Broken (7 page)

You may think I’m reckless, stupid even, defying my parents, my doctors, common sense. You probably think I should listen to them, hole up in my safe bubble of a house, take their pills, stay in bed.

I thought that too. Right up until my latest Set Back. The closest I’ve ever come to dying. Should have died.

Nothing new, I’ve been close before and Bounced Back, thanks to miracles and my mom. (Not sure why, but it’s always Mom and the docs and nurses who get credit for my survival—don’t I deserve a little credit?)

But this time, I didn’t die. Instead, someone else died. Right in front of me.

She was a nasty, whiny bald girl with a kind of cancer I can’t pronounce and who everyone avoided, even the Child Life folks whose job it is to cheer up sick and dying kids.

One day, I caught her trying to steal my iPod and after that we started talking. Turned out she wasn’t really nasty and mean; she was lonely.

Her folks lived too far away to visit often and when they did come they spent the entire time crying and fighting and sitting without anything to say as if she were dead already.

Like me, she was dying and knew it—and she was only twelve.

And then she died. Dropped right there in the hall while we were cruising around the nursing station. She was a DNR—do not resuscitate—so the nurses and doctors came and went quickly then put her in her bed and left her alone, waiting for her folks. I snuck in and stayed with her, held her hand until it got too cold, felt gross and clammy.

Mom made a big deal of it—insisting on another psych consult for me and bereavement counseling and threatening to sue the hospital for traumatizing me. Like seeing a slice of reality was more traumatic than being cut open or having a needle drilled into my hip or tubes shoved up and down every orifice.

But really, it was no big deal. Instead, it was as if a curtain had been opened, revealing bright sunlight.

Finally, I understood.

When we’re little kids, before we understand Death, we dutifully obey every rule, listen to safety lectures, look both ways.

When we’re old enough to understand, we act out. We can’t stand the thought of wasting one precious second of life on anything that isn’t Important. Real. Vital. We want to create a legacy. Here. Now. Before Death can outrace us.

Somehow I always understood Death, even when I was a child, knew it was coming for me. I accepted it. But after watching Lacey die, I learned something about myself that I hadn’t known before.

I want to live. Not just survive. Really Live.

And I’m gonna die trying.

Mom stands. I’m still sitting there, waiting for her decision. She grabs her coat and takes her purse from the drawer in her desk where she keeps it locked. Something inside me sinks.

“We’re going home,” she announces.

I don’t get up right away. If my life as a normal girl is already over, I want to treasure every second between here and prison.

“Come along, Scarlet. I want to get you home so I can monitor you properly.”

That doesn’t even make sense. She has everything she needs right here. I start to tell her that but she silences me with one of her Looks. I slide off the table, grab Phil, and follow her out. She locks the door behind us.

“Is there anything you need from your locker?” she asks.

Hope sparks. A tiny, dim glimmer. “You mean I don’t have to empty it? Like I’ll be back?”

She glances at me in surprise. “Of course. Your dad and I promised you a week, didn’t we? I said I’d compromise. You agreed to my terms. If you’re feeling okay by tomorrow, you can come back.”

I can’t help myself. Phil clatters to the floor as I throw my arms around her and hug her. “I feel better already.”

She shrugs me away but she’s smiling. “Well, let’s not push things. Let me just let the office know what’s going on.” She hands me her car keys. “You go on out and wait in the car.”

I’m practically dancing as I twirl Phil down the empty hall to grab my jacket from my locker and head out to the car. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promised the swimsuit model. See you soon, Mr. Metal Detector. And Jordan and Nessa and Celina…I don’t even mind the fact that Mitch will be able to torment and bully me some more. Putting up with him is worth it if I get to stay in school.

I get to the car and Mom’s just a few minutes behind me. As she steers us out of the parking lot, she asks, “So, was it worth it? Which class did you like best?”

It’s strange sitting here with Mom, telling her about my classes so far. I went to elementary school for a few years, but I can’t remember most of it—all I remember are the doctors’ visits and hospital stays. Until finally Mom figured the best way to keep me from getting sick all the time was for them to homeschool me.

Which translated to days and days and days of boredom and isolation. It never took me long to do my online lessons—which was good, because it made it easy for me to make up any time lost to being in the hospital—and daytime TV was flat-out stupid, rarely with any decent movies on, so I read. Buried myself in books—anything I could get my hands on.

I can’t remember ever sitting and talking to Mom about school. Until now. It feels good, like I actually have a life.

Talking to her like this makes me want to stay in school more than ever.

“I don’t understand. You couldn’t remember anything?” she asks after I tell her about Mrs. Gentry’s memory exercise. Her tone makes me think my memory block most definitely is not normal.

“Not really,” I hedge. “I remember the doctors and hospitals and stuff, but everything in between is pretty vague.”

She turns to face me. Gives me a look like I’m having very strange Symptoms. “Really? Let’s try it again. Lie back.”

I tilt the seat back, resting my hands on my belly and concentrating on my breathing just like Mrs. Gentry showed us.

“Close your eyes. Relax,” Mom says. “Think back, way back. Do you remember the house in Jeanette?” I nod. That’s where we lived before moving here eight years ago. “Do you remember the trailer? That’s where we lived before then.”

Trailer? We lived in a trailer? Why didn’t I know that? “No. How old was I?”

“We moved out when you were four. About a year after your dad and I were married. You don’t remember? It was in the country, you and your dad used to go fishing—”

“I didn’t like putting the worms on my hook, so I used bread.” I feel like I’m talking about a character in a book—anybody but myself. “It’s no good, I can’t remember anything else.”

She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. It was a long time ago.”

We keep driving. The sun hurts my eyes, so I cover my face with my hands. Suddenly I’m drowning in a smell that’s worse than the stench of my hair burning. Soap and vomit and sweat, all mixed up with fear. I gag and swallow acid, but keep my eyes closed because in the darkness, I can feel something moving. The sound of laughter fills my mind—not friendly laughter, more like witches cackling.

My vision turns pumpkin-orange then fills with ghastly faces: white with crooked blood-red smiles, too many teeth, black eyes overflowing with evil. It isn’t witches laughing. Clowns. Coming at me from every direction, their faces bearing down on me as if they’re trying to smother me or suck my life away.

I jerk upright, gasping. As the clowns fade, I see a little blond-haired boy. He’s crying. He looks so familiar, I know I should know him, but I don’t.

Mom shakes me. I blink my eyes open and realize we’re sitting in my driveway. Safe. Home. Only a dream. No witches or clowns or imaginary little boys.

Just me and my crazy, mixed-up brain.

My dad’s on the road four days a week, so nights around our house are pretty quiet. Usually it’s Mom telling me all about the crazy and funny things kids at school did, but tonight I’m the one doing the talking as I drink my evening protein supplement and she relaxes with a glass of wine and Chinese takeout. It smells awesome, and as always I try to psych my taste buds into thinking they’re savoring General Tso’s chicken instead of artificial vanilla. But after what happened in biology, we’re Playing It Safe.

I’m lucky Mom didn’t decide to go with a clear liquid diet until she was sure my stomach had settled. I lied and told her I felt fine, even though I still had a pounding headache and my heart was doing crazy zigzags, speeding up and slowing down. Just excitement, I tell myself. My vitals are normal enough that Mom’s okay with me drinking a shake for dinner.

Then the doorbell rings. We both look up, our gazes meeting across the kitchen table. “Who could that be?” Mom says as she gets up to answer the door.

I follow behind, equally curious. No one ever visits our house. At least not since I’ve been old enough to stay home alone. Before then, Mom would always have to arrange for a sitter who knew CPR and how to handle an Emergency or Set Back—this was before we had Phil or knew my heart was behind all my vomiting and stomach cramps and headaches and breathing problems—which basically boiled down to one or two of her nurse friends. Somehow I’d always get sick while they were here, making them have to call Mom home early. They’d never come back to sit for me again. Mom said she couldn’t Risk It.

She opens the door, the evening air breezing in and making me smile as its rich scents wash over me. Then I hear a boy’s voice and my smile grows wider.

“Good evening, Mrs. Killian,” he says. For a moment I think it’s Jordan and my heart does a flutter kick. I move around Mom to see and realize it’s not Jordan. It’s Anthony, the kid who rescued me in biology class.

“Anthony Carrera. What are you doing here so late?” Mom asks. I’m wondering the same thing.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. I had soccer practice.” He’s talking to Mom like they’re equals. For the first time, I realize how tall he is. Taller than my dad even. Then he turns to me. “Hi, Scarlet. Are you feeling better?”

I nod, suddenly my mouth is dry. “Yes, thanks.”

“You left your bio text and notebook in class.” Right. Ms. Blakely had grabbed my pack with Phil when she brought Mitch to Mom’s office. I hadn’t looked inside to see if all my books were there.

“Thanks.” I take the books. Our fingers touch. He waits, smiling at me. I know I should say something more but my mind is a black hole, sucking down all intelligent thought or conversation.

Mom is staring at me staring at him. “We appreciate you going out of your way, Anthony—”

“Oh, it’s not out of my way,” he interrupts, ignoring Mom’s scowl. She hates being interrupted. By anyone. “I live just around the block. And please, call me Tony.”

“Be that as it may, Anthony, but Scarlet is in the middle of her dinner.”

“I finished,” I pipe up, realizing this might be my first and last opportunity to invite a boy inside my house. “Tony, could you fill me in on what I missed in bio? It’s okay,” I say to Mom, drawing on Tony’s confidence for inspiration. “You go ahead and finish your dinner.”

The way her eyebrows collide as she wrinkles her forehead and frowns is a major warning sign but I ignore it. Something about Tony’s smile gives me the courage to usher him inside, past her. It must be the cold air rushing in, carrying with it the crisp perfume of autumn leaves and wood fires. I feel brave, bold, exhilarated—just like I had at lunch after I thwarted Mitch and his cohorts.

“Five minutes,” Mom finally says, flipping on the living room lights and nodding to the clock over the fireplace.

I close the door behind Tony. He flops down in my dad’s favorite armchair, appearing relaxed and confident as if it were his own house. He was like that in bio as well when he rushed to rescue me. Cool in a crisis. Mom stares at him for a long beat then crosses the foyer back to the kitchen. There are no doors between the kitchen, dining room, and living room, so she’ll hear everything we say, but I don’t care.

I settle onto the couch across from Tony, trying to match his nonchalance. I have no idea if I succeed on the outside, but my insides dance the jitterbug, torn between excitement, nervousness, and curiosity.

“Thank you for helping me in biology.” Damn, didn’t I already say that?

He stretches out his long legs until they reach past the coffee table and almost touch my feet. He’s not as muscled as Jordan, but is definitely trim, like a runner. His hair’s a strange color, reddish gold. Or brownish red. Maybe brownish gold. No mistaking the color of his eyes though. Hazel.

I realize I’m staring and feel a flush coming on. He smiles and my embarrassment flees, replaced by the warm feeling you get when you roast marshmallows in the fireplace—a secret ritual my dad and I have on nights when Mom has meetings or is out late.

Still he says nothing. He’s worse than Jordan. Is this how all boys are? Or is it something about me that triggers their selective mutism?

“So.” I break the silence. “Biology?”

“Right. We have a project due Monday.” He somehow finds room for his feet and legs under the chair and leans forward as he opens his notebook on the table between us. “Ms. Blakely said I could be your partner.”

“What’d you do to piss her off?” Too late I realize I’ve said it out loud.

He looks startled. “Nothing. I asked to have you as a partner.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll barf all over you? Or that maybe you’ll catch what I have?” I don’t know if it’s because it’s the end of the day and I’m tired or if there’s something about Tony, but suddenly I’m not worried about acting normal, I’m just being myself. Snippy and argumentative and suspicious whenever someone’s nice to me, because it usually means they’re holding a needle or scalpel or want to harvest some piece of my anatomy.

He’s silent, his mouth moving like he’s not sure if I’m joking or for real.

“You do know who I am, right?”

“Sure. You’re the girl who stood up to Mitch Kowlaski not once but twice in one day. That makes you my hero.”

My eyes bug then I blink, reining them back in and giving myself time to do a quick reality check. Nope, not dreaming. Heart galloping nice and steady, so it’s not a Near Miss. But I seem to have forgotten how to breathe. I haul in some air, close and open my eyes, slowly this time.

Tony’s still there, and he’s decided to smile.

“I’m nobody’s hero,” I mutter. He doesn’t stop smiling. “What’s this big project?”

“It’ll be easy.” He flips a page in his notebook, revealing a rough diagram of a family tree. “Ms. Blakely wants each team to trace back a medical family history and identify any possible genetic traits then analyze them.”

I stare at him, mouth open. “She wants a medical family history?”

He nods. “I know. How cool is that? I heard your heart thing—”

“Long QT Syndrome.”

“Long QT, I heard it was genetic, right? So I figure we’re certain to make an A.”

Rolling my head back, I stare at the ceiling. The universe has spoken. Not only does it want me to stay in school, it’s actually inspired a teacher to create a project that makes me a desirable partner rather than an outcast.

Very cool indeed.