Broken (12 page)

We get to English too late for me to sit near Tony, but he smiles at me across the room. We spend the class reading scenes from
The
Glass
Menagerie
aloud and the time passes quickly. The bell rings. Celina stays behind to talk to Mrs. Gentry while Nessa and I are swept out of the classroom in a wave of kids.

I turn, thinking I’ll try to go back and find Tony, but it’s too late. I walk with Nessa, trying out a new route to trig, when we’re stopped by a wall of letterman jackets. Three football players to the front and by the time I pivot to go around them, two more on one side. And the door to the boy’s room on the other side. Trapped.

“What do you want?” Nessa snaps, her posture making her seem almost as tall as the guys surrounding us.

“Nothing. This is just a down payment on what we owe you for getting Mitch suspended from playing Friday.” One of them yanks Nessa’s bag from her shoulder and throws it into the boys’ room. Another grabs Phil from me and jumps through the door. “Come and get it, ladies.”

“Give that back,” Nessa says.

I’m not sure what to do. If anything happens to Phil, my mom will kill me. “Be careful. That’s an expensive piece of medical equipment,” I shout.

Too late, I realize I’ve just made things worse. They laugh and crowd us toward the door. “How about we flush it down the toilet?” one of the boys says.

“How about we flush
them
instead?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” a third grabs his crotch. A queasy feeling makes my stomach go cold. Lots of stuff you see and hear in the hospital is gross, but not like this.

“Stop it!” A woman’s voice cracks through the air. The boys jump. So do Nessa and I. We turn to see who’s come to our rescue. Not a woman, Celina. Hood down, head high, face calm. No, more than calm. Commanding. “Get out of here, now.”

Three of our tormentors scurry away. She ignores the remaining two, pushing past them and through the door to the boys’ room. Nessa makes a noise between a gasp and a cheer. A moment later, Celina emerges with our stuff and a condescending glare for the football players. She gives Nessa her bag and hands me Phil, unscathed, thank God.

“Grow up, why don’t you?” she tells the boys.

One of the players looks sheepish, but the other has his hands curled into fists. Celina sees it as well, stepping away from the door so she has more room, keeping her hands open but raising them so they’re above the boy’s.

“Mr. Young,” a man comes up behind us. Mr. Thorne. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

The boy glares at Celina for a long moment before smirking at Mr. Thorne, obviously not intimidated by the guidance counselor. Then he points at me, like he’s making a special note to remind himself who is to blame for all this.

With the boys gone, Mr. Thorne turns to us. “Are you ladies okay? Do you need to talk?”

We exchange glances and I can’t help but giggle with relief. Nessa chimes in, and soon all three of us are laughing. “No, thank you, Mr. Thorne,” Nessa says politely. “We’re fine. C’mon, Celina.”

We each link arms with Celina and continue to class. As soon as we’re out of earshot of Mr. Thorne, Nessa says, “You were fantastic. Your mom would be so proud.”

Celina’s smile fades at the mention of her mom. Nessa looks abashed. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” Celina says, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “Don’t be. That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said. Thanks.”

I can’t help it. I hate that I don’t know what to say to make her feel better and can’t do anything to help. So I drop Phil and give her a hug. It startles her and she winces. I let her go, sorry that I’ve embarrassed her. “Thanks, Celina. Maybe someday you can teach me how to do that thing with your voice. That was awesome.”

“Yeah,” Nessa says. “You can practice using it on Tony Carrera. Tony, stop it! No, I mean, don’t stop! Oh, right there…” She makes kissing noises and we both break into giggles again.

But not Celina, I notice. She stops and stares down the hall. It’s the tall football player. Keith Young. And he’s watching her. Blows her a kiss with his hand and waves good-bye. Like they have a date or something.

“We should tell Mr. Thorne,” I say. The second bell rings. We’re late.

“No,” Celina answers. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Where have you been?” Mom demands at lunch as I schlump into her office and drop down into the chair beside her desk. “I’ve been waiting.”

I just shrug. I’m too busy worrying that, because of me, Celina is now a target of Mitch Kowlaski and his buddies to pay attention to Mom’s familiar refrain of worry.

“You kids.” Her voice is loud, too loud. Slowly it penetrates my foggy brain that she’s upset. Which never, ever bodes well. “All I do all day long is try to help you and what do I get for my efforts? Disrespect. Disobedience. Defiance.”

