Read Shattered Online

Authors: Sarah N. Harvey

Tags: #JUV039140

Shattered (3 page)

BOOK: Shattered
6.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

And suddenly I am three, sitting on my mother's lap in a bright garden. Augie is running a tiny red metal car up my chubby leg and saying “Vroom, vroom.” The car tickles. My mother is laughing. I wiggle my bare toes in the sunlight. A man leans over and picks me up, holding me in front of his face. I squirm, and he says, “What a cutie-pie. Gonna be a heartbreaker, this one.” The man's face is a blur, but it's not my father's voice. My father has never uttered the words
cutie-pie.
And I'm the one with the broken heart.

My dad's not much interested in what he calls “surfaces.” What you look like, what you wear, where you live, how much money you make. All wasted on my dad. The fact that I'm considered the hottest girl at my school means nothing to him. I'm sure he'd prefer it if I was the smartest or most socially responsible girl, but he's never said so. Neither has Mom, who's totally gorgeous but doesn't seem to care. Augie's the only one who ever suggests that I might want to think about something other than clothes and parties. Well, Augie, I thought as I put the dog down and stood up, be careful what you wish for.

By the time I got home, Mom and Dad had left for work. There was a note on the counter.
Sorry we won't be home for
dinner. Leftover lasagna in the fridge.
I toasted a bagel and called my boss, Jeremy, at the restaurant where I'm a server. He was less than thrilled when I told him I was quitting.

“Two weeks' notice would have been nice, March,” he said. “Even a week. Who's gonna cover your shifts?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I mean, it's not my fault. My parents enrolled me in this environmental camp for the summer. It's in, like, Tofino.” It felt bad, lying to Jeremy. But I knew he wouldn't have any trouble replacing me. Dozens of hot girls dropped off résumés every day. Lots of them had more experience than me. I would be replaced before the day was over.

“You sure about this?” Jeremy asked. He was a good guy. A good boss. No groping the girls' asses in the kitchen, no gross comments or obvious drooling. Devoted to his wife and kids. He deserved better than this.

“Yup,” I said. “Can you mail me my last check?”

“No problem,” he said. “And March?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

I hung up and opened my laptop. I couldn't afford to worry about Jeremy. Not if my plan was going to work. My Facebook wall was jam-packed with stuff about Tyler. Stuff I hadn't read and didn't want to read. Ever. I deleted my Facebook profile. Not deactivated. Deleted. Completely. One giant un-friending. No more liking, poking or commenting. No more posting my latest profile pictures and having everyone tell me how awesome I looked. Those days were gone.

I set up a new Gmail account and deleted my old one. I sent Augie my new info with a short message promising an explanation soon. If I told him what I was doing, I was afraid he'd try to stop me. And I was afraid I might listen. Augie's so rational. And what I was doing was the exact opposite of rational. I turned off my cell phone and tossed it in a drawer. Natalie had called, texted and left messages. I didn't read them or listen to them. No way she'd understand what I was about to do. I was going to miss her.

It only took about ten minutes of searching on Craigslist to find the kind of job I wanted. A really shitty one. A tacky gift shop downtown was looking for a cashier, five days a week, including weekends. The kind of place that sells toxic made-in-China souvenirs. Minimum wage. No benefits. No tips. Perfect.

Chapter Six

When I got up the next day, I threw my contact lenses in the trash. They'd be as dry as cornflakes soon. My old red plastic glasses were still in my night-table drawer. I started wearing contacts at thirteen. No one but my family ever sees me wear the red glasses. Not even Tyler. Especially not Tyler. As I slid them on, the earpieces pinched my head like lobster claws. The nose pads hurt too. I'd have marks from them soon. Perfect.

I checked to make sure Mom and Dad had left for work. Then I went to their bathroom and found a box of her hair dye. It was hidden under the sink, behind the toilet-bowl cleaner. She thinks no one knows she colors her hair, but she's been going gray for years. No one would ever describe my mom as vain, but I guess we all have our weaknesses. The color she uses is called Medium Golden Brown, which is a pretty accurate description of her real hair color. Pretty, but kind of boring. She's all about looking natural. Not me. Like Mom, I was blond when I was little. If I didn't fork over a big chunk of change every six weeks or so, I'd probably be Medium Golden Brown as well. Not that I'd ever planned on finding out. Until now.

Back in the upstairs bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror, squinting at myself through my ugly glasses. My hair lay on my shoulders, smooth and straight. I took a deep breath and picked up the shears I had found in the kitchen junk drawer. My hand shook as I made the first cut, near my jaw. The scissors were dull, and the cut was jagged. Good. I slashed and snipped until I was left with a sink full of blond hair and a lopsided chin-length bob. And bangs. Very crooked bangs. I wouldn't recommend this method to anyone who wants to look even remotely attractive, but that wasn't my goal.

An hour later, my hair was brown. Muddy Gross Brown. Just the way I wanted it. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I saw a stranger. A brown-haired, short-sighted stranger with a bad haircut. No eye liner, no lip gloss, no mascara. Someone the old March wouldn't even notice, let alone hang out with. I couldn't do anything about the fact that I have great skin and perfect teeth, but I planned on stuffing myself with sugar and fat. Bring on the zits and the cavities.

I cleaned up the bathroom and then changed into a pair of Mom's pleat-front khaki pants and one of her pastel golf shirts. Her shoes didn't fit me, so I wore my old running shoes. The ones I wear when Mom forces me to go for a nature walk with her, or Dad insists I help in the garden. I stopped in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom. For a moment I felt faint. Short of breath. Sweaty. Sick to my stomach. Was I crazy? Should I call my hairdresser? Buy new contacts? Get my old job back? Change into my own clothes? Put on makeup? I looked at the girl in the mirror and shook my shorn head. “No,” I said as I shut my bedroom door. “No,” I said as I left the house. “No,” I said as I walked to the bus stop. As long as Tyler couldn't live a perfect life, neither would I.

I hate taking the bus. It makes me itchy. All those sweaty hands and whiny kids and people with god-knows-what diseases. Coughing, sneezing, resting their greasy hair on the seatbacks. The loser cruiser. I hadn't ridden the bus for years. Before I was able to drive, there was always someone around to take me where I needed to go. A parent, an older sibling, a boyfriend. My boyfriend. Who never complained when I asked him to pick me up from work or drive me to the gym. My boyfriend, who had screwed another girl. My boyfriend, who was in a coma because of me.

I blinked away my tears as the bus wheezed up to the curb. I wasn't even sure how much it cost to ride the bus. As I fumbled around in my purse for the correct change, a guy sitting in the seat behind the driver looked at me and muttered, “You retarded or something, bitch?” He was balancing a filthy black pack on his lap, and when he opened his mouth, I could see he was missing some teeth. He also smelled like a sewer. I considered flipping him off, but decided against it. Who would defend the dumb girl with the bad clothes and the ugly glasses? All the other passengers were staring out the window or listening to their iPods. The bus driver had already pulled into traffic. I stuffed the correct change into the fare box and lurched to the back of the bus. No one else spoke to me. I might as well have been invisible. It was the weirdest feeling, but not unwelcome. It meant my plan was working.

The closest bus stop to the souvenir shop was outside a 7-Eleven and across the street from a McDonald's. Tough choice. I'd never eaten anything from a 7-Eleven, so I went in and bought the grossest thing I could find—a Corn Dog Roller—and an Invincible Orange Slurpee. Probably about 3,000 calories. Enough to put some flab on my ass.

As I was crossing the street, a voice said, “Poems for sale.” At least that's what I thought I heard. It could have been “Porn for sale,” given the kind of people who hang around the 7-Eleven. But I was alone at the light. No one beside me. No one behind me. Could stress make you hear voices? “Poems for sale.” There it was again. A girl's voice. Soft and low.

I whirled around and dropped my Corn Dog Roller. A hand reached out and grabbed it just before it hit the sidewalk.

“This stuff is crap, you know,” the person attached to the hand said. No wonder I hadn't noticed her. A girl about my age was sitting on a folded blanket in an alcove next to the bank on the corner. In front of her was a cardboard sign that read
Poems for Sale.
Weird, I thought. But at least I'm not hearing things. A small gray cat, wearing a tiny harness and leash, slept in the girl's lap.

The girl held the corn dog out to me. She was obviously a nail-biter and her hands were grimy.

“Keep it,” I said.

She shrugged and took a bite.

“Usually I prefer organic, grass-fed meat, but my chef is on vacation.”

My eyes must have bugged out a bit, because she laughed and said, “Kidding. Wanna poem? Fair trade, I promise.” The cat mewed, and she fed it a bit of the corn dog.

I shook my head and mumbled something about my job interview as I hurried away from her. I tossed the Slurpee in the garbage before I got to the gift shop. It was too sweet and the orange flavor tasted like piss. Or what I imagined piss tasted like. I could already feel my teeth rotting.

Chapter Seven

“My last girl, Katie, was with me a long time.” Mr. Hardcastle, the manager of Castle Gifts, frowned at me over his smudged glasses. As if his employment problems were my fault. I'm not good at guessing people's ages. Everyone between thirty and fifty looks the same to me. Mr. Hardcastle wasn't fifty yet, but he wasn't under thirty either. He was wearing faded jeans and a wrinkled plaid shirt. His shoes were scuffed black lace-ups. Not exactly business casual. His hair was on the long side and greasy. “She went back to Saskatchewan to look after her mother—breast cancer,” he added. “You know how to work a cash register?”

I nodded. “A year at Starbucks. It's on my résumé.”

“Thursdays and Fridays off. You're sure you don't mind working weekends?”

“Weekends are good,” I said.

“I open the store every morning, and I come back at the end of the day to cash out and close up. And to make sure you're not robbing me blind.” He gave a little snort that might have been a laugh. Or post-nasal drip. “The rest of the time you'll be working alone. You can lock the door and put up a sign when you need to take a bathroom break. But you should bring a lunch and eat it in back.” He pointed to a tiny room behind the counter. “And keep an eye out for shoplifters. Kids are the worst. If you actually see them pocket something, you can ask them to turn out their pockets or empty their bags. Or you can call the cops.” Another snort. “Not that they do anything.”

“Okay,” I said.

“If it isn't busy, you can stock the shelves or tidy. I'd rather you didn't read, or talk on your cell or text when there are customers in the store. But I can't do much about that, can I?”

“I like tidying,” I said. “And I don't have a cell. And I hate reading.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Hardcastle folded my résumé and stuffed it in a drawer. “See you tomorrow at ten then. Don't be late. Payday is the first and the fifteenth. We're open every day but Christmas and New Year's.” He stuck out his hand and we shook. His hand was cold and damp, like a dead jellyfish. It was all I could do not to pull away and wipe my hand on my pants. “Welcome to the Castle Gifts family,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. He turned his back on me and went into the back room. As I left the store, I picked up a little pencil-top eraser in the shape of a Mountie and slipped it into my pocket. I didn't need it, but it felt good in my hand. Something else the old March wouldn't do—steal something useless.

Poetry Girl and her cat were gone when I passed the corner. I wondered where she slept. Were there shelters that allowed pets, or did she sleep in a doorway or in the park? Did she sell enough poems to buy food for herself and the cat? And how did you sell a poem anyway?

I thought about that all the way to the hospital. How different our lives were, but also how messed up. By the time I got to the hospital it was close to 6:00
PM
. I was counting on Tyler's mom and dad being at home with his younger brothers and sisters. All five of them. Tyler's parents are Catholics. Devout Catholics. Which explains the big family. They were probably at home saying grace, holding hands around the kitchen table. Praying for Tyler.

Eating together is a big deal in Tyler's house. Nobody eats standing up at the sink. Nobody nukes a pizza pop and eats it in the car on the way to hockey or piano lessons or choir practice. Tyler's mom makes dinner, and they all sit down together. Every single night. It's kind of miraculous. I used to love going there for Sunday dinner. The praying didn't bother me. I just shut my eyes and held hands with Tyler on one side and his youngest sister Tamara on the other. His hand was always cool and dry; hers was always hot and sticky. The words flowed over me like a summer breeze. I always said “Amen” with everybody else. I was going to miss those dinners.

Now, as I approached the hospital's front doors, I realized that I had no idea whether Tyler was even allowed to have visitors.

“Four-oh-four,” the woman at the information desk said when I asked for his room number. “North Wing. You family? He's only allowed family.”

“Cousin,” I said. “I'm his cousin. From Regina. I came as soon as I could. He's, like, my favorite cousin.”

BOOK: Shattered
6.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Storm at the Door by Stefan Merrill Block
Legally His Omnibus by Penny Jordan
The Mile High Club by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Deadly Sting by Jennifer Estep
Succubus in the City by Nina Harper
Bride by Stella Cameron
Wheel of Fate by Kate Sedley