Kiss of Broken Glass (3 page)

since the second grade?

If they had to take away my cell phone,

they might as well have amputated my head.

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“Exercise time.”

I follow her to the rec room.

But there’s not much there.

Just some crumbly old floor mats,

a stationary bike, and a treadmill.

It’s not like the fitness center back home

with rows of stair climbers

and elliptical machines

and a rack of blue balance balls

just waiting to be squeezed.

I get on the treadmill and dig in my heels.

The conveyer grinds an inch. Maybe two.

Like there’s sandpaper on the bottom of the belt.

When I look up, a boy is standing inches away,

staring at me with his army-green eyes.

I notice his tangled hair, his crooked nose,

and the little scar above his lip that

makes it look like he’s about to snarl.

“I can fix that,” he says.

I step down and let him yank on the belt

just so I can watch his biceps curl

and study the small of his back

as his white shirt rises up and down.

“There,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans.

I feel a little tickle bubble inside. Then I think—

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

And if I wasn’t already in love with Chase,

I might just give this boy my number,

or maybe I’d ask him to meet me at the grocery store,

in the organic aisle, because nobody shops organic

and it would be sort of private there

and maybe standing in that secret space

right beside the flaxseeds and granola

he’d lean over and kiss me

with those sexy scar lips.

But I don’t say any of that.

I just ask his name.

“Jag,” he answers.

And I figure that means his real name

is something embarrassing.

So I tease him about it.

“No way,” I say.

“I bet it’s Stanley.

Or Leonard.

Or Marion.”

And I love how he steps closer to answer me.

“It’s Jag,” he insists. “For real.”

He looks over his shoulder,

makes sure Bullhorn isn’t watching,

then bumps the inside of my palm with his knuckles,

soft and playful, until a warm blush crosses my cheeks.

Then he says his name again.

His
whole
name.

And this time it thunders off his tongue

fast and hard like a bullet train.

Jaggernaut Mancuzzi.

And for ten star-spangled seconds,

Chase Grayson ceases to exist.

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I’m sitting in my room.

Wanting to be alone.

Daydreaming about

Jaggernaut Mancuzzi.

Bullhorn pops her head in the door.

“Are you okay?”

Five minutes later.

“Are you okay?”

Five minutes later.

“Are you okay?”

Five minutes later.

Are you freaking kidding me?

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We’re allowed to draw at Attaboys,

which just goes to show how stupid they are

because a pencil is way more dangerous than a toothbrush.

My yellow #2 is whispering to me.

About that pretty pink eraser tip.

I can almost smell it.

The scent of rubber on raw skin.

I imagine slipping my arm under the table,

and rubbing the eraser

faster

           faster

                       faster

until my arm catches fire

and the skin splits open

and blistery liquid

drips down

to my elbow.

Like mercy.

But I don’t do it.

Even though I want to.

Because Rennie says eraser burns are for losers.

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At first my lines are soft and gentle.

A wispy willow branch weeping

at the corner of the page.

But then my strokes grow heavy.

I draw a girl with eyes closed, chin down,

and lips sealed in the smallest of pouts.

Her arms end abruptly at the wrists

and her legs trail off just below the knees.

A body unfinished.

“Is that you?” Skylar asks.

I shake my head no.

“I wish I could draw like that,” she adds.

“I just write. Poetry mostly.”

I tell her I’m no good but she doesn’t let up.

“You could be the next Salvador Dalí,” she insists.

“You know? The guy with those melting clocks.”

I do know.

I know a lot of crazy things about Salvador Dalí.

Like how he was afraid of grasshoppers

and how he kept mustaches in a cigarette case

and how he slept with a spoon in his hand

so he’d wake up to the clatter of tin

and remember all his dreams.

I know he had freaky dreams too,

with tiger-eating fish,

and giant eyeballs,

and full-grown men

hatching from elastic eggs.

And I know about
The Temptation of Saint Anthony
.

That’s the painting with the gruesome, white,

wild-eyed horse rearing on stilted legs.

I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck

as my own dream begins to resurface.

I try to push it down, but it’s like holding

a basketball underwater—

slippery, buoyant, strong.

It won’t go away.

I curl my fingers around the edge of the paper

crushing the corner as I clench my pencil tight.

Then instead of sketching hands and legs and feet

in all the places where the girl’s body is interrupted,

I make dark, dripping lines that

bleed

           off

                       the

                                  page.