I jerk my chin up. Alliteration. This is bad. Very bad. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t even hear me. Instead, she’s banging through her refrigerator, rattling bottles of insulin and other medication as she hauls out my lunch. She glowers and dumps it on the desk in front of me. “Eat.”

Eating is the last thing I want to do. But I know better than to say anything when she’s like this, so I meekly unscrew the lid off a jar of pureed pears and take a small spoonful. The baby’s smiling face on the label reminds me of my questions about my twin—but clearly this isn’t the time to ask Mom about a dead child. My dead brother.

Then it hits me. So hard that I almost sputter and choke on the pears. God, I’m so stupid.

He would have died less than a year after she and Dad were married. I’ve been so obsessed with thinking about how my dad felt that I hadn’t done the math. How painful it must have been for her, to lose him. And then with me sick, to constantly worry about losing me.

Because of me she had to face that agony again, every day. Wondering when I’ll drop dead. Like holding your breath through eternity.

I’m such an idiot. All the pain I’ve put her through. “I’m sorry.”

This time she hears me. She stops her pacing, spins on her heel, stares at me as if thinking I’m mocking her, but her expression softens. She gives me a big sideways hug, smearing pears all over my chin, and sits down across from me in her desk chair.

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s not your fault. But I’m going to talk to Mr. Thorne about getting you out of peer support. I don’t think those kids are a good influence on you. I don’t want you seeing them anymore.”

Wait. Drop peer support? Where’d that come from?

“Besides,” she continues, “you don’t need counseling. You’ve got me to talk to.”

Does that mean I can stay in school? Feeling like I’m tiptoeing across a high wire, I struggle to keep my voice nonchalant as I say, “I like Celina and Nessa and Jordan.”

She shakes her head, looks sad. Pats my knee. What happened to treating me like an adult?

“You’re so sheltered. You just don’t understand.”

What the hell does that mean? “Understand what?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she spins out of her chair with new energy. “Oh. I’ve got something for you.” She reaches to the top of the filing cabinet and takes down a thick three-inch binder bulging with papers. “I spent the morning copying your medical records and collating them for your biology project.”

Thumping the heavy binder down on the desk in front of me, she sits back down, hands folded in her lap, leaning forward. Waiting.

I swallow a spoonful of pear. It tastes like white paste. “Thanks.” Her smile falls. I wasn’t enthusiastic enough. I make a show of thumbing through the pages, widening my eyes. “Wow. I can’t believe this. Thanks, Mom!”

Perky enough. Good. Because I don’t have the energy for more. Not today.

“You’re welcome. Figured this would be easier for you and your lab partner to use than computer files.” She pauses. “Who are you working with again?”

“Tony—Anthony Carrera.” I’m surprised she can’t remember but realize she’s got a lot on her mind. If I’m healthy enough to stay in school, guess that means I’m one less thing for her to worry about.

She considers. “Nice boy. Good grades. Hasn’t been in to see me for anything.”

The last is the only negative thing she can find to say about Tony, so I figure I’m safe. I’m still puzzled by her sudden problems with Nessa, Celina, and Jordan. She was fine with Nessa and Jordan yesterday. Which left Celina. “You heard about the jocks. It wasn’t Celina’s fault.”

“If you say so.” Her tone is one of disbelief. “I’m glad you won’t be associating with that girl anymore.” She says it like it’s now law, a constitutional amendment, commandment number eleven. “I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone that that girl is severely troubled. No surprise at all. I’m afraid I’m just not going to be able to help her.”

My mom giving up on a kid who needs her help? It doesn’t make sense. Mom revels in lost causes like the Drama Queens we’ve met when I’ve been in the hospital. She thrives on the challenge of helping when no one else can.

“If you’re going to blame anyone,” I defend Celina, knowing there will be a price to pay, “blame me. They were upset because Mitch won’t be able to play on Friday after what he did to me.” I touched the right side of my hair, trimmed and pulled back with a barrette that Nessa loaned me.

“Mitch isn’t playing because of me, not you,” she tells me. “I went to Principal Beltzhoven and insisted on it. I will not stand for anyone treating my daughter with such disrespect. And then the way he talked to me—” She shakes her head at the memory. “Don’t you worry about him. If I have anything to do with it, he won’t be playing football ever again. Even if I have to sue the school district, force them into providing a safe haven for students here to learn.”

I blink at her passion. I’ve heard her talk like that to doctors and nurses she disagreed with, fighting to get me the best care possible, but for the first time I’m realizing that Mom brings her crusading spirit to her work at school as well. Maybe that’s why she and Celina can’t get along—they’re both heroes in their own way.

The bell rings, but before I leave for art, I can’t resist giving Mom a hug. She looks surprised. “What’s that for?”

“Just to thank you for taking care of me and all the other kids here.”

She looks down to pick a stray piece of lint from her cardigan but can’t hide her smile. “It’s my job. Get going so you won’t be late for class.”

The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly. In art class, I try and fail to recreate my memory of my brother into a portrait. Then in world cultures, Mr. Thibodeaux drones on about Marie Antoinette while Nessa and I take turns doodling an elaborate ball gown that starts out like something Marie might wear but ends up more like a Lady Gaga costume.

Tony and I spend bio and Spanish talking family trees and our futures—well, his, not like I really have much of one. Turns out he’s taking upper level bio because he wants to start taking college classes next year and get into med school.

I listen and do a lot of nodding—once he starts talking, I don’t want to risk shutting him up. I’ve never met anyone who has their entire life planned out like Tony does. Most I ever planned ahead was the next test or surgery, and that was more like dreading than planning.

Tony’s excited about the future, says the possibilities inspire him.

Inspired—I’ve never met anyone inspired before. The word feels powerful. As if he can breathe in the future, using it like oxygen to fuel his body.

He can’t wait for tomorrow and the day, year, decade after.

Me, I’m just hoping I live long enough to see homecoming.

After Spanish, we walk together to my locker. It’s kind of cool walking with someone as tall as Tony. He sees over most of the crowd and can steer us past any knots of students, avoiding the jostling and hip bumping. Plus, he carries Phil, so no constant looking behind me to make sure I’m not tripping anyone.

I actually feel like a normal girl, walking with a normal guy, like maybe we could be a normal couple.

Or so the fantasy goes. Of course, this is before I realize there are other reasons why I should’ve been looking over my shoulder.

A gaggle of cheerleaders and football players clusters around my row of lockers. They’re giggling, so at first I smile, thinking there’s something funny going on. Tony spots it first; I feel him tighten beside me.

The crowd parts and I see it. Blood-red ketchup covering my locker door. Dripping from sanitary napkins and unwrapped tampons, hanging by their strings.

I stop. It’s just too gross for words. Who would think of such a thing—but of course, the answer to that is all too obvious.

The snickering gets louder. It buzzes around my head like a swarm of wasps. All I can think is that I have to clean it up before Jordan sees it. He’s already been humiliated because of what I did in the cafeteria on Monday. I can’t make things worse.

They’ve timed it so that’s impossible. The entire school passes down this hallway to leave for the day. It feels like every one of them takes the time to stare at me, my locker, and laugh.

Tony stands beside me, waiting for my cue. But I have no idea what to do about this. Make some kind of joke—except I can’t think of anything that won’t make things worse. Maybe just clean it up? No, not while they’re watching and laughing. Walk away? But then they win—and it would leave the mess for Jordan to deal with.

If I want to be an adult, I need to start by cleaning up my own mess.

Easier thought than done.

Jordan arrives before I can decide where to start. He surveys the damage in silence, glares at the onlookers, paying particular attention to the tall football player lounging against the wall across from us—the one from earlier, Keith Young—then he turns his gaze on Tony.

“Carrera,” he says.

“Summers.” They exchange an almost imperceptible nod, so I assume they’re friends or at least not enemies. Tony hands me my backpack. “Need help?”

“No. We’re cool,” Jordan answers as he ignores the ketchup and twirls open the combination.

I almost miss the “we.” Because they might be “cool,” but I’m not. I’m freaking out.

Inside the locker, the swimsuit model is toast, having taken the brunt of the damage from the ketchup forced through the vents. There’s ketchup on my dad’s jacket, Jordan’s gym bag, and his books.

A folded piece of paper flutters to the ground. I grab it before Jordan sees it. A note. Who’s it for? Me or Jordan?

The football players gather closer, shouting catcalls of glee as we survey the damage. Mitch might be gone but his buddies clearly hold a grudge.

Both Jordan and Tony stretch themselves to their full heights, shifting their stance so they’re between me and the jocks. They roll their shoulders back, and if they were gorillas, they’d be pounding their chests.

The world tilts around me and I feel like I’m floating, looking down from the ceiling—like I’m imagining all this. Or living someone else’s life.

I mean, how the hell did I end up with not one but two white knights coming to my rescue?

I must be dreaming.