wonderful girl. I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if you ever want to talk.”

  Nessa nods and ducks her head. Mom turns her attention to Jordan. “Mr. Summers. I trust you’re keeping a good eye out for these ladies?”

  “Yes, Nurse Killian.” I can’t tell if Jordan is serious or joking or making fun of her, he’s that good. I make a note to take lessons from him. A poker face like that could come in handy.

  “And Celina Price. Hmmm.” Mom makes that nursing noise of hers, the one that makes you want to start planning funerals. “When’s your next free period? You need to stop by my office.”

  Celina’s face grows so gray it blends into the gray wall behind her, like she’s trying to fade away, vanish. “Peer support takes up all my free periods,” she mumbles.

  Mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, then I’ll be waiting before first period tomorrow. Seven forty-five a.m. Sharp.”

  Celina looks down, smushing her food around her plate in a death spiral.

  Finally, Mom hands me my lunch and focuses on me. She steps into the aisle so she can feel my cheeks and forehead.

  The guys at the next table laugh. They’re jocks, wearing Wildcats letterman jackets—the fluorescent orange snarling outline of the wildcat lunging off the white wool like a hyena stalking its prey. No matter where I move, those hyena eyes follow me.

  Mom doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you certain you’re feeling okay? Maybe you should go home?” She takes my pulse. Her eyes narrow, revealing her worry wrinkles. She really is concerned, doesn’t think I can make it all day, much less to the end of the week.

  “I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t believe me. “Hmm…okay. Well, take another vitamin, just to keep your strength up.” As if by magic, one of her horse pills appears in her hand. She dangles it above my mouth. “Open up.”

  My face burns as I feel every single person in the cafeteria suddenly stop eating, stop talking, and start staring. At me.

  I have no choice but to get this over with fast. I open my mouth and let my mom pop the pill in like feeding a baby bird who’s too weak to do anything for itself. Baby birds—quick snacks for hyenas. The vision
pops in and out of my mind like a hiccup. And once there, it’s just as hard to get rid of.

  “Drink. Let me see you swallow it.” I obey. “Good girl.” She brushes her palms together as if finishing an arduous task and smiles at us. “Nice to see you all.” Then she kisses me on the forehead. I’m surprised she doesn’t feel how hot it is, burning with humiliation. “Love ya, bye now.”

  Mom leaves, everyone’s eyes following her through the maze of tables as she leaves. Silence reigns. Except for the pounding of my pulse in my temples, ringing out my embarrassment.

  My face buried in my hands, I tell myself that the worst is over, nothing else could possibly go wrong today.

  I hate being wrong.

  15

  When I was thirteen, the Year of Nothing Good, I decided my mom was trying to kill me.

  It was April. I was feeling tired but okay, just out of the hospital. Another frustrating stay where the doctors did everything except cut me open, which they’d get around to later that summer, costing me a trip to the beach Make-a-Wish had organized—I still have never seen the ocean. Despite all their tests, they had no explanation for my symptoms, so they’d decided to monitor me off all meds, in case I was having an “idiosyncratic” reaction to one of them.

  Somehow the idea that maybe I didn’t need any of the medicine Mom gave me got warped into a suspicion that Mom was behind all my symptoms.

  After all, I’d pretty much been sick my entire life and she’d been around almost that long, pushing pills down my throat, hauling me from doctor to doctor. It just didn’t make sense, one little girl having so many symptoms that all those smart doctors couldn’t figure out. And, if Mom was the cause, then as soon as I proved it, for the first time ever, I’d have a chance at being a normal girl.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my Mom. I really, really didn’t want her to be the one making me sick.

  After all, our entire family revolves around her taking care of me, Dad heading out on the road earning a living and keeping us—me—well insured, and me being sick.