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Is the bathroom.

I draw there, too.

In the extra-wide handicapped stall

where I can rest my head against

the cool maroon tiles and line up

my pens like little soldiers.

It’s quiet in there and peaceful

with a sliver of light

that shines through the window.

It’s okay to be myself

in that handicapped stall,

even if being me feels

sort of like a blank piece of paper.

I don’t have to come up

with any colorful lies in there,

or force a smile until my cheeks hurt,

or roll up my long cotton sleeves,

and show off my scars,

just to fit in.

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I’d eaten my lunch there yesterday.

In that handicapped stall.

Instead of going to the cafeteria

and sitting at the back table with

all the Rennie wannabes.

Then I wouldn’t have heard how they cut

while their mothers got manicures

and how they burned squares in their skin

using salt and smooth ice.

If only I’d looked the other way

when they took off their bracelets and

lifted the cloth of their tight cotton camis.

Then I wouldn’t have seen

the angry, square welts

or the crisscross of red

that triggered me so bad.

If only I’d put in my earbuds

and cranked up the volume

to drown out the gnats buzzing

cutcutcutcut.

Then maybe,

I could’ve left school

on the 340 bus

instead of in a squad car

wearing zip-tie plastic handcuffs.

If only.

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You can’t trust anyone.

Especially not guidance counselors.

Like the phony hair flipper who acted

all buddy-buddy in the backseat

of the squad car but then left me

with Creeper in the emergency room.

But I bet she knew all along that I was hosed.

She probably signed those Baker papers herself,

right next to the rent-a-cop who dragged me

out of the bathroom and the prehistoric principal

who couldn’t stop staring at my arm.

Even if someone says things like:

I feel your pain

I’ve been there too.

It’s all an act.

She’s full of it.

Just like everyone else.

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That’s all we get.

My mother sounds annoyed

when she answers and that

makes it almost impossible

to put on my Oscar-winning

two-ounce voice and say:

“I want to come home.”

She doesn’t talk at first,

and I pinch the metal cord

between my fingers

like I’m trying to wring

the answer out of her.

“It’s out of my hands now,” she says.

“There’s a legal process to follow.

A psychological evaluation.

A family meeting.

A 72-hour mandatory hold.”

I wish my mom would say she’s sorry

so I could wrap her words around me

like a towel still warm from the dryer.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, we talk about orange juice pulp,

and scrambled eggs, and how Dad reacted

when she told him I was here.

I can just imagine that conversation.

Mom with her hand on her hip,

elbow out, like a bossy teacher.

Dad on the other end of the line,

shoulders slumped, like Piglet.

“Kenna was caught cutting at school today,” Mom says.

“Which class?” Dad asks.

Then Mom rolls her eyes. Roller-coaster big.

Like Dad’s a complete idiot.

“Not cutting class,” Mom says. “Cutting
herself.
”

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Then maybe he would’ve noticed

the twisted black hair ties wrapped

around my wrists like bracelets

and the leg warmers that

covered my ankles in June.

And then maybe he would’ve realized

that hair ties and leg warmers aren’t

some new fashion trend

and he would’ve demanded

that I show him all that hidden skin

and chased me up the stairs

when I stomped off screaming

how it was none of his business,

and pounded on my bedroom door

when I slammed it in his face

and ripped it off the hinges

just like Superman

to save me.

I bet I wouldn’t even be here now.

If I had a dad like that.

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Like the year Mom drove to Johns Hopkins

so Avery could visit her dead dad’s family

and talking about a dead dad was so fun

they stayed all summer and never wrote,

which is why
my
dad decided

to take me and Sean away.

I remember how he would crank

up the engine on this

old, rented motor home

and we’d drive till we burned

up like two tanks of gas,

and we’d pass the RV park

and pull off the highway on impulse

just to follow some dirt road

that led to nowhere.

Then we’d watch like a million identical

stars wink at us from the sky

for finding their secret spot,

and Dad would give us a glass

of bubbly white-grape juice

for pretend champagne toasts,

and he’d do these stupid card tricks

where the ace disappeared

and Sean couldn’t stop laughing.

There was no mother-father fallout

for skipping the five-star hotel

and sleeping on pine needles.

And everything was absolutely perfect

until Dad turned around

and drove us back home.

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I dreamed about Dad being Superman.

Or flying off the top of the Sears Tower.

Or driving an old RV into a brand-new life